FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2008
Age 7. In retrospect, the emotional and psychological abuse had prevailed from the time he was a baby in the crib. He remembered staring through the crib bars watching the two of them, the two most responsible for his care, his security, verbally tear each other apart while turning down the bed covers. The foundation never got any firmer. The situation never did improve. This was his life at age 7. This would be his life for 19 years. This was home.
He was “different.” Not the athlete his brother was, and perhaps too easily influenced by his older sisters engaging him to harmonize with them on show tunes spinning on the record player. This home was not what one saw on “Ozzie and Harriett.” There could be an eruption at any time, for any given circumstance large or small. Showing any effeminate tendency. Or not knowing the difference between a Phillips screwdriver and a regular one, though no one had taken the time to teach him the difference between the two. Such things could bring on such damaging, crushing criticism.
He had to hide his penchant for drawing women in pretty clothes, though it was a natural by-product of his natural artistic ability. These were not approved talents. These were “non-talents.” By age 7 everything was already a scary premise. How could it not have been with very little guidance, not knowing with every step if you were doing something right or wrong.
Age 7. Easter. 1962. When he told the story years later to friends he believed the love-affair, maybe even obsession, started around this time. She arrived in that chaotic home that spring. He’d heard about her long before, usually in strong tones by his father denouncing her as amoral. Yet others seemed fascinated by her. Everyone discussed her. What was it about her? Who was she? Why all the talk? That Easter would always stand out. Not for the Easter baskets, or dinner at the Moonlight Restaurant, in that familiar green leather booth. The reaction to her arrival would be with him forever. She was simply, unceremoniously dropped off at that home like a common thing. Delivered by the mailman.
“St. Elizabeth” arrived that Catholic holiday of 1962. His savior. She would eventually progress to become a savior for a whole generation of gay men. But that spring, that Easter weekend she came for him alone. This journey with her would have to be clandestine in the beginning, less his father find out. But he could not resist. She was too compelling.
A future husband of hers would describe her as “beautiful beyond pornography.” She was a breath-taking object, like a fine piece of art or sculpture. His affair with her, his obsession began in his bedroom, door closed, by the light of his end table lamp. Just the two of them. She took him to another world. A world of luxury and glamour. Of notorious audacity. Of freedom and power. Of “go fuck yourself” strength. She was beauty with balls. He was transported away from all the screaming and pain. It would all dissipate, left out in that hallway, that living room. The mailman’s timing was perfect. He delivered her dressed in a gown of gold, with sequins glued to her eyelids. He went off into her world and everything, everyone else was eclipsed.
On the cover of Life Magazine. She was Cleopatra. She was Elizabeth Taylor.
From that spring on how many times would this woman come to his rescue? Take him away from the abusive home, the bullies at school, the surreal drudgery of a Catholic upbringing, puberty, college, awful gay men, bad bosses. Seeing her on the cover of a magazine or tabloid looking all violet-eyed and luscious gave him an escape that was better than any drug or drink Her retorts to the ever-prying press regarding any aspect of her fish-bowl life with something like, “Who the hell’s business is it anyway?” could make him feel less powerless; transcend the numbing and mundane.
Call it what you want, she kept him sane. He never considered lumping her into that “diva” category that so many want to pigeon-hole strong women. The stories about her made her appear more like a broad, rather than a diva. Kind to people others would deem unimportant, saving her power, her wrath usually for white straight guys, producers, who tried to use dick-wagging attitude around her.
She didn’t need a cock, she had them by the balls. They’d do what she wanted. Never one to tolerate fools, Elizabeth Taylor is, was and always would be a “broad,” the highest compliment he could give a woman. She empowered him by living her life, and inadvertently taught him how to deal in a man’s world. Even her crash and burns were lessons to be learned. Always rising like a phoenix, she came back stronger, better, more powerful than ever, every time. Never to be pitied. The only time he saw her on unsure footing was that brief period with the Senator from Virginia. What was up with that, he wanted to ask her. Nevertheless, Senator “Asshole” came and went in five years, and E.T. came roaring back, again.
His brother-in-law once asked him why gay men were drawn to such strong women. He could only speak for himself, and only about Elizabeth. She had her heartbreaks, alcohol and drug addictions. Addictions to men. Gay men obviously could relate. He always loved the line Truvey uttered in “Steel Magnolias.” Speaking of a local woman who had been through much trauma in her life, Truvey says, “…….why, in lifetime of sufferin’ she is right up there with Elizabeth Taylor.” And she was beautiful. Gay men love and appreciate beauty, he told his brother-in-law. “We might not want to fuck her, but we know what comprises beauty.” He remembered the first time he saw her in that transparent white swimming suit, coming out of the surf in “Suddenly, Last Summer.” What an exquisite creature.
In later years E.T. grew again, taught him again. She became a real humanitarian. She took her celebrity beyond what power it would provide for herself. She could call a press conference and command the world to listen. “She did it for us,” he would remind everyone. She was no longer Elizabeth Taylor, superstar/icon. She achieved anointed status. She stepped up to the plate and dared the “dick-swingers” to ignore her. Testosterone and naysayers never daunted her. She taught him how to focus his eyes on one thing ahead and keep heading towards it. Consistently awed by the little lady with violet eyes.
“She went to battle for us,” he would remind everyone. She used her celebrity to it’s most pristine form. Though she was no longer box-office, people didn’t necessarily turn down a call from Elizabeth Taylor. Still, influential people hung up the phone on her. Warned her to stay away from “that AIDS thing.” Dauntless in her quest she would sweetly cajole some, strong arm others. She came to help “us,” and she succeeded in spades.
His affair with her would never wane. She would always mystify and mesmerize. From 1962, age 7, and forever more, she would always be the most famous woman in the world, Cleopatra, one ballsy broad. St. Elizabeth. -JAB
The Way I See It 