Still Dancing with the Boys: a tribute to Bente


Bars come and go. Places like Sweet Gum Head, The Bar on Peachtree, Illusions, The Cove, The Warehouse, and one fondly remembered by me, The Pharr Library are no longer. Its parquet dance floor was once filled with young and old alike moving their bodies to the pulsating beats by Donna Summer under spattering lights, while others mingled around its perimeter. Groups of wide-eyed faces laughed, cried and talked about life and love, and the loss of both in cozy seating amongst rows and rows of shelves filled with thousands of books. I was in my early twenties; one of those wide-eyed faces from a repressing small southern town in middle Georgia experiencing the big city of Atlanta, and just on the edge of coming out. I must have fallen in and out of love a few dozen times in my first year of going there. The year was 1981.
   Today, twenty-four years later, I drive by the buildings which once housed the music, dancing, and the long lingering kissing that took place in their dark corners and surrounding parking lots. The signs are gone. In some, new businesses have moved in and their employees and customers most likely unaware of the ghosts that still go on dancing among them. Without fail, the ones that stand empty surely start coming alive around the witching hour every Friday and Saturday night as the ghost come out to boogie on their dusty dance floors. New bars in different locations have taken their place, but sadly enough, a good number of the boys that once graced the old establishments are no longer around to dance the night away in them.
   Over the progressing years, since my Pharr Library days, on the rare occasions I go to the bars, the old faces are fewer and fewer. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I do not venture out as much anyone, it is too much of a reminder that a big part of my generation was taken by AIDS, while others by just the misfortunes of life. As those aging faces disappear from the spattering lights and music, they are soon forgotten, except by one very special person. Her name is Bente, a five-foot three vigorous women of Danish decent full of oomph, and a deep desire to follow the music. She came to Atlanta in 1976 with a husband and two young sons. In the summer of 1981 she separated from her cheating spouse (who later she divorced in 1983) and discovered the gay bars and "the boys."
   I had not seen her for years until she showed up at my book reading at Outwrite Bookstore and Coffeehouse this past May. We had just lost touch once I stopped going out. The huge turnout was close to overwhelming as I scanned faces in the crowd. One of them standing in front was hers. My eyes begin to water as a flood of misplaced memories burst in my head. It was like someone had hit the rewind bottom on the emote control of life speeding me back to the Pharr Library days where I would watch her dance with scores of partners with a line of others waiting to step in. She was as I had remembered, her hair the same in color, style and length. Even the style of clothing very similar as well: simple tasteful blouse and a full knee-length skirt that would flow and twill as she danced to the music. I closed and opened my eyes a few times to be sure, fully expecting the illusion of Bente to be gone when my vision cleared; thinking she was just some distance memory that was strangely triggered by a smell, familiar face or unexplainable situation in my subconscious as a result of the evening’s event. But, when I opened my eyes again she was still standing there. The passing years having been kind to her and she still had that memorable, brilliant smile that explored every time she spoke the words, "Darling, how are you?" The inflection on you.
   Shortly after the reading, I discovered that she is still out there dancing at least four nights a week in the bars that have survived, as well as the new ones that have surfaced. Bente is still dancing with the boys; the older ones that have stayed and the new ones that have come to find a place of their own on the dance floor of life as I had done so many years ago. She knew all their stories; the good as well as the bad ones. Bente had become a substitute mother or sister to those whose family would not accept them, or just a friend with a welcoming smile. Being a mother herself, it is a natural role for her to play.
   "What keeps you going to the bars?" I asked her.
   "I love the boys. I just love them." she answered, her eyes as big and bright as a baby girl discovering something new. "The guys are my life. Many of them have suffered in one way or another; from dealing with the prejudice of being perceived as different and from being disowned by their parents, other family members and friends. Too many had struggled with AIDS as many are still today. I have known many that took their own lives, either by shooting themselves or taking pills for the various reasons I just stated. When are my boys going to be accepted for just being themselves? How can parents who said they once loved their children turn their backs when they find out their son is gay, or God forbid, HIV positive? And, why can’t the "straights," as Bente calls them (her and her own sons being of that persuasion) see that gays are just people like everyone else. We are still losing our boys. It’s a waste. It shouldn’t be that way."
   I could hear the deep concern and frustration in her voice, and see how it crumpled her face. It was obvious to me that the boys are the light of her world. So I asked her, "Why do you care so much about gay guys?" "They know how to light up a room. I can’t really explain it. Even in spite of many of their personal hardships, they know how to laugh and have fun, and many of them are damn good dressers and good-looking to boot. And, most importantly of all, they’re some of the most generous and loving people I know. The boys."
Bente and I are keeping in-touch better; a weekly phone call with an invitation to meet her to go dancing. I pass on it as she knows I will, but the offer still comes. We talk about the "Golden Days" as she calls them, and we talk about what is going on now. Last Wednesday night she called after just talking with one of her sons. With an infectious laugh, she shared with me that he asked her, "Are you going out dancing with the boys tonight mom?" Her answer, "You bet!"
   I found myself wondering if I appreciated her then as much as I do now. Appreciate her zeal of life and her devotion to the boys young and old. For her acceptance, love and friendship she has given so many over the years. Thank you, Bente. You go keep dancing. Keep dancing with "the boys." And, thanks for telling me I’m still good-looking. Although, I am sure you tell that to all the boys, young and old.