The Road to New York

Boston, MA 1978

On an unusually warm Saturday afternoon in early April, as the sun finally began to warm the Promenade, Warren and I strolled along the Charles River together. Although we had been dating happily and exclusively through the winter, two men didn't hold hands in public yet, as much as Warren and I might have wanted to. It would be a few more years before that felt safe, and then at first only in San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York.

"My classes went so well this morning. I love teaching my little group of adult beginners out in Framingham. They are so enthusiastic. Each little accomplishment, walking on the beat in a simple floor pattern while keeping their heads up seems so huge to them." I demonstrated for him as we walked, then turned back with a satisfied smile. "Even though it's a drive, it is worth it for the money...and the experience. How's your studying coming along?"

"I'm exhausted. All day cramming for another exam on Monday." He shuffled through the slush still at the edges of the sidewalk that wound through the park. "But I think I am prepared. And I am really looking forward to not thinking about it for the rest of the weekend."

"How many hours were you in the library this morning? 

"I guess six or so. Only stopped to get a sandwich at noon."

"Is that good for you, sweetie? Your eyes are all bloodshot. Hope this fresh air helps...revives you for tonight." I winked, but when that attempt at being flirtatious fell flat, I slid my hand up his neck and scrunched my fist in his black curls. "This is getting really thick. I like it. More to hold onto." A smile finally broke through his uncharacteristically dark expression.

"I'll get it cut as soon as I have time. Can't have your Oreo looking disheveled." With his Ivy League education and his boyhood growing up in Minnesota, we joked that he was my "Oreo"--chocolate on the outside, vanilla on the inside. Except for his free-swinging pelvis on the dance floor and the delicious color of his skin, he was more Euro-centric than most white Americans I met. So much of the time I spent with Warren was time discussing classical arts and culture and the current events we read about in the Boston Globe.

That night we spent only a couple hours out dancing in deference to his state of fatigue. Our sex that night was shorter than usual, and we slept soundly snuggled together under his sumptuous duvet (a word I didn't know until I'd slept under it for months). Sunday morning we woke up slowly with light streaming in the tall double windows and put his record of Vivaldi's Four Seasons on his new, hi-fi stereo system. While he squeezed oranges for juice and pressed a rich Italian blend through his French press, I pulled on warm layers and boots to run downstairs to the corner bakery for fresh bagels with cream cheese and lox (food I didn't know till I'd tasted it with him). That winter, my frightened and frugal grip on money had loosened just enough to allow a few inexpensive extravagances like these--little things that brought color and music and flavor into my otherwise austere artist-student lifestyle. I felt so sophisticated as I returned with our breakfast, slipped out of my clothes and back into the big fluffy terry cloth bathrobe he'd gotten me for Christmas.

As I got comfortable again back in bed, our tray of treats between us, the Globe waiting on the night table, I started the conversation we had been avoiding for weeks.

"Warren, can we talk about what happens when you graduate?"

There was an awkward silence.

"Offers are beginning to roll in--law firms from all over the country, big and small, are recruiting me. I imagine they just want me so they can integrate their staff."

"Well, that, and because you will be graduating from Harvard at the top of your class, you ding-bat." 

"Don't underestimate the PR value at this time in our culture of having more non-white junior lawyers on your team. But I don't know where I really want to be..." He interrupted his struggle for words, slid carefully out of bed and grabbed a letter from his desk, and brought it back into bed with him. "Did I tell you I just got this astonishingly lucrative offer from a huge and prestigious firm in New York City? $25,000 starting salary (probably equivalent to $100,000 in today’s dollars), plus benefits and year end bonuses." He looked at me nervously, not at all as excited as that amount of money should have made him.

"Wow. That's incredible." I chewed as I thought about the ramifications. "Do you want to take it?"

"Well, I'd love to live in New York some day." He hesitated. He studied me with his creased brow giving away his level of concern. "But I'm not sure I want to leave this." He motioned between us.

"Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk about. This is pretty special." I leaned over the bagels to kiss him, nearly toppling the juice.

"Watch it there, cowboy. If you want to ride something, I'll be happy to accommodate you after breakfast."

"Or during?"

"Nope. I insist on coffee before round two."

"Spoil sport."

He just chuckled and took another bite of his bagel.

I sat back, sipped my coffee, and sighed. "OK. So where are you in your thinking?"

"I completely understand that, if I move to the City, and if you came with me, it would mean a loss of the financial security you've built for yourself with your steady teaching gigs around Boston. But don't you think it is time for you to jump into the Big Pond? You've said you feel like you are really at the top of your game here. Dancing with confidence. Thriving in the repertory you are dancing. Ready for more challenges. With the money this firm is offering me, I could support us both while you audition for other companies in New York."

I had to take a moment to let that sink in. "I get why you want to take this offer. I must say, though, that I can't quite imagine you happy sitting at a buttoned up, conservative office every day. I've seen how hard you can work. I can imagine you working yourself to the bone.”

I paused, then slid in closer, my hand finding purchase. “On the other hand, I love the idea of dissolving that serious concentration in my body at night."

My sly smile was met with a groaned, "Mum-hum."

I went on, "But I have no contacts in the New York modern dance scene, except for the choreographers whose dances I've learned, and they don't offer anything like a steady income. Leaving Boston would be leaving all the tenuous security I've spent 4 years cobbling together from my performing and teaching gigs. I know my income this year--about $6000--is nothing compared to what they're offering you. I know that would support both of us in a style I will never be able to afford on my own, no matter how big a reputation I build for myself. But what about all the emotional support I get from CDC. I won't have that in New York--at least not at first. I'll have to rely on you much more than now. You'll have to deal with my crying on your shoulder when I don't get a dance gig I want."

Warren paused, then with a warm smile, "I'll handle it. I want to handle it. I like picking up the pieces when you fall apart." He paused again, and a slow smile grew from his eyes to his lips. "Also on the plus side, the dance clubs in The City are way better than Boston--lots more choices for our nights out. 

We debated like this repeatedly over the next weeks, both of us vying for who could act more responsibly, who could organize the two sides of the argument to convince both of us of a win-win.

What was it about Warren, that, in less than a year, I was willing to consider abandoning the security and sense of belonging I'd developed in Boston and in Concert Dance Company--to pack it away like an old shirt that no longer fit? I can only guess it was a combination of my infatuation with him, his brilliant arguments, and a sense of this being the best timing for my career that convinced me that this man was the right anchor to which I should tether my boat. I was unaware that no anchor could hold in the heavy seas I would face when moving from the relatively safe harbor of Boston to the ocean of dancers in New York City.

As summer approached, a lot happened in overlapping waves. I don't know exactly what happened first.

I talked with Barbara to begin making plans for a graceful transition out of Concert Dance Company. Somewhere, she found a new dancer fresh out of a college dance program to begin learning my parts. And because the company was slated to perform again in New York in September, we made plans for that to be his first and my last with the company. I would stay in Boston for all the rehearsals preparing for those performances.

My parents come out from Indiana, bringing with them their subtle relief that I no longer fought with myself about my sexuality and their obvious relief that I was finally able to support myself as a dancer and dance teacher. I expected, and received their overt acceptance of my choice of a multi-racial, male partner. I ignored their deep concern that we were being hasty in  moving to a new city together--too big a change too fast for their comfort.

With Warren, I took notes on the details of our moving plans on scraps of paper. Then, in careful, printed lettering, I drew up our agreement (on a yellow legal pad, of all things!) with lots of details of who would pay for what when, including that I would pull money out of my savings to provide the security deposit for an apartment in NY, and he would support me for a year while I went to auditions and classes and built a network of income for myself in NY.

When I presented it to him, he laughed at the presentation but didn't hesitate to sign it. Of course, there was nothing really legal about that document, and we both knew it, but the act of signing it together felt like a self-empowering redefinition of our relationship and even a courageous political act. We were stating our obligations to each other with clear boundaries and time limits, and also, indirectly, our right to love and set up house with who we wanted. In the late seventies, all around us our generation was experimenting with different models of relationships. We felt ourselves part of that current of fresh cultural oxygen, sloughing off the heavy cloak of shame and self-recrimination that so many gay men before Stonewall had worn. And that hand-printed agreement felt to us at least as binding as the lease Warren signed for our new apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side.