My friend Lance

Happy birthday to the best friend a girl could ask for

Today is my friend Lance’s birthday. I often say I lost almost all my friends because of my covid dissenting ways. The reason I say “almost” and not “all” is Lance.

We met during the first week of my freshman year in college. We lived in the same dorm. He was on the third floor and I was on the second. I don’t remember the exact meeting. What I do remember is we were inseparable after that.

He is from a well-heeled Oklahoma family. He wore nothing but Ralph Lauren our freshman year, a style I was not acquainted with at the time and teased him relentlessly for.

Lance is funny and smart and has a unique ability to make friends with everybody. Literally everybody. I have walked with Lance through the streets of major cities around the world — including San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York and London — as well as small towns across America. Lance always runs into someone he knows. And he always makes that person feel like they’d hung the moon. And that they were besties.

So you can imagine how for me, an introverted dork, I felt walking around campus with the guy who knew everyone, and who everyone loved, feeling like I was the actual bestie.

We had a rift our sophomore year. Lance rushed a fraternity and didn’t get in. He was devastated and yet, continued to hang out with the guys who had rejected him. I didn’t understand wanting to be part of that group in the first place and I certainly didn’t understand wanting to be part of a group that had already said “we don’t want you.” I was mad.

I was a burgeoning dissident. Dying my hair black, smoking clove cigarettes, wearing smelly trench coats from thrift stores and being angry at the world. Mostly I was sending the signal that I was no longer an obedient gymnast and didn’t care about “fitting in.” I was figuring out who I was without the “gymnast” thing to fall back on. Lance was as cheery as could be and fit in everywhere.

Junior year he got into that fraternity. And he did this amazing thing where he straddled two — possibly more — worlds. He was head frat boy and also frequented my dissident hang out — we called it EBF, short for Enchanted Broccoli Forest, which I think is a famous vegetarian cookbook?

It was a “co-op” living space at Stanford (yes, I went there) and it had a distinctly hippie vibe. It was filthy. And there was a lot of tofu. But the hippie home also collected all the “alternative” people. Skaters, punks, weirdos of all varieties. They had Wednesday night parties every week. Wednesday! That was alternative! I always went. And so did Lance.

Side note: Today EBF still exists at Stanford and describes itself as follows:

“EBF is a loosely arts-themed co-op dedicated to empowering BIPOC, gender-marginalized, queer, and FLI voices. Intentionality guides our process. Around that, we pride ourselves on our cooking, music, and art and our community is comprised of not-so-amateur chefs, DJs, musicians, artists, designers, sculptors, brewers, and more.”

What is FLI? I have no idea.

It was less annoying then. It was dirty, and there were plenty of ‘shrooms and beer and vegan snacks. Ok maybe it was just as annoying.

Throughout this time Lance and I sort of dated on and off. As much as you could call it “dating.” Everyone thought we were a couple. Or respected the loose but strong ties of a pair who were best friends and sometimes hook up partners.

I visited him in Oklahoma. I knew his family. He visited me and my family in Philadelphia.

Then he came out. I should have known the whole time, of course. And I did eventually. But in 1988 I was a sheltered kid, who’d spent most of her time doing gymnastics and graduated from high school in blue collar Allentown, Pennsylvania. I thought I didn’t know any gay people. I just didn’t know many people, other than eternally pre-pubescent gymnasts and either pedophile or just plain old abusive coaches.

I had known Lance was gay for about a year and a half before he told me. All the tropes were there: he loved musicals and show tunes, Madonna and dressing up in costumes. He was also what one might call “flamboyant.”

And this was a time when “coming out” was still a thing. It was assumed you were straight no matter how flamboyant. George Michael and Boy George anyone? (Now I’m told by my kids that no one “comes out” you just are the multi-faceted variety of sexuality that you are.) I didn’t want to approach him with it. I figured he’d tell me when he felt like it. But I knew that he was now spreading himself across his frat life, my “alternative” circles, and what would be known today as the LGB community at Stanford.

It was senior year. We were driving into San Francisco in my beat up Volkswagen. We had tired of campus life at this point and often ventured into the city. I drove in twice a week for African dance classes in the Mission with my girlfriends. Lance and I went to street festivals in Haight Ashbury. And sometimes we just went “out” on Saturday nights. On this particular night, we had decided on a whim. We had no destination. Or I didn’t, anyway. As we were driving and listening to Madonna (it had to be, though I don’t remember to be honest) we discussed where to go.

The Haight? Lower Haight? South of Market?

“I know,” Lance said. “What about The Stud?” The Stud was a legendary gay bar at the edge of San Francisco’s South of Market district.

I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I could figure out what it was. C’mon, The Stud? I wasn’t born yesterday! At least not by my senior year.

“Sure,” I said. I parked. (I can’t believe I found street parking, it was a different time!)

As we got out of the car I was annoyed. I slammed the driver’s side door shut and marched ahead. Here I was headed to a gay bar with my best friend and he hadn’t thought to mention that he was gay.

He could tell I was peeved. He laughed, a loud big guffaw turned giggle that was a signature.

“What’s so funny?” I turned and clapped back.

“Just that I’m gay and I haven’t told you yet,” he said. I remember it so clearly.

“I know that, you idiot. Don’t you think I know that?” I shouted.

And that was that. We went into The Stud. And it was the beginning of an era. I would spend the next eight years or so of my life going to gay bars across San Francisco with my BFF Lance. I had fun. We danced. We drank. We imbibed. Sometimes I left to go home on my own. I sometimes found myself talking with an older man at the bar about his coming out story. Always, he’d been gay since he could remember. Usually he married and had children. And then sometime in the 80s he came out. And blew up his life. He’d tell the story with a mixture of sadness and joy. He was always wearing tight 501s and a shrunken white tee.

I love the gays. I was an OG “fag hag.”

When Lance came out to his family the summer after our senior year it didn’t go as well as it had with me. For a time he’d come home with me on holidays because the relationship with his parents was fraught. Then, after years of living in cities all over the place, Lance moved home to Oklahoma to his religious Republican family. That was about 20 years ago, I think. He rebuilt the relationship with his family. He uncle-d his nieces and nephews. He went to church. And he stayed. And they are all as close as any family can be.

Over the years we got each other through some tough times and celebrated the great ones. He hosted my bachelorette party for my first marriage. And guess where we went? The Stud. He was there for me for the births of my oldest children. And my divorce. I hope I was there for him. There were times I worried. I could see sadness and loneliness beneath the exuberance.

We’ve seen each other since he moved to Oklahoma sporadically. We saw each other at the Sundance Film Festival in Utah early 2020, right before covid. He used to run a film festival in Oklahoma City and he went to see the latest independent movies. I was there as an invited guest as the chief marketing officer of Levi’s. Recently — about two years ago — we saw each other in Oklahoma. My son was in a futsal tournament. Lance came to the games. They lost all of them. Lance took us around town. He knew everyone.

Lance does this thing that I highly recommend you do for your friends who seem to have pulled back from both you and the world. He calls me every few months and leaves a message. He says something like this every time: Hey Jen. It’s Lance. I just want you to know how proud I am of you for always standing up for what you believe in. I love you. You don’t have to call me back. But I love you and I’m always thinking of you.

It makes me teary just typing it. Those calls have meant everything to me in my dark moments.

When we were together in Oklahoma for the futsal tournament he told me something over lunch that moved me beyond words. He said when I left my job at Levi’s he called a bunch of my friends and said: Jen isn’t doing great. You might want to check in.

I hadn’t told him that, but he knew.

Cue the tears from me. The fact that he knew and took the time to call who knows how many to say we should support her was like a life raft in stormy waters.

He then told me that quite a few said “no.” He didn’t name names, but I could pretty much figure it out.

More tears.

I had fooled myself into thinking that we’d all just gotten busy. Covid had made us all withdraw but we’d get back to friending regardless. Once we all came out of our covid induced shells. There were signs that it was more than that. I’d text and not hear back from some. I knew. But I didn’t want to admit to myself that friends of over 30 years would find me too awful to be friends with anymore. I thought we’d fix it.

But Lance told me the truth and shattered that hope. I’m grateful he did. I can live in reality now.

I am sure he disagrees with me on a ton. And is a bit stunned at times at my new life and views. We were Democrats together. We celebrated Bill Clinton’s first win in my tiny apartment in the Haight. In the early 90s, we went to gay pride together before it was a corporate family affair. When it was tawdry and not meant for children. Now it’s tawdry and children are invited.

But he lives in Oklahoma and knows a lot of people who think about things differently than he does. And he loves them. He knows that if you vote for a Republican it doesn’t mean you want to kill gay people. His brother held office in Oklahoma for 4 years as a Republican. And Lance helped him campaign.

Anyway, happy birthday Lance. I love you to bits. Here’s to another 37 years of friendship. And I’ll see you soon for another round of futsal. I think they might win this time.