Glimpses After Mainland

MARCH 1997
T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

Childhood (Before Go Mainland)

1. Re-Creation

2. Asthma attack

3. Sissy

4. Monopoly

After Go Mainland

1. Coming Out

2. Diagnosis

3. Prognosis

4. Sam and the Bank Manager

ABOUT
BOB
SHIMABUKURO

GLIMPSES CONTINUED

After Go Mainland

1. Coming Out

Sam seemed to have something on his mind the whole weekend. But now he seemed ready to go home to Seattle. "Well, thanks for the hospitality," he said. "I gotta get going home."
"You want to get something to eat first?" I offered. "I got to go over to Cathie's a little later."
"You know I was going to ask you about that," he answered, then proceeded to pepper me with questions about my love life. Cathie and I had been separated for a few years, but we still did things together now and then. Sam was curious about that. And about the other women he had been introduced to when he had visited. I soon gathered that he was really trying to draw me into asking him about his love life.
"How about you? Any women out there for you?"
"You know, Bob, it's funny that you asked, but I've wanted to tell you something. It's been about two weeks; I decided to come out of the closet. Remember when you were up in Seattle with Mira last week?" His rapid-fire speech sounded very rehearsed. "And Mira wanted to know why I had those hospital slippers around the house? Well, I just didn't feel like telling her then. But the reason was I had some anal warts removed. I just couldn't tell Mira that. So I thought I'd just tell you the next time we were alone."
"Sounds awful," I commented, also realizing what he was really telling me. "How do you get something like that?"
"Gay sex," he said quickly, then paused waiting for a reaction.
"So . . . that's a hell of a way to tell me you're gay. You break the news to everyone by telling them about anal warts?" I asked, then burst out laughing. So did he, sounding relieved at my reaction.
"Well, as a matter of fact, others have made the same point. That I use the surgery as an opener. `Weird,' they said."
"So, you're gonna tell the rest of the family?"
"Don't know. If anyone asks, I won't deny it. But I don't know when I'll tell the others."
"You want any help in this?"
"No. But likewise, if anyone asks, just tell them. I'll have to deal with it sooner or later."
"And Mom? You want me to tell her? Or you're gonna tell her yourself?"
"That's something I'll have to do myself."
"Well, I've got a suggestion. Don't tell her the same way you told me."
Sam and I cracked up again.
He then proceeded to recount his whole coming out process excitedly (and you had to know Sam to understand how exhilarated he was by it), his therapy, counseling, our early childhood together, the possible effects it would have on the rest of our family. Sometimes Sam would get worked up about stuff, and I just zoned out into my own world while he went on. A defense mechanism I had developed to deal with these moods of Sam.
When he was on to something it was best to just let him finish what he had to say. Sometimes, he would talk for 10, 15 minutes straight, going over every itsy-bitsy insignificant detail. Often, his monologue, or tirade, or running commentary would try my patience. But I knew that I could not interrupt him, nor could I change the subject. That would be tempting his emotional stability.
I instead thought about a scene 20 years earlier when I had called him a sissy. My stomach hurt once again. How cruel I had been. And I had missed the whole point of Toki's lecture.
I was brought back when I heard Sam say, "And I wrote this letter to Dad." Sam and Dad had gone through some rough times together. In addition to his moods of extremely charged verbal diarrhea, Sam was stubborn and tenacious. I mean, real stubborn. If he couldn't get his way, he went out of control. During those times, Dad had paid a lot of attention, some of it cruel, to Sam's emotional outbursts until he mellowed out some by the time he was seven or eight. But there was a price. Sam was socially paralyzed for years. Pacified and imprisoned. By dad. By friends. Perhaps by a younger brother. By name-calling. Only when Dad died did Sam feel a little freer to express himself.
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"Oh, it was a reconciliation letter. That I was doing fine. That I could accept him for what he was. And he could accept me for what I was. That I could go on with my life. I also told him I was gay, and it should be all right with him."
"What do you think he'd say?"
"Don't know," Sam answered, shrugging his shoulders.

2. Diagnosis

One day after Memorial Day 1987, trying to put the pieces together. Sam has been trying to shake a cough for more than six months. And now, driving south to my sister Ann's home in Gilroy, California, a phone conversation with Sam and his partner Bruce, the night before, weighs heavily on my mind.
"Sam's very ill," Bruce said. "He's got pneumonia. Had a fever of 105 degrees in Northhampton. The doctor there wanted to do more tests, but Sam wanted to come back to Seattle for the testing. We'll hear the results tomorrow." He sounded serious.
Sam, a little more optimistic as usual, said he was fine, much better than a week ago.
All three of us had refused to mention what we all suspected. We didn't dare. Perhaps we had feared compromising the test results.
Sam's cough had been puzzling. Then 43, he had always been so healthy. He generally shook off colds and other viruses quickly. He had gone entire school years without missing a day. I found his school attendance records somewhat miraculous, since I had spent so much of my childhood ill at home.
My mind had been racing during the fifteen hours on the road. Ann greeted me and said quietly, "Sam called. Wants you to call him. Said he tested positive for AIDS."
Feeling very tired, beaten and resigned, I called him. "I've got pneumocystis," he says, "the pneu-monia that confirms AIDS."

3. Prognosis

October 18, 1988. A cold, foggy, drizzly day in Seattle. Dr. Dreis broke the news gently to Sam, Bruce, Leslie and me: his life could be measured "in terms of days and weeks rather than months. Also I wouldn't want to pound on your chest and break your ribs and cause you more pain just on the chance you could live a few more hours," he told Sam softly, his voice slightly wavering.
It apparently came as a surprise to Sam. He still looked upon his death as an event in the "distant" future. Dreis' words hit him hard. "Well," he said, in his inimitable definitive manner, "I'll still have hope," just daring anyone to take that away from him.
"Great!" answered everyone in the room.
"Well, miracles do happen," offered the Doctor. "Are you afraid?" continued Dreis.
"No," answered Sam.
"Are you surprised, Sam?"
"Yes, a little. In Northhampton, I figured out that I was going to die before I was 45. But I still looked at it as the distant future."
"Are you sad?"
"Yes, but even more for Bruce. I'll be gone. But Bruce will be alone."
I was surprised that Bruce and Leslie maintained their composure. But everyone was crying. I felt like mush. I was standing, and I felt like I was watching a movie, distanced from the scene. I felt the tears rolling, but I also saw some stardust. My legs started to buckle. I leaned against the shower door until I felt better, and moved to a chair. It was quiet in the room. Deathly quiet. I don't know how long. . . .
Although Sam still talks about his life in terms of months, he is dealing with the brevity. "My only regret is that I won't live long enough to see the day Reagan leaves office," he told us. And later, he added with a resigned sigh, "I guess I'll never see the Mariners in a World Series."
Commented Leslie, "Neither will we, Sam."

4. Sam and the Bank Manager

There is a lot of flurry one morning as Sam decides to get up off his deathbed and pay a visit to a bank manager who has been "hassling" Sam over some unpaid bills of "his" now-defunct Brass Ring Theater.
Esti, who is caring for Sam that day, and Bruce (by phone) try to convince Sam that it is not in his best interests, health-wise, to argue with the bank, or even go out. Of course, Sam wins the argument, as he simply threatens to drive up to the bank himself. Esti falls into line. Upon arrival at the bank, Sam orders Esti, "You sit in the car. I want to do this alone."
A worried Esti sits in the car, waiting, as a shriveled, unshaven, disheveled Sam, dressed in clothes now five sizes too large and barely able to walk, dukes it out with the neat and proper bank manager. Who knows what transpired? Sam wouldn't say. "Well," he tells Esti as he slowly pulls himself back into the car, "I guess he won't be bothering me again."
He was right about that. Nobody's bothering him now.

© The Raven Chronicles 1997

�

MARCH 1997		T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

Childhood (Before Go Mainland) 1. Re-Creation 2. Asthma attack 3. Sissy 4. Monopoly After Go Mainland 1. Coming Out 2. Diagnosis 3. Prognosis 4. Sam and the Bank Manager ABOUT BOB SHIMABUKURO		GLIMPSES CONTINUED After Go Mainland 1. Coming Out Sam seemed to have something on his mind the whole weekend. But now he seemed ready to go home to Seattle. "Well, thanks for the hospitality," he said. "I gotta get going home." "You want to get something to eat first?" I offered. "I got to go over to Cathie's a little later." "You know I was going to ask you about that," he answered, then proceeded to pepper me with questions about my love life. Cathie and I had been separated for a few years, but we still did things together now and then. Sam was curious about that. And about the other women he had been introduced to when he had visited. I soon gathered that he was really trying to draw me into asking him about his love life. "How about you? Any women out there for you?" "You know, Bob, it's funny that you asked, but I've wanted to tell you something. It's been about two weeks; I decided to come out of the closet. Remember when you were up in Seattle with Mira last week?" His rapid-fire speech sounded very rehearsed. "And Mira wanted to know why I had those hospital slippers around the house? Well, I just didn't feel like telling her then. But the reason was I had some anal warts removed. I just couldn't tell Mira that. So I thought I'd just tell you the next time we were alone." "Sounds awful," I commented, also realizing what he was really telling me. "How do you get something like that?" "Gay sex," he said quickly, then paused waiting for a reaction. "So . . . that's a hell of a way to tell me you're gay. You break the news to everyone by telling them about anal warts?" I asked, then burst out laughing. So did he, sounding relieved at my reaction. "Well, as a matter of fact, others have made the same point. That I use the surgery as an opener. `Weird,' they said." "So, you're gonna tell the rest of the family?" "Don't know. If anyone asks, I won't deny it. But I don't know when I'll tell the others." "You want any help in this?" "No. But likewise, if anyone asks, just tell them. I'll have to deal with it sooner or later." "And Mom? You want me to tell her? Or you're gonna tell her yourself?" "That's something I'll have to do myself." "Well, I've got a suggestion. Don't tell her the same way you told me." Sam and I cracked up again. He then proceeded to recount his whole coming out process excitedly (and you had to know Sam to understand how exhilarated he was by it), his therapy, counseling, our early childhood together, the possible effects it would have on the rest of our family. Sometimes Sam would get worked up about stuff, and I just zoned out into my own world while he went on. A defense mechanism I had developed to deal with these moods of Sam. When he was on to something it was best to just let him finish what he had to say. Sometimes, he would talk for 10, 15 minutes straight, going over every itsy-bitsy insignificant detail. Often, his monologue, or tirade, or running commentary would try my patience. But I knew that I could not interrupt him, nor could I change the subject. That would be tempting his emotional stability. I instead thought about a scene 20 years earlier when I had called him a sissy. My stomach hurt once again. How cruel I had been. And I had missed the whole point of Toki's lecture. I was brought back when I heard Sam say, "And I wrote this letter to Dad." Sam and Dad had gone through some rough times together. In addition to his moods of extremely charged verbal diarrhea, Sam was stubborn and tenacious. I mean, real stubborn. If he couldn't get his way, he went out of control. During those times, Dad had paid a lot of attention, some of it cruel, to Sam's emotional outbursts until he mellowed out some by the time he was seven or eight. But there was a price. Sam was socially paralyzed for years. Pacified and imprisoned. By dad. By friends. Perhaps by a younger brother. By name-calling. Only when Dad died did Sam feel a little freer to express himself. "What did you tell him?" I asked. "Oh, it was a reconciliation letter. That I was doing fine. That I could accept him for what he was. And he could accept me for what I was. That I could go on with my life. I also told him I was gay, and it should be all right with him." "What do you think he'd say?" "Don't know," Sam answered, shrugging his shoulders. 2. Diagnosis One day after Memorial Day 1987, trying to put the pieces together. Sam has been trying to shake a cough for more than six months. And now, driving south to my sister Ann's home in Gilroy, California, a phone conversation with Sam and his partner Bruce, the night before, weighs heavily on my mind. "Sam's very ill," Bruce said. "He's got pneumonia. Had a fever of 105 degrees in Northhampton. The doctor there wanted to do more tests, but Sam wanted to come back to Seattle for the testing. We'll hear the results tomorrow." He sounded serious. Sam, a little more optimistic as usual, said he was fine, much better than a week ago. All three of us had refused to mention what we all suspected. We didn't dare. Perhaps we had feared compromising the test results. Sam's cough had been puzzling. Then 43, he had always been so healthy. He generally shook off colds and other viruses quickly. He had gone entire school years without missing a day. I found his school attendance records somewhat miraculous, since I had spent so much of my childhood ill at home. My mind had been racing during the fifteen hours on the road. Ann greeted me and said quietly, "Sam called. Wants you to call him. Said he tested positive for AIDS." Feeling very tired, beaten and resigned, I called him. "I've got pneumocystis," he says, "the pneu-monia that confirms AIDS." 3. Prognosis October 18, 1988. A cold, foggy, drizzly day in Seattle. Dr. Dreis broke the news gently to Sam, Bruce, Leslie and me: his life could be measured "in terms of days and weeks rather than months. Also I wouldn't want to pound on your chest and break your ribs and cause you more pain just on the chance you could live a few more hours," he told Sam softly, his voice slightly wavering. It apparently came as a surprise to Sam. He still looked upon his death as an event in the "distant" future. Dreis' words hit him hard. "Well," he said, in his inimitable definitive manner, "I'll still have hope," just daring anyone to take that away from him. "Great!" answered everyone in the room. "Well, miracles do happen," offered the Doctor. "Are you afraid?" continued Dreis. "No," answered Sam. "Are you surprised, Sam?" "Yes, a little. In Northhampton, I figured out that I was going to die before I was 45. But I still looked at it as the distant future." "Are you sad?" "Yes, but even more for Bruce. I'll be gone. But Bruce will be alone." I was surprised that Bruce and Leslie maintained their composure. But everyone was crying. I felt like mush. I was standing, and I felt like I was watching a movie, distanced from the scene. I felt the tears rolling, but I also saw some stardust. My legs started to buckle. I leaned against the shower door until I felt better, and moved to a chair. It was quiet in the room. Deathly quiet. I don't know how long. . . . Although Sam still talks about his life in terms of months, he is dealing with the brevity. "My only regret is that I won't live long enough to see the day Reagan leaves office," he told us. And later, he added with a resigned sigh, "I guess I'll never see the Mariners in a World Series." Commented Leslie, "Neither will we, Sam." 4. Sam and the Bank Manager There is a lot of flurry one morning as Sam decides to get up off his deathbed and pay a visit to a bank manager who has been "hassling" Sam over some unpaid bills of "his" now-defunct Brass Ring Theater. Esti, who is caring for Sam that day, and Bruce (by phone) try to convince Sam that it is not in his best interests, health-wise, to argue with the bank, or even go out. Of course, Sam wins the argument, as he simply threatens to drive up to the bank himself. Esti falls into line. Upon arrival at the bank, Sam orders Esti, "You sit in the car. I want to do this alone." A worried Esti sits in the car, waiting, as a shriveled, unshaven, disheveled Sam, dressed in clothes now five sizes too large and barely able to walk, dukes it out with the neat and proper bank manager. Who knows what transpired? Sam wouldn't say. "Well," he tells Esti as he slowly pulls himself back into the car, "I guess he won't be bothering me again." He was right about that. Nobody's bothering him now.
		© The Raven Chronicles 1997