Keep Christmas With You

“CHRISTMAS? BAH HUMBUG,” so exclaims Ebenezer Scrooge, the stingy, odious, mean, hard, unfeeling title character in the classic Charles Dickens novella A Christmas Carol. First published in 1843, the story follows an elderly miser who is visited by the ghost of his former partner, Jacob Marley, and three more apparitions throughout one fateful Christmas Eve night. In the process, Scrooge is transformed into a kinder, gentler man.

Ever since I could remember, I have been enthralled by this story. Growing up, I would seek out different tellings on television or movie theaters. My favorites include the 1984 George C. Scott TV movie and of course, The Muppet Christmas Carol. Honorable mentions go to Spirited with Ryan Reynolds and Will Ferrell, Scrooged with Bill Murray and Ebbie the Lifetime TV movie starring Emmy Award winner Susan Lucci in the title role.

There is no single definitive number for the total number of adaptations. According to Google AI overview, “some sources cite over 135 adaptations, while others mention more than 100 film and TV versions, over 60 remakes since 1935, and one source claims there are 347 total adaptations.”

Why the enduring popularity of a story written almost 200 years ago? The themes explored through the lives of characters such as Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim are just as relevant now as they were then, if not more so today. Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol partly in response to British social attitudes towards poverty, more so child poverty. In a particular heartbreaking scene, two impoverished children named Want and Ignorance were meant to arouse sympathy with readers.

I couldn’t help noticing striking resemblances between Ebenezer Scrooge and the current corrupt occupant of the White House. Scrooge might take that as an insult. Truth be told, Ebenezer is not a convicted felon who was impeached twice during his first term as POTUS. But is an obvious disdain and hatred of the poor where the two men are alike.

Since taking office for his 2nd term, Trump has waged a nonstop war on the most vulnerable and marginalized people in the country. The MAGA Republican Party of today revels in seeing the pain and suffering of others. As many political pundits have shouted from the rooftops when it comes to this Administration, the cruelty is the point.

The year 2025 saw MAGA cheering on the unhinged, unelected, and really weird Elon Musk literally taking a chainsaw and gutting our federal workforce. It is estimated that by the end of the year, the reduction will reach around 300,000 people. That number is the result of factors including voluntary early retirement, resignations, and layoffs. These are individuals who have dedicated their lives to public service and to this country. The Big, Beautiful, Bill (BBB) is going to leave millions uninsured and millions more going into medical debt just to stay alive. The BBB is also responsible for the single largest transfer of wealth from the working class to the ultra-wealthy through tax cuts and spending cuts.

All while DJT is building a $300 million ballroom to entertain his wealthy donors. They literally had a Gatsby-themed million-dollar-per-plate gala titled “A Little Party Never Killed Nobody” at the Mar-A-Lago…THE NIGHT BEFORE 40 MILLION PEOPLE LOST THEIR SNAP BENEFITS. The cruelty is the point. The pre-reformed miser Scrooge would be in hog heaven.

The post-reformed Scrooge would probably be more like Bernie Sanders and Tim Walz. The other major theme of A Christmas Carol is that of redemption. Redemption is a powerful tool. It is the redemption part of the story that gives me the most hope. Dickens wanted to show through Scrooge that even the worst of sinners can repent and become a good man. At the end of the story, Ebenezer grows into someone with emotional depth and has regret for lost opportunities. (Honestly, I don’t even think a visit from three ghosts would work for the likes of Trump, Hegseth, Bondi, Patel, Noem, RFK, Jr, and many MAGA morons. But ya never know, stranger things have happened lol)

Regrets sometimes surface around the holidays in December as the end of the year approaches. We look back on the months behind us and wish next year will be better than the last. Lord knows I have made mistakes this year. Everyone makes mistakes; that’s why pencils have erasers. But I do know that after each stumble, each misstep, I vow to do better and be better. I wake up each day saying I will try to do better and be better than the day before.

I see the world and the holidays most like Fred, Scrooge’s nephew. We share the same feelings about the Christmas season. Fred tells his uncle that he has “always thought of Christmastime, when it comes round, as a good time, a kindlier, forgiving, charitable time, a time when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely to their fellow creatures.”

These words stick with me throughout the Holiday season, and as the reformed Ebenezer proclaims in gratitude for the second chance he has been given – I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year.

Until next time readers, have a wonderful Holiday and best wishes for 2026!

Remember, Remember the FOURTH of November!

Greetings Letters readers, Robby from Brooklyn here, writing to you from a jubilant New York in the days after Election Night 2025! The excitement, energy, and cheers heard as 34-year-old Assemblyman Zohran Mamdani was elected as the new Mayor were electric. Mamdani’s campaign has been rejuvenating the city these past months as he mobilized over 100,000 volunteers – many of them under the age of 30 – “who have carried the message of building a more affordable city directly to the homes of more than a million voters in the most populous city in the United States.” (English.ElPais.com)

On this Election Day, November 4th, are we finally seeing the tide beginning to turn against Donald Trump and the Republican Party? The answer to that is a loud, booming, resounding yes.

On a day that began with the naming of beloved queer icon Johnathan Bailey as People’s Sexiest Man Alive, the stars felt aligned for some Democratic wins. (Bailey made history as the first openly gay man named Sexiest Man Alive – and that honor is well deserved, dude is hot AF.)

But the Democrats did not just get some wins. There was not a blue wave on November 4th – there was a blue tsunami. Democrats won race after race after race.

Over 2 million people voted in NYC – the most since 1969 – and over 1 million of them voted for Mamdani. In New Jersey, Mikie Sherrill was elected Governor, defeating MAGA stooge Jack Ciattarelli by 13 points. In Virginia, Abigail Spanberger was elected to the House of Representatives, defeating Republican Winsome Earle-Sears by 15 points. Spanberger will be the first female Governor ever in Virginia, and in 2025, a record 13 Governors will be women. Additionally, in Virginia, both the Lieutenant Governor and Attorney General flipped seats from red to blue by 15 points.

In a major win for California Governor Gavin Newsom, voters in that state overwhelmingly approved Proposition 50, “a measure that allowed the state to redraw its congressional map in favor of Democrats, pushing back against President Trump’s effort to hold onto a Republican-controlled Congress by urging redistricting in Texas.” (calmatters.org)

Democrats won the Pennsylvania Supreme Court and flipped two Georgia statewide seats by 20 points. Dems weren’t predicted to win in Mississippi. But they did. They broke the supermajority in the Mississippi state legislature and flipped a seat in Texas.

And my personal favorite – the hateful, bigoted, homophobic, Moms for Liberty (M4L) candidates lost 31 out of 31 contested races nationwide. No M4L candidate won a single contested seat anywhere in the United States. Moms for Liberty is now 0-59 in contested school board races since 2023. Lastly, also giving me great personal pleasure, smoky-eyed failed drag queen JD Vance’s half-brother Cory Bowman got demolished in the race for Cincinnati mayor, losing by more than 70 percentage points.

Every single candidate that the convicted felon occupying the White House endorsed lost. We are in the midst of the longest government shutdown in the history of the United States – 38 days as of press time. This beats the old record for a government shutdown – 35 days in 2018 – also under the Trump Administration. I am sensing a pattern here.

Make no mistake, November 4th was a referendum on the now disgraced, twice impeached, 32x convicted felon POTUS Donald Trump. Who would have guessed that sharing a video of yourself literally shitting on your constituents would cause people to not vote for your party? Who would have guessed gutting the Federal Government, firing thousands and thousands of federal workers? Canks is also giving a $40 billion dollar bailout to Argentina, while our own farmers are facing bankruptcy, would cause people to switch party alliances? Who would have guessed that having masked ICE agents abducting AMERICAN CITIZENS off the street and throwing them into a van or sending them, god forbid, to a foreign hellhole like Sudan would cause mass uproar? To this date, 170 American citizens have been detained, handcuffed, and disappeared, some for weeks. THIS. IS. NOT. NORMAL.

All of this is happening as Speaker of the House Mike Johnson is refusing to bring House Republicans back to Washington, DC to do their damn jobs. House Republicans have had six weeks of paid vacation while millions lose their SNAP benefits and our military goes unpaid for over a month. Johnson is refusing to swear in newly elected Arizona Representative Adelita Grijalva, most likely because she will be the 218th vote needed to force a vote on the floor to release the Epstein Files.

Sunny Hostin, the daily MVP of “The View,” has been saying for months that the Democratic Party needs to be the party of opposition. Mamdani seems poised to be the leader we need, proclaiming NYC“will be the light in a moment of political darkness. Together, we will usher in a new generation of change. So hear me, President Trump, when I say this: to get through one of us, you will have to get through all of us!”

The tide has finally turned. The shaky house of cards is about to fall down. Remember, Remember the FOURTH of November.

(**this column was originally published in the November issue of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.”)

IT’S LIBRA SEASON

Greetings Letters readers, Robby from Brooklyn here, bringing tidings and joy on this, the very best season of all the seasons- LIBRA SEASON. Libra season runs from September 22nd through October 21st. This astrological period emphasizes themes of balance, harmony, relationships, and fairness. It also encourages social interaction, negotiation and personal connections.

While these benefits impact all astrological signs, some famous Libras include Julie Andrews, Hugh Jackman, Matt Damon, Zac Efron, Gwen Stefani, Bruno Mars, Avril Lavigne, Hilary Duff, Sting, and yours truly. Libra personality traits include being diplomatic, fair-minded, sociabl,e and artistic with a love of harmony and beauty. Libras are natural peacemakers and skilled negotiators, but can be indecisive, conflict-avoidant, and sometimes prone to superficiality or people pleasing.

I have long identified with everything Libra even having a Libra tattoo on my left inside bicep. Many of my best friends are Libras I get along great with Libras.

Birthdays are bittersweet for many reasons. I am not a huge celebrator of my birthday however it 1000% must be acknowledged. We acknowledge birthdays for the sheer fact that many of our friends did not get to see 40 or 50 or 60. We acknowledge birthdays for those no longer with us. But as far as “its my birthday WEEK,” or “its my birthday MONTH,” no thats not how I roll.

This birthday rings even more bittersweet because I don’t feel like I am where I should be at this point in my life. I don’t feel like I have the same things that many others at the same age have. I am single not in a relationship. I don’t own any property. And when you put yourself up next to others in your age bracket and you have decidedly less it can sting.

At a party a few weeks ago, talking with friends about their twentysomething daughter who was a teacher, and she explained that “yes, I know I am making less than my friends and that I am going to have less than them,” I felt a sense of camaraderie with her. I also explained to her that I felt exactly the same way at 25. But twenty five years later, that same sentiment hits very differently.

And of course, we all know that comparing yourself to someone else is a dangerous slippery slope – but it is human.

I need to flip the switch and look at the glass half full and through a Libra lens. I have worked in amazing schools and met incredible teachers who I have learned from and who, to this day, many I still call friends. I have lived in amazing cities and states and have gotten to travel to numerous continents, each providing enriching experiences.

FAIRNESS

I have been arrested for civil disobedience protesting the availability of guns in this country. I have been arrested at sit-ins at the Supreme Court of the United States protesting how queer people are treated as 2nd class citizens in this country. I have personally raised over $100k for AIDS research, participating in more than 10 cycling events like AIDS Lifecycle and The Smart Ride.

SOCIAL INTERACTIONS AND PERSONAL CONNECTIONS

I volunteer at organizations like God Love We Deliver and SAGE in New York City meeting queer senior citizens and learning from them about what queer life was like in the 1960s and 1970s at the beginning of the queer liberation movement.

BALANCE AND HARMONY

And the most important aspect of this birthday coming up is that it is by no means anywhere near the end of anything. As I like to say – the best is yet to come. If this is middle aged then that is exactly where i am – in the middle. There are hopefully years and years and decades to build that oh so important financial wealth and financial security I am so longing for.

Until then, I guess I am going to have to be ok with the old familiar saying, “You’re rich in other ways,” is going to have to suffice!

Until next time readers, Happy Libra season!

(this column was originally published in the October edition of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.”)

I’M COMING OUT

“I’m coming out, I want the world to know, Got to let it show…” Diana Ross belted out these lyrics in 1980, but when I was a college student and just coming to terms with my sexuality and just realizing that I was gay, I didn’t want the world to know and I def did not try to let it show.

Greetings Letters readers, Robby from Brooklyn here, and I’m proudly gay. Proudly queer. Today I can proudly, comfortably say those words. But 25 years ago things were very different – in the world and in my tiny corner of the world. “Queer Eye” and “Rupaul’s Drag Race” were years away from debuting on television. For a short, Catholic Italian boy growing up in Queens, New York, the gay mecca of Chelsea and 8th Avenue in Manhattan might as well have been 3,000 miles away.

In the early ’90s, gay role models were few and far between. Obviously, they were there. I just didn’t know how to find them or even where to look for them. There was no one I thought I could confide in, so I just pushed those feelings aside, and tucked away – anywhere but out. I joined the swim team, the Drama Club, volunteered, and went on school trips. Dated a girl, maybe two. Okay, probably just the one.

After graduation I moved to Hoboken with three friends from college, and got a job in event planning in Times Square. Now 23, I was working in Manhattan and exposed to people from different cultures, different backgrounds, different lifestyles.

In NYC I began living my best life. I worked at a company where most of the men, if not all of them, were gay. I listened to them tell me stories of their lives, their weekends, their partners, all the time feeling inside that I was just like them. I am certain they knew it too. They were extremely patient, letting me know that it was ok to be gay but never outright asking or pressuring me.

Living in Hoboken – with three straight males – and working in an environment of all gay men was quite the culture shock. I felt like 2 different people. The secret weighed inside me more and more, getting heavier day by day.

My coming out wasn’t one episode. It was a miniseries. I decided to tell friends one at a time over a span of a few weeks – straight males friends were told last. Again, all were extremely supportive and assured me nothing had changed, and that they had known for a long time. Everyone pretty much knew so my reveal wasn’t as big and grand as I had imagined it was going to be!

Coming out only intensified the double life I was living. Gay in Manhattan. Not gay in Hoboken. Since I was newly out and testing the waters, being gay to me meant going to a gay bar, alone, meeting someone, hooking up and then never seeing or talking to him again. Healthy, said no one ever. I know. I needed gay friends. I just wasn’t having any luck finding them. When I found a gay person I thought could be a friend, I held on tight, even if we didn’t have much in common, even if I didn’t love spending time with them, but they were all I had at the moment. For me any gay friends were better than no gay friends.

It took some time but I did eventually find my “gay group,” and my life became a whole lot more gay. Instead of a shore house in Manasquan, NJ, I took a summer share in Fire Island Pines. I moved from Hoboken to the Upper East Side. While before if it was 90% hanging out with college friends 10% hanging out with gay friends, the numbers had now switched. I was exploring this new identity in every facet of my life.

A year later I dropped the bomb at dinner, things went downhill from there. My mom cried visibly and loudly at the table – so much so that our waiter came over to make sure we were all ok. Through her tears she expressed that, “We love you no matter what, but I just think that your life is going to be harder, and that breaks my heart.”

Remember this was 2000. Not 2020. After trying to calm her down, my dad felt it was best that I head home and we would talk soon. It did take some time, as things do, but once I included them in my life, introduced them to friends, boyfriends, Mom’s tears stopped. She even joined the local PFLAG chapter. Lol. A few years later tipsy at a family wedding I made sure to assuage her fears by letting her know that “being gay is the best thing EVER!”

My coming out was disjointed, long, messy but it was MINE. My heart broke for Simon in the 2018 rom-com “Love, Simon,” as he screamed to his blackmailer how he took that away from him, outing him in an email to his whole high school. Gay icon Barry Manilow recently “officially” came out on the cover of People magazine stating he has been out his whole life, everyone who knew him knew he was gay and he didn’t feel the need to officially come out to the public. Same for Anderson Cooper. Sean Hayes regrets not coming out when “Will and Grace” was on the air, the first time.

Celebrity or not coming out should be on your terms and when you are ready. No one deserves to be outed or forced to come out. Coming out is still important. Coming out still matters. For me, it felt like a huge weight was lifted. I was essentially lighter. No more secrets, no more shame, no more fear. Being openly gay and proud takes balls and takes guts. Be proud of how far you’ve come and all the great things ahead for you. Congrats and welcome to the team.

(this column originally appeared in the September issue of “Letters From Camp Rehoboth.”)

BACK, BACK, BACK TO SCHOOL

As the dog days of summer wind down and I eagerly await going back into the classroom for the first time in years, I have to try not to focus on the state of our Union. Not focus on the fact that ICE agents are getting a $50,000 signing bonus when hired. Fifty fucking thousand dollars to wear a mask and kidnap brown and black people off the streets. I am trying not to focus on the fact that Alligator Alcatraz was constructed in eight days. Eight days. The money has always been there. Always been there for wars and cruelty, but none for education. Honestly, its hard not to focus on the fact that educators are not valued in this country by the higher-ups.

But when I do focus on just teaching, luckily, most of my memories and experiences have been overwhelmingly positive. Sometimes parents try to get too close to a teacher or fish for information that is none of their business. My outgoing, friendly personality is often interpreted as an invitation for them to pursue a friendship. Hiding myself on social media was just as much hiding from the parents as it was for hiding from the students! More than once during a parent/teacher meeting, a parent would lean in and say, “Mr. D we should go to (insert name of gay bar here) and have a drink.” I would answer, “Your son is failing English Honors, you know that’s why you’re here, right?”

Another time, on the last day of school, I was packing my car and ran into a parent in the parking lot. We got to talking, and I mentioned that I was leaving on a cruise later that day. “Oh, is it an Atlantis Cruise?” she asked, adding a wink. {Atlantis is a private travel company catering to the LGBTQI+ community.} I answered, “No, but I have been on more than one of those, and they are fun.” Gotta give the people what they want! Sometimes that goes well, like on this occasion, but sometimes it bites you in the ass.

These last two stories do make me smile, one in a nervous kind of way. At a high school I taught, on Valentine’s Day, for $1 you can buy a “lovegram” — meaning members of the chorus will serenade that special someone in class. This was a “non-instruction” day since students are in and out of your 45-minute class nonstop, singing to each other. It’s actually super cute. In walks three seniors, costumed, ready to sing. I quieted down the class and was then told, “No, Mr. DeDominic, this one is for you!” Ok, I thought to myself, this is nice, I am close with lots of the students, they eat lunch in my room…thinking nothing of it…until they start singing the song. The song chosen was “No One” by Alicia Keys, as in “no one, no one, can get in the way that I am feeling for you…” AWKWARD. I am sure my face said it all because 30+ juniors were living their life listening and watching. Thankfully, the tension was cut from way in the back, “which one of you sent THIS song to our teacher y’all are creepy AND thirsty AF…you still have to write the Crucible paper that’s due tomorrow – waste of your dollar!!!”

Lastly, one day, a sophomore girl named Rayne* walked into my room. Rayne, to my knowledge, was out of the closet at the time…walking from class to class, hand in hand with her girlfriend. She walks in, asks if she can ask me a very personal question, and I say Sure.

“Mr. D, are we family?” she inquires, smiling ear to ear, emphasizing the word family. “Yes, Rayne, we are family.” “I KNEW IT! My gaydar is on point. Everyone insists you and Miss Saladina (my best friend who teaches Math) are a couple because you are together all the time but I knew!”

I calm her infectious enthusiasm down, letting her know that while I am out and proud, I am not the GAY ENGLISH TEACHER. She lets me know in no uncertain terms that she “has my back, because that’s what you do for family.” It’s good to know that sometimes you are lucky enough to find gay family that has your back!

I am lucky that most of my memories in education are positive. If only there was money to pay teachers a liveable wage instead of money to build a nuclear reactor on the moon – as just announced by the Secretary of Defense. If only I didn’t have to write letters to the PTA every year asking for money for books for my classroom. If only I didn’t have to have bake sales to raise money to send my swim team to the State Championships.

If only this country loved and admired teachers as much as I loved teaching. To see all the money going towards ICE agents and immigration is disgraceful and disgusting. And it’s hard not to focus on that.

Until next time readers…

(this column was originally published in the August issue of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.)

Daily Dose of Robby

“You either love me or you hate me. There is no in between.” So said the more than 20 times engaged Real Housewife of New Jersey – and complete train wreck – Danielle Staub. Never in my wildest dreams would I ever compare myself to her, but sadly, that tagline most resembles me. What that says about me, comparing myself to someone I just described as a train wreck, is neither here nor there. (My actual favorite Housewife tagline, which I also think resembles me, belongs to beloved writer Carole Radzwille – “In the marathon of life, loyalty is the most important.”)

Knowing all this, might make this my toughest column to write – it will straddle the lines between self-awareness, self-deprecation, and self-esteem. Let me be clear in saying that I am happy with who I am, I genuinely like myself; however, this is about being the best version of myself.

In order to continue this marathon of life and be this best version , I started to do something I swore I would never do: I put myself on daily medication.

The comment “OMG, you are so funny. You know who you remind me of – Mario Cantone!” So begins a typical night out in a bar with friends. Almost every night, like clockwork, I am told how funny I am. I also get my friends hooked up all the time even though I’m the one who talks to people, makes them laugh, and brings them into our group. As far as hooking up, it usually doesn’t pan out for me. No one wants to fuck funny.

Extra. Hyper. Manic. Animated. Chatty. Excited. Excitable. Intense. These are all words used to describe me. Some are compliments. Some aren’t. One can always tell the difference between the two. And Iam told multiple times a day to “relax,” “calm down,” “chill out, man.” But inside, I am calm. I am relaxed. There seems to be a disconnect between what I present and what others see.

I don’t want to paint this sad, terrible portrait of myself and my life. I have friends, always have. As I mentioned at the beginning of this column, you either love me or you don’t. But as I have gotten older, the balance between love and hate has been tipping less towards love and more towards the not.

It even impacts my actual friends when they are asked, “What’s up with your friend Robert?” or “What’s he on?” or “Is he ok?” as I get older, those questions are coming way too often as well. Everything is connected, part of the race if you will.

Enter medication. Turns out words like “extra” and “animated” are not just potential compliments but in medical speak they mean adult ADHD, hyperactivity disorder, and social anxiety. And as a bonus, As I have gotten older, the symptoms have progressed significantly.

I am not quiet. I am not serene. I am not centered. I am not introspective. I am not subtle. I am not tranquil. I am not elusive. I am not still. I am not soft. I am not discreet.

I am loud. I am boisterous. I am raucous. I am jittery. I am constantly in motion. I am edgy. I am nervous. I am anxious. I am tumultuous. I am uneasy. I am jumpy. I am neurotic.

In my 20s and 30s, when I was younger, cuter, these qualities came off more endearing. In my 40s, I have grown, I look different, and my face has changed. These qualities translate differently.

They impede relationships, especially new relationships. They impede job opportunities. It has started to take a definite toll on every aspect of my life.

Things began to change for the better for me when I moved back to NYC last December. I rejoined the amazing Callen Lorde Community Health Center in Chelsea. “Callen-Lorde is the global leader in LGBTQ+ healthcare. Since the days of Stonewall, we have been transforming lives in LGBTQ+ communities through excellent, comprehensive care, provided free of judgment and regardless of ability to pay. Which gave me a perspective on life that I haven’t had before or was not willing to see.

Working with my psychiatrist, we came up with a daily medication regimen that fits my needs and wants. He is an absolute godsend. When I described my feelings, how I saw myself, how I felt others saw me, he listened and he said ok. He didn’t tell me I was overreacting or I was crazy or that I wasn’t feeling what I was feeling. I felt seen and acknowledged. Which, sadly, isn’t the norm.

So, what’s next? The medication is doing its job. I don’t feel drugged out or spacy but am actually feeling better and sleeping better. I recently ran into a friend I haven’t seen in years a and he said he saw a difference immediatley. And it was very obvious to me this time, that this was indeed A compliment.

I am in no way expecting this medical cocktail to be a magic fix for me. Yes, I said cocktail. Ironic isn’t it? They call the medicine regime you are on your cocktail. And just like when you were in your 20’s, it might take a minute to find the cocktail that works best for you, but keep going. I could write an entire series on this alone! I am not perfect, this cocktail won’t make me the perfect friend or boyfriend and people may still hate me, but it makes the marathon a little easier. Besides Perfect is boring, as RuPaul says.

Robby, aka Mario, aka not perfect but trying, from Brooklyn, signing out. Until next time, readers!

(this column was originally published in the July edition of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.)

MEMORIES OF THE NYC GAY PRIDE PARADES

BY GUEST WRITER VINCENT POMILIO

On Saturday June 14th I took part in the No Kings rally in Hudson, NY. Every small town in the
Hudson Valley had some sort of No Kings event. Being Hudson, there was a strong LGBTQ
presence with very creative outfits and signage. The feeling of change in the air was mixed with frustration, anger and fear. A feeling of hopelessness pervaded. Yet with so many people gathered together to express these feelings, it also gave one hope that we can change things, make them better, topple the evil empire.

There was the same feeling in these rallies as events in the 1970’s when I took part in anti-Vietnam War marches and early Gay Rights demonstrations. How little things have changed. We made such progress and yet, here we are again. The gains we have made over the last few decades now seem so fragile and tenuous.

The rally in Hudson, NY reminded me of the first Gay Rights March I attended. It was 1973.
It was only four years after Stonewall, yet much had changed in those four years. I had just graduated college and had an art teaching job lined up at Conestoga Valley High School in
Lancaster, PA. I had come out the previous summer while working as a cook in Cape May, NJ

My coming out was traumatic as I had been outed by a fellow student who saw me at a gay bar in Reading, PA called The Green Door. She was a waitress at the restaurant attached to the bar. Within days, news of my gayness spread on campus. I was shunned by some fellow classmates and a couple of my roommates were forced to move out by their parents so as not to be associated with me.

I soon had a boyfriend, Tim Riley, who lived in Philadelphia, my hometown. It was Tim’s idea to go to the Gay Rights March in New York in 1973. One month before the march, I had been interviewed by the principal and another art teacher at the
high school in Lancaster. Mr. Kennedy was the principal and Mr. Dreibelbis was the art teacher. Turns out, Mr. Dreibelbis was gay and really wanted me to get the job. The principal appealed to me to get a haircut and lose my beard before he agreed to hire me. I refused but got the job anyway.

A month after getting hired for the job, with a big chunk of the summer still ahead, Tim and I headedto NYC for the Gay March. That year it started at Columbus Circle and went down Fifth Ave to Washington Square Park. As we were lining up, a small crowd gathered along the sidelines to see what was going on

As we were waiting to start moving , I spotted Principal Kennedy with his wife and another couple watching with looks of horror on their faces at all of these freakish homos. I tried my best to be inconspicuous and to this day never knew whether or not he saw me with the other gay marchers. The march was so amazing. It was homespun and incredibly upbeat and we all felt so proud to be a part of it. I couldn’t believe how many people took part. There were people as far as you could see up and down Fifth Avenue. Washington Square was a giant block party with great music and dancing and a collective feeling that were doing something important and that it might make a difference.

In 1976, I moved to NYC to do graduate work in painting at NYU. I loved my new life in New York
City; it was a great time to be young and gay in NY. Tim and had broken up but remained close friends. Tim and I took part in the Pride March each year until his death from AIDS in 1988. In 1978 I met a guy who I had been lusting after for the last couple of years, Tom Hinckley. Tom and I hit it off, fell in love and began a life together. Tom was handsome and brilliant. Tom was seven years older and came from Massachusetts Mayflower stock. The Hinckleys spent summers in Maine; I was an Italian American kid who spent summers at the Jersey Shore.

I am recalling Tom here along with the Gay Pride Parades for many reasons. We spent 16 years
together until his death from AIDS in 1994. Tom had been very involved with ACTUP. He wrote for the Treatment and Data Digest, a bi-monthly publication that presented news of HIV drug treatments and research from the CDC. His work here was very important as he was great at translating medical information into laymen’s terms so we could all understand it. Tom’s death was the Friday before the 25th anniversary of Stonewall and the big Pride March was to be held on the last Sunday of June 1994.

That whole week I had been going back and forth with Tom’s family to Saint Vincent’s
Hospital. They had left before he died. He slipped into unconsciousness and died right after I had left the hospital for a few hours to try and get some sleep. I was able to return to the hospital and be with him along with a few friends to say our goodbyes. I have never felt so alone.

While walking back to my apartment on Morton Street, there were huge crowds of gay people fromall over the world gathering for the 25th anniversary of Stonewall. Celebrations were happening all around me which made my grief that much harder to bear. I took refuge in my apartment but could hear music and partying going on all over the West Village. I got through the night and on Saturday joined friends to watch a movie at their apartment and try to cheer up. Tom would have wanted me to go out and join in all the partying going on. I just couldn’t get into it. His death wasn’t sudden. It was a year of pain and suffering and adjusting to each tragic stage of Tom’s physical decline. The worst stage was when he could no longer walk. Yet Tom was so emotionally strong through all of this and was determined not to make my plight worse than it already was.

There was one incident that is so painful to recall. We were going to the M and O market on the corner of Thompson and Prince Streets. Tom was in a wheelchair. A car load of thugs with Jersey plates rolled down their windows and hollered, “I hope you all die of AIDS, faggots.” Tom hollered obscenities back at them, never backing down.

The Sunday of the Pride Parade was a gorgeous late June day. I was not sleeping well and didn’t know what to do with myself and my profound sadness. There was also some sense of relief knowing Toms suffering was over and my caretaking responsibilities were also over. I got a call from my friend Art McGuire inviting me to attend the parade with them. It felt inappropriate, but what else was I going to do that day? Sit in the apartment and be horribly depressed?

I met Arthur, his partner Alistair and our friend Steven Weinstock for breakfast at LeBonboniere, a greasy spoon diner on Hudson Street. The March met downtown and moved up to Central Park that year. It turned out to be a great idea to be around friends and take part in this major event. Tom was there in spirit. The mood of the crowd was jubilant with streets packed with onlookers cheering and dancing.

We reached the

park and there was a pause before entering the park for the big after party. One of the speakers
announced that there would be a moment of silent meditation to honor those that died of AIDS. My friends all gathered around me and gave me a big collective hug. There was never a more moving, heart breaking and deafening silence. Never was silence more meaningful. So many of our friends had died in the last four or five years. I remember the feeling of despair turning into hope during that moment of silence. You could hear many people crying. The silence seemed to last an eternity. In the end there was a feeling of love, community and collective grief. We had all been touched by this. It brought us closer together.

Over the years, the parade has changed. It has become a big block party with corporate sponsors. It’s a great opportunity to have fun, but don’t let your guard down. Times are changing. Many battles have been fought and won but there are many forces that are working hard to take it away.

my husband Bob Bohan, my cousin Heather Brown, her girlfriend, and me. This is at the Parade on 6th avenue.

THE FIRST PRIDE WAS A RIOT!

Greetings, readers – Happy Pride Month, everyone. This particular Pride month feels both awful and demoralizing, yet it also serves as a call to action. We are once again in the fight for our lives thanks to the twice-impeached, convicted felon in the White House. Things aren’t just bad, they are horrible. Every day we wake to news that gets worse and worse. It’s this very reason that the Resistance movement needs to be louder, stronger, and more visible. Pride still matters – maybe now more than ever.

Times today are not normal. This is not normal. It is not normal for a five-time draft dodger to ban our Transgender brothers and sisters from serving their country. It is not normal for a gay makeup artist from Venezuela to be kidnapped off the streets by men wearing masks and sent to a prison in El Salvador without due process. It is not normal for Utah and Idaho to ban the display of Pride flags on government property and in schools. (10 other states are now in the process of enacting those same laws.)

These are just a tiny snapshot of the horrors going on thanks to the House, Senate, and White House all being GOP-led. As usual, Republicans have no clue how to run a country. The POTUS has more felony convictions than there are transgender college athletes. More Americans were killed by the horrific tornadoes in Jackson, Kentucky, on May 18th than there are transgender college athletes.

On any given day my emotions run the gamut from heartbroken to pissed off to devastated to hopeful and then ultimately hopeless. I hate to admit it out loud, but I do feel hopeless more than I feel hopeful. And on November 6th, 2024, I felt quite possibly most hopeless I have ever been.

I wanted to be done. I wanted to be done fighting, marching, and protesting. Done making signs. Done fighting for those who continue to vote against their own interests. Done fighting for a country that is never going to give us equal rights. Done fighting for a country that let hundreds of thousands of gay men suffer and die horrible deaths in the 1980s. Done fighting for a country that said “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Done fighting for a country that made us beg for Marriage Equality for decades. And done fighting for a country where “Dont Say Gay” was signed into law in 2022.

I am almost 50 years old. I have been protesting for over 25 years. How many more years do I have to march?

Thankfully, those feelings of hopelessness subsided as winter turned to spring. With each attack on park rangers, scientists, immigrants, and drag queens, it was time to join the fight again. On April 5th, I was one of the marshals at the Hands Off protest. Marshals hold back the traffic, allowing protestors to continue marching. I was awed, inspired, and empowered by the ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND people walking past me. Americans of all ages, genders, and nationalities making their voices heard. The energy in the crowd was electric.

The very first Pride was a riot. This June, the people are taking to the streets to ‘riot’ once again.

On June 7th, I marched across the Brooklyn Bridge with Moms Demand Action, demanding common-sense gun reform. On June 12th, Gays Against Guns held a vigil to honor those murdered at Pulse nightclub in Orlando nine years ago. As a ‘Human Being’, silent and veiled in white, I held space for Paul Anthony Terrell, a 41-year-old father who loved dancing and playing pool. His daughter Alexia had recently graduated from high school. He was one of 49 killed that night by a madman with an assault weapon. Texas is banning weed and porn yet guns are buy one get one free. As of April 30th, there have been 155 mass shootings in this country. This is not normal.

At press time, another nationwide protest – “NO KINGS” – is planned for June 14th. Organizers are expecting more people, more press coverage, more, more, more. The new Pope has scheduled an afternoon mass broadcast worldwide. Cities, including Boston, are hosting Pride on the same day. “TACO Trump” is gonna meltdown at all the attention taken away from his ridiculous 50 million dollar birthday military parade. No one has more disdain or disrespect for our Armed Forces than the five-time draft dodger.

My friend, the renowned artist Vincent Pomillio, 70, Manhattan, relayed to me the feelings of those early Prides, “My 1st Pride March was in 1973. The love in the crowd was so palpable. The March and the Parade were so homespun and heartfelt. There was music and dancing along the route, and the city seemed to be lining up along the sidewalks, cheering us on. Everyone felt that there was change in the air, and we were excited to be a part of it.”

Change is in the air once again! Let’s get loud, let’s get proud.

YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT!

Greetings, Robby from Brooklyn here writing on a glorious May 1st here in NYC. This just might be the nicest day of the year so far. The sun shining down gives me life today, which I need. In the past month, I have experienced two major setbacks on beloved projects I have been a part of. These setbacks were obviously not intended or prepared for, and I am wondering where to go from here.

The first is the cancellation of my just-created “Know Your Gay History” class. To describe the class as a complete flop would be an understatement. Zero interest, zero calls, zero registrations, zero. We create an idea, we think there is an audience for it, and sometimes we are wrong.

The room rental was over $100 for each class, so with multiple classes with zero registrations, it seemed silly – and frankly unaffordable – to continue moving forward. Looking back, marketing and publicizing the class might have been an issue, as a few friends I mentioned the cancellation of the class were unaware the class even existed. If close friends didn’t even know the class existed how was the general public supposed to be aware? Maybe there is a world where the class returns however, in a different space, different time, different iteration.

The second setback concerns an AIDS charity event that I have been a part of for decades, and is ending this year. This would have been my 7th time participating, but after MAJOR red flags with my team and team management, it became clear to me – and other veterans – that dropping out was the only course of action. When multiple people use the exact same words of “Its going to be a shit-show,” you have to listen.

This ride is a week-long long glorious, multi-day event filled with amazing people and activities, and events. Millions and millions of dollars are raised for HIV-AIDS-related services that directly affect thousands and thousands of people. I am beyond proud to have been a part of it and will continue to be proud of my involvement.

The week is also hard work. Our team leaves camp daily around 8 am to drive to our station for the day (usually 60-80 miles away). We have two hours to set up before we open around 1130am. We are open until approximately 6pm to serve the 2,500 cyclists who are riding. We serve them food, drinks, have photo ops, and are in charge of bike parking and safety. It is extremely rewarding and satisfying, but also not easy. Throw in even the slightest of mismanagement, and the day turns from hard, satisfying work to grueling and exhausting.

Packing the truck wrong, which means you are packing and repacking it multiple times in a day, getting lost on the drive back to camp, and missing dinner, when each van is provided with a huge binder of step-by-step directions to and from every camp, every lunch stop, and every rest stop.

Both of these seem minor on paper, but after a 13-hour day of working in the CA heat, they are soul-crushing.

The lack of any type of communication from higher up this year was the main reason for dropping out. An initial ask about room on the team in October was not answered until January (that should have been my first clue.) I found out I was on the team when I was added to a group text chat. No message, no introduction, no welcome to the team. Nothing.

Multiple requests for a meeting as the weeks and months went on were ignored. We finally had our first meeting in April. For an event that is in June, the timing of this first meeting is, forgive the hyperbole, disastrous.

The decision to drop out was not an easy one by any means. I have been a part of this event for over 20 years. This, being the last one, only solidified the finality of my decision. However, even though my involvement with this Ride and my team ended, I am still Ride or Die for them and wish them nothing but huge successes. I just had to remove myself from the equation.

A HUGE THANK YOU to my donors, not only from this year but from years past, many of whom have supported me over and over.

So, where do I go from here? Like Carrie Bradshaw said in the now iconic “Sex and the City” episode “The Real Me,” where she falls down on the runway, Stanford calls her fashion roadkill,
“When real people fall down in life, they get right back up and keep on walking.”

It’s time for Robby to get right back up and keep on walking. Hey, there is a Boston to NYC AIDS ride in September, maybe there is room on the crew!

Until next time, Readers, Happy May Day…IT’S GONNA BE MAY!

(this column was originally published in the May edition of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.”)

(this column was edited by Rachel Lader.)

KNOW YOUR GAY HISTORY

GRID. Oscar Wilde. Friend of Dorothy. The Mattachine Society. Edie Winsor. If you know who or what all five of those mean…congratulations you know your gay history!

Gay history is American history. Queer history is American history. Gay people have always existed – we have always been here. And, as it has always been throughout history, it is up to us to teach others our collective history. As I have said in this column before – the queer community takes care of itself.

It is my honor and privilege to announce the beginning of a monthly class at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Community Center (The Center) in NYC called – none other than – “Know Your Gay History.”

In creating this class and working on the curriculum I started reminiscing about my own personal gay history. Growing up gay in the 1970s-1990s was a completely different experience than growing up gay in the 2000s-2020s. Like night and day doesn’t even begin to cover how different it was. For me growing up in the 80s anything gay was honestly non-existent. There was NO ONE one for me to look up to or look at and see any sort of representation.

Yes, there were blips here and there. Billy Crystal in “Soap,” Harry Hamlin, and Michael Ontkean in “Making Love,” (also starring the beloved Kate Jackson.) The television shows “Maude” and “All in the Family” each introduced a gay character and started the dialogue. But I wasn’t even born when those episodes aired. I had no frame of reference or way to find a movie like “Making Love.” Remember this was a full two decades before the glorious World Wide Web existed.

Slowly the world evolved – the USA eons slower than a large majority of the rest of the civilized world – and change happened. “Will and Grace” and “Queer as Folk,” debuted on our television screens. Movies like “Trick” and “The Broken Hearts Club” spoke to us and made us feel seen. Sean Penn, Christopher Plummer, Cate Blanchett, Jared Leto, Eddie Redmayne and Mahershala Ali all won or were nominated for Oscars playing queer characters. After decades and decades of marching and protesting, marriage equality was finally passed in 2015. (If the current Presidential Administration plans on taking it away from us they are gonna have to pry it from my cold dead hands…and I ain’t even married.)

Queer culture has changed throughout history as well. Case in point, we have reclaimed the word queer – “Queer Nation,” “Queer Eye” – it’s no longer a slur. We have adopted it as our own with members of our community identifying as queer.

These younger generations came up in a more accepting world. The world that we created for them. We wanted them to be able to live openly and freely. We wanted their youth to be different from ours — and we achieved that. As Billy Eichner famously says in “Bros,” the first queer led romantic comedy, “Of course they are happy. They had Glee. We had AIDS.”

With that happiness and change, sometimes there is pushback or backlash. And some of that comes from within our own community. I mean we only have to look back to the “No fats, No Femmes, No Asians,” that used to be littered on sex apps to know that gay on gay discrimination exists. (Now it’s “No Total Bottoms” but that’s a discussion for another time.)

Different pronouns and guys wearing nail polish are just two examples of how queers in different generations express themselves. “It’s just not for me,” “I don’t get it,” or “They don’t even know who Judy Garland is,” are frequently heard phrases from some 65-year-old gay men talking about a 21-year-old gay person.

Of course they are different. Forty four years is a lifetime! There are so many aspects of gay culture that Gen Z has no frame of reference for including – who Harvey Milk, Harvey Firestein and Divine were. Or why Anita Bryant is so rightfully despised and why Cher is so universally adored. Cue the “Know Your Gay History” class.

Even with generational divides and differences we have to remember, as members of the queer community, we have MUCH more in common than different. Let’s celebrate those differences! And we can never forget that we are stronger together. Our umbrella needs every single letter LGBT and Q. Two trans women of color – Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera – are credited with throwing the 1st brick at Stonewall. Although neither have said so personally. The lesbian community stepped up and served as caregivers to the countless gay men dying of AIDS in the 1980s.

Our queer history is long and rich. It’s time we all Know Our Gay History, aka American History!

To register for the Gay History class – tinyurl.com/knowyourgayhistory

(This column was originally published in the April edition of “Letters from Camp Rehoboth.”)