Link to the n*de photos
After getting my M.A. from Indiana University, I spent a year (actually 210 dreadful days) in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, about 15 miles north of Houston -- which meant an hour's drive on thoses parking lots they called freeways -- teaching English at Homophobia State University. Nine months of frustration, anger, embarrassment, loneliness, anger, frustration, and frustration.
4. The students in English Composition were beyond illiterate; in Survey of American Literature, they complained to the department chair when I assigned poems by Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes (only white men counted as canon); and in my side job teaching report writing at Houston Police Academy, they passed out a map of the neighborhoods where "homosexuals" congregated.
5. God forbid I come out to anyone, so I was beset upon by male colleagues asking me to rate the attractiveness of female movie stars, and female colleagues trying to fix me up with their unmarried sisters and nieces.
6. The Montrose neighborhood had clandestine gay bars and the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, but it was too frustrating to get to, with hour-long traffic jams and constant flat tires, so I depended on a personal ad in The Montrose Voice. First I was looking for dates, but soon I settled for a hookup. Even then, it was a mess:
"There was a car in the driveway of a house three doors down, so I got scared and bailed."
"Meet me at the public restroom somewhere far away, and we'll do it there."
I wanted to illustrate Winnie with some photos of athletes. East Chambers High School in Winnie promised "photo galleries," but all they had were photos from 2015, all of cheerleaders. So here's a random Texas dude.
Another few miles of scrub grass, and I was in Beaumont, Texas, 50 miles from the eastern edge of Houston. Oil refineries blinking like cyclopses and giving off an unpleasant smell.
Today Beaumont seems to have some interesting sights: Art Museum of Southeastern Texas, the Dishman Art Museum, the McFadden-Ward Museum, the St. Andrew Basilica,Temple Emanuel. There is a gay bar, and Beaumont High School has a Gay-Straight Alliance. But when I was driving through, it was a concrete-and-steel nightmare.
The I-10 curved northeast, past the town of Cheek, past Beaumont High and the Tyrell Park Church, heavy traffic at the junction of I-69, and then downtown. No skyscrapers, just low concrete buildings and restaurants with names like Luby's.
Across the Natches River, and then more wilderness.
I saw a country boy standing ankle-deep in the swamp, maybe fishing for crawdads. A fleeting glimpse of beauty, but not enough to make up for 9 months in Texas.
Not by a long shot.
At 5:00 pm, I was passing through Orange, Texas, population 18,000, "a small town with big city culture." Its culture involves a small art museum devoted to the Wild West, a historic home, and a confederate monument.
But it has one benefit that other towns in Texas do not: it's next to the border.
A sign for St. Mary Catholic School. "Hail, Mary," I said.
Five or six miles of scrub grass, and a sign said "St.Charles 35."
That's in Louisiana!
A few more miles, and the Sabine River, aka the River Styx. But I was leaving the Underworld behind. On the other side was the Promised Land, aka Anywhere That Was Not Texas.
I crossed the border carefully, worried that someone -- the police, demons -- would drag me back, or that I would end up in a "No Exit" situation, back where I came from. It didn't look any different -- gray sky, bare fields of oil and mush.
And suddenly, I was driving through Vinton, Louisiana! I had escaped!
I stopped at a Burger King next to the Christian Life Church and down the street from the Dollar General. A woefully impoverished community -- poverty rate 45%. But way better than Hell-fer-Sartain. The high school boy behind the counter (dark hair, wrestler's build) asked where I was heading.
"Anywhere that's not Texas," I said.
1. The entire population of the U.S. moved to Houston that summer, so no one knew how to do anything. The bank gave me checks from one account and put my money in another. I used to walk down the street and pick up my mail from all of the houses where the postman dumped it.
2. And the most minor task, even going out to eat, meant a 30-minute drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic, past a construction site (so flat tires were a constant hassle), and waiting in an endless line.
3. I lived in a two-room apartment with no heat ("this is the South -- we don't need heat") in the coldest winter Houston had seen since 1891, with a heavy-metal enthusiast living next door and Larry the Cable Guy below.
5. God forbid I come out to anyone, so I was beset upon by male colleagues asking me to rate the attractiveness of female movie stars, and female colleagues trying to fix me up with their unmarried sisters and nieces.
Left: University of Houston Chapel. Ask the Hunky Jesus for deliverance.
6. The Montrose neighborhood had clandestine gay bars and the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, but it was too frustrating to get to, with hour-long traffic jams and constant flat tires, so I depended on a personal ad in The Montrose Voice. First I was looking for dates, but soon I settled for a hookup. Even then, it was a mess:
"Why do you want to know my name? Are you a cop?"
"There was a car in the driveway of a house three doors down, so I got scared and bailed."
"Meet me at the public restroom somewhere far away, and we'll do it there."
The nickname comes from South from Hell-fer-Sartan, a collection of Kentucky folk tales.
I purposely didn't assign any final papers or final exams, so classes ended on Thursday, and I was ready to go on Friday. I walked my final grades to the horrible dean's office, turned in my office key, walked through the sweltering Sahara of a parking lot, and started driving.
The quickest way to get back to Rock Island was to head north, but that would mean five more hours in Texas, so instead I drove south on the I-45 toward Houston for twelve miles.
Fortunately I turned onto the I-610 before it became a parking lot.
Ten more miles around the eastern edge of Houston in traffic that was just horrible, not a parking lot. Mostly I was surrounded by roaring trucks and nondescript Brutoian warehouses
Then the I-10 east in more horrible traffic through horrible Houston suburbs: Jacinto City, Cloverleaf, Channel View. Greens Bayou, Marwood.
I applied for jobs and graduate programs furiously, and finally made it into USC! I'd be moving to West Hollywood! But first I had to go home to Rock Island for the summer.
The quickest way to get back to Rock Island was to head north, but that would mean five more hours in Texas, so instead I drove south on the I-45 toward Houston for twelve miles.
Fortunately I turned onto the I-610 before it became a parking lot.
Ten more miles around the eastern edge of Houston in traffic that was just horrible, not a parking lot. Mostly I was surrounded by roaring trucks and nondescript Brutoian warehouses
Left: Jacinto City wrestlers.
I hooked up with a guy in Jacinto City once. I felt like the town's first mayor, a guy named Inch Handler.
The suburbs went on endlessly. Nothing to see but billboards, car dealerships, warehouses, and the occasional streetful of fast-food joints.
I hooked up with a guy in Jacinto City once. I felt like the town's first mayor, a guy named Inch Handler.
The suburbs went on endlessly. Nothing to see but billboards, car dealerships, warehouses, and the occasional streetful of fast-food joints.
Past Burnett Bay, the traffic thinned out, and the highway narrowed. I was out of Houston's clutches, but still in Texas, driving through a swampy no man's land,without even a billboard.
Or a rest stop. I didn't care. I wasn't stopping until Texas was a distant memory.
At the small redneck town of Winnie, home of the Texas Rice Festival, the I-10 veered northeast.
Or a rest stop. I didn't care. I wasn't stopping until Texas was a distant memory.
At the small redneck town of Winnie, home of the Texas Rice Festival, the I-10 veered northeast.
More after the break
I wanted to illustrate Winnie with some photos of athletes. East Chambers High School in Winnie promised "photo galleries," but all they had were photos from 2015, all of cheerleaders. So here's a random Texas dude.
Another few miles of scrub grass, and I was in Beaumont, Texas, 50 miles from the eastern edge of Houston. Oil refineries blinking like cyclopses and giving off an unpleasant smell.
Today Beaumont seems to have some interesting sights: Art Museum of Southeastern Texas, the Dishman Art Museum, the McFadden-Ward Museum, the St. Andrew Basilica,Temple Emanuel. There is a gay bar, and Beaumont High School has a Gay-Straight Alliance. But when I was driving through, it was a concrete-and-steel nightmare.
The I-10 curved northeast, past the town of Cheek, past Beaumont High and the Tyrell Park Church, heavy traffic at the junction of I-69, and then downtown. No skyscrapers, just low concrete buildings and restaurants with names like Luby's.
Across the Natches River, and then more wilderness.
I saw a country boy standing ankle-deep in the swamp, maybe fishing for crawdads. A fleeting glimpse of beauty, but not enough to make up for 9 months in Texas.
Not by a long shot.
At 5:00 pm, I was passing through Orange, Texas, population 18,000, "a small town with big city culture." Its culture involves a small art museum devoted to the Wild West, a historic home, and a confederate monument.
But it has one benefit that other towns in Texas do not: it's next to the border.
A sign for St. Mary Catholic School. "Hail, Mary," I said.
Five or six miles of scrub grass, and a sign said "St.Charles 35."
That's in Louisiana!
A few more miles, and the Sabine River, aka the River Styx. But I was leaving the Underworld behind. On the other side was the Promised Land, aka Anywhere That Was Not Texas.
I crossed the border carefully, worried that someone -- the police, demons -- would drag me back, or that I would end up in a "No Exit" situation, back where I came from. It didn't look any different -- gray sky, bare fields of oil and mush.
And suddenly, I was driving through Vinton, Louisiana! I had escaped!
"Anywhere that's not Texas," I said.
And I haven't been back.
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