Guapa : Islam and the Fear of Compulsory Heterosexuality
“I would like to call you by a word that was never told before
A word worth all this love … A word to show my longings and passion
A word like you . . . ”
Amal Hayati (“The Hope of My Life”), song by Umm Koultum.
I have just finished reading an advance copy of a remarkable debut novel called Guapa, by Saleem Haddad, that deals openly with homosexuality in Islam. Guapa (which is Spanish for beautiful, or “gorgeous,” and is often used in a kind of off-handed—even queer—way, as in, drag queens might be described as “guapa”) is set in an unnamed Arab capital of an unnamed Arab country that has more than a passing resemblance to Syria. Its central figure is a gay Arab in his mid-twenties named Rasa who is living with his paternal grandmother, Teta, whose main focus, like a lot of grandmothers, is maintaining and enforcing conformity, conservative values, and eib—Arabic for shame. Rasa’s father, recently dead, was a fairly prosperous doctor; his mother, a rebellious woman who was educated in the US and has left the family because she could not stand Teta’s bullying and conservative values a moment longer. Rasa and his grandmother have come down economically; they have left the prosperous suburbs, and are now living in the middle of the city, where violence and bombing, both by foreign forces and local terrorist groups, are common.
Rasa takes refuge at Guapa, as close to a “gay bar” as this Arab capital will allow. It is located in a cast-off no-man’s-land of burned out buildings, and deep in its basement an old school chum of Rasa’s, petulant, rebellious and bullied Maj, performs drag acts, ranging from Cher to Umm Koultum, the revered “Maria Callas” of the Arab world.
Rasa is in love with Taymour, a handsome well-born young man from a showy, upper class local family who is getting married to a striking, intelligent young woman the day after the novel starts. The central act that starts Guapa is when Teta, through a keyhole, spies Rasa in bed with Taymour.
At this point all hell breaks loose, not simply because Teta finds out that Rasa is queer but because a central protective surface of Arab life has been hit hard and cracked deep: it is the accepted wisdom that “appearances,” that is, the glue that holds together “society” itself, is everything. “Society” is family, tribe, and, ultimately, life. It is more important than nationality, and while on one hand privacy within “society” is everything, on the other in a world of enforced conformity, it is impossible. The only solution then is secrecy, and secrecy itself will be respected as long as you maintain the understanding that genuine “privacy” (which can easily explode in your hands as an engine of temptation, leading to your exposure and downfall) basically does not exist, except within a religious setting.
In other words, there is privacy only with God. Only God knows your mind. Only God is expected to understand it. And there is no hiding from God at all.
For Westerners in a secular society, this idea is extremely hard to grasp, although among conservative fundamentalists of any stripe (whether they be orthodox Jews, or Christian conservatives in various sects and cults, such as Opus Dei Roman Catholics, Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, to name only a few) you often see a repetition of it. The accepted dogma is: You can have a privacy with God that supersedes any human intimacy. It will enclose heterosexual desire to such a point that any public display of it is shameful and threatening. In other words, a public display of heterosexuality mocks a private relationship that the whole community must support with God.
This kind of public display of heterosexuality fosters (or even becomes) harlotry, adultery, and certainly blasphemy, and—believe it or not—in this mindset, it leads to homosexuality. Because once one form of sexuality jumps straight out the closet, other forms are close to follow. Also, within this strange series of smoked mirrors and alleyways, any overt public display of heterosexuality also threatens the sanctity of a strong personal privacy, which, in turn, permits genuine homosexual feelings to bloom.
Therefore, being caught openly as queer could make you vulnerable to being murdered legally (or, certainly, ostracized) but if you are not caught and can actually perform on a private level in this kind of relationship, then you are functioning on a level of such intense intimacy that most Westerners cannot imagine it.
Because you are now in a private relationship that approaches the other great “private” relationship in any life: the one with God.
This blows the living shit out of the Western idea of making the private public—something that Western art started doing in the eighteenth century as the Enlightenment stuck its spotlight into so many sexual and personal areas. From The Marriage of Figaro to Lady Chatterley’s Lover to all the four-letter-word hook-ups in hip-hop and rap, heterosexuality is now totally unwrapped in the West. A number of acculturated young Arabs of either gender find all of this interesting (OK, maybe “challenging”) even if at times revolting. But for Moslems at the extreme end of Islamic conservatism, in a culture where the only real intimacy is religious, this is not only shameful: it’s abjectly scary. It’s because opening up the hetero closet pushes queerness out as well; and that, certainly at this point, has to stay extremely deep in the closet.
As in waaaay in the back.
It’s a secret that can be shared only with a very select few. There is no way around it. Deep down there, it can be passionate, desperate, and maybe even fulfilling. But it can only exist in secret.
There is no alternative.
For Moslems now, the West is engaged in compulsory heterosexuality. Hetero desire is pushed so far out at you through the mass consumer culture (which deems anything kosher if it brings in a dollar) that it immediately provokes in the Islamic world a gut reaction: there is now no place to hide from it. As a “real man” you either have to act on it, or face a deep shame of your own—your own castration. There are no excuses from it, no reprieve from it, where queer desire can safely settle. By keeping women under wraps in purdah, by making them economically, emotionally, and psychologically dependent on men, by reducing them to second class citizens, there is maintained that dark comfortable zone where the men can still run after boys—and even abuse the hell out of them in safety.
Guapa talks about this openly.
This has been an ancient “bargain” in Islamic and even Mediterranean war-based cultures, but it still says that there can be, by Western standards, no openness regarding homosexuality.
Academic Islamicists will tell you that, classically, Islam was much more tolerant of homosexuality than the West was—as long as it was not openly supported by society, and kept private. Queer men and women were not executed, not burned at the stake for this, as they were in medieval Europe. In the classical age of the caliphate, you might be executed by the state for blasphemy, but not for sodomy. What kept homosexuality safe was a constant suspicion of women. They were at heart evil, treacherous, and not to be trusted.
This provided a safe screen for queer activities to hide behind. The screen ensured that heterosexuality was not blatantly advertised or available, so wealthy heterosexual men in an Arab culture had to go to the West for pleasure while wealthy homosexual men from the West went to countries like Morocco where boys and young men were usually openly available for hire.
The interesting situation is that there are Islamic feminists who feel that, classically, women were given (or extended) a very real protection through the conditions of their public suppression. If you exposed nothing of yourself physically, you might not be raped, and the respect given to you, by Western standards, would be immeasurable. In these cloistered, harem situations women could bond and form a culture of their own unknown in the West. Female eroticism and homoeroticism (both female and male, in the form of a sexually wild card “eunuch” class) could exist side-by-side behind very high, guarded walls.
There is a great deal of comfort in this for a lot of people, both in the West and the East. They are sick of the in-your-face sexuality of Western consumerism, which becomes more blatant year after year, as it also become more desperate to push the envelope of an almost meaningless frankness. Kids are screaming for “freedom,” and yet realizing there is almost no protection from it because this consumerist freedom has so many potholes under it: the dissolution of family life, drug and sexual addictions, gang rapes, alcoholism, just to name a few.
You also have the bottom line that if heterosexuality is offered to you so explosively on a Las Vegas level, how do you preserve that personal, private (and “pure”) relationship with God, the one where homosexual desire can still find some shelter—sometimes even next to the wedding bed itself?
In Guapa, Rasa and Taymour promise that they will love each other even after Taymour’s arranged (and very public) marriage. Rasa, who went to college in the West, wants some recognition of their relationship, even if only of their very “special” friendship. Taymour, who is more conservative, won’t hear of it. But he knows that there are many marriages like his, that will produce respect and children, and that the culture that he comes from will produce enough darkness around his private life to keep such an arrangement with Rasa possible.
And, if they are ever caught, Taymour has enough money to try to buy himself out of any jam.
But, as the times and this novel threatens, there is no guarantee of that anymore.
Guapa, 354 pages, $16.95, Other Press, NY (ISBN 978-1-59051-769-7) will go on sale in March, 2016. For more information about this book: www.otherpress.com
Multiple award-winning author Perry Brass has published 19 books. His newest is The Manly Pursuit of Desire and Love, Your Guide to Life, Happiness, and Emotional and Sexual Fulfillment in a Closed-Down World, a follow up book to his very popular The Manly Art of Seduction, How to Meet, Talk to, and Become Intimate with Anyone. His novel King of Angels, A Novel About the Genesis of Identity and Belief, set in Savannah, GA, in 1963, the year of John Kennedy’s murder, was a finalist for a Ferro-Grumley LGBT Fiction Award. He can be reached through his website www.perrybrass.com, and also on Facebook and Twitter.
Peter Parnell’s Dada Woof Papa Hot
Four actors from Parnell’s Dada Woof, Papa Hot (L to R): Alex Hurt, John Benjamin Hickey, Stephen Plunkett, and Patrick Breen.
I recently went to see the Lincoln Center Theater production of Peter Parnell’s comedic drama Dada Woof Papa Hot at the Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater. I can say the play is wonderful, at moments superb—and it has literally the cast and production not just to die for, but to run down to Lincoln Center and see. On first glance, though, that is, the first few minutes of it, I wasn’t that positive.
The first scene is set in a drop-dead expensive, plus d’ chic Manhattan restaurant where no one can get a “res,” and an extremely stylish Manhattan gay male couple in their forties are entertaining another younger gay couple about a decade or so their junior. What all the men have in common is that they are gay fathers. The dialogue starts off too snappy, too TV sitcomy and I thought: Oh, Jesus!
They’ll have to nail me to the seat.
Then something started to happen. Within a few brief scenes, the characters started to drop off their New York monied affectations—and in New York, in the 20-teens, monied affectations are pretty effin’ de rigueur—and become real. Even when they weren’t. Even the cardboard parts of them seemed real. Because we all do have cardboard parts, the ones we cling to despite all sense, and they need to be shown too. Peter Parnell does this.
The two couples are Rob, an overbooked, thoroughly professionalized, therapist played by Patrick Breen (whom I’d seen in the revival of Normal Heart) and his husband Alan, a writer desperately trying to stay afloat in the cut-throat unbrave new world of books and journalism, played superbly (and I’ll get more to that) by John Benjamin Hickey; and Scott, a conservative (possibly “even Republican”) Wall Street fire-eater inhabited well by Stephen Plunkett and his husband Jason, a painter with an overdrive libido hyper-charged by Alex Hurt who was born with a twinkle in his eye. Rob’s best friend from college, Michael, a straight composer of musical comedies—John Pankow—is also sexually a wild card. Despite the solidity of his marriage to Serena (Kellie Overbey) and homelife with kids, he’s dogpaddling out into the waters of an affair—with an actress, yet (Tammy Blanchard, who seems cut from the Jersey Shore school of acting) mostly for the sheer kicks of it.
“All happy families are alike,” begins Leon Tolstoy in Anna Karenina, in what is perhaps the most famous first line in all of fiction. “It is in their unhappiness that they differ.”
And one of the great questions in Papa Hot is “When you have everything, why stray?” It’s a question everyone asks, gay and straight, and the funny thing about this play is that person asking it is not straight Michael, who works in theatre, has been around and is definitely not going to ask because he knows, but Alan, Chelsea resident in his younger life, who lived through the sexual jungle of New York in the 1970s and early 1980s, pre-AIDS, and still existed “like a monk.”
Alan wants love. Intensely. Beautifully. Romantically. And he wishes he could find it with Rob, who has already found it with their daughter Nicole. Nicole is never seen in the play, only heard. There are no kid actors to steal scenes in this drama—they are always present, off-stage. In bed trying to stay up past bedtime and begging for stories, in the water off Fire Island Pines, at play dates or with their expensive Tibetan nannies (remember when having a Tibetan nanny was the flavor of the week in upper-crust hip New York?), or their grandmommies who are never called “Granny” because they are still New York stylish themselves.
Nicole is really the object of Rob’s affection; she is his biological daughter, produced from a contract with a surrogate and an egg-donor, and he is nuts about her. He lives for her. And Alan feels shut out. This is where the painter Jason, an artist right out of an updated D.H. Lawrence novel, walks in. And comes on to Alan in Nicole’s bedroom while Rob is out with Nicole. Alan, like any Lawrence heroine, is at first resistant, then overwhelmed with his own needs and he feels like shit for it. He suddenly responds to Jason’s incredibly sensuous kiss—one of those gorgeous heart-stopping moments you want to see in theatre—and then falls apart.
It was that this moment that I was completely sucked in, and John Benjamin Hickey did it. It was this exquisite marriage of an actor to a character to a part to a playwright even, to a thing that would have knocked me off my feet if I had been standing up. Hickey steals the rest of the play, although there are moments when the other couple in it, Scott and Jason, give him a run for his money, when their marriage crumbles and all of Scott’s bread and Jason’s romantic good looks can’t hold it together.
There are moments when I had to do a little willing suspension of disbelief, especially in today’s economy: Rob and Alan live too high for a psychotherapist who is not an MD and his writer husband. Despite the fact that Alan talks about writing for the New Yorker and Vanity Fair, their life seems a little too plush for me to believe. On the other hand, young Republican Scott, with his Wall Street salary and bonuses, and Jason, an “emerging” painter, seemed more believable. I have walked that path before, or certainly been in the direct shadow of it.
Peter Parnell, who has big credits as a producer of The West Wing and with Disney (The Hunchback of Notre Dame) has not for a second vanilla-ized the dialogue. Jason talks about what he will and won’t do sexually in language that might not make a sailor blush, but certainly must have curled the blue hair of some of the audience at Lincoln Center. There is nothing glossed over, and Parnell knows how to go from very funny to moments of pure feeling—and he gives that to Scott when he has a meltdown on Fire Island, and to Alan when he realizes how much he needs Nicole, the little girl he has a hard time loving.
The one person I had a difficult time with was Rob, who seems more narcissistic and unforgiving than any other character on the stage. He has been loved beyond words by his recently dead mother, and he wants the same thing from Nicole. The real question at the end of Dada Woof, Papa Hot is will Rob ever let this little girl grow up, especially now when she realizes she truly has another father?
Multiple award-winning author Perry Brass has published 19 books. His newest is The Manly Pursuit of Desire and Love, Your Guide to Life, Happiness, and Emotional and Sexual Fulfillment in a Closed-Down World. On Wednesday, Nov. 18, he will be hosting the second in a series of talks/performance pieces called CELESTIAL BODY: Entering the Secret Rooms in Your House: BDSM, Underground Sexuality . . . and God, at the Bureau of General Services, Queer Division, 208 W. 13th Street, New York, NY 10011. For more information: http://bgsqd.com/event/celestial-body-2/
This review originally posted in The Huffington Post. For more pieces by Perry Brass in the Huffington Post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/perry-brass/
Image courtesy Philip Rinaldi, Lincoln Center Theater.
Perry Brass: The Manly Pursuit of Desire: MadBoots – Seeing Dancers Rehearse Is Always Strange
Austin Diaz (left) with men from MADboots.
On a beautiful Tuesday in October I went over to Movement Research’s rehearsal site in Williamsburg Brooklyn to watch MADboots, a young contemporary all male dance company in its fourth year founded by Jonathan Campbell who graduated from Julliard’s dance program in 2010 and Austin Diaz, who came out of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts in 2011. Almost immediately after that, Diaz and Campbell founded MADboots.
What makes MADboots different from other all male companies, and there are a few of them already, is that it is unafraid of genuine male intimacy. There is a haunting, at moments tender queerness to it that insinuates itself beautifully. It’s bang-on-a-can new, but it also goes directly to that place inside all of us that wants to see men in those “compromising” situations in which they lose their fronts, barriers, and boundaries just enough to make the loss unforgettable.
I was lucky to be able to watch them rehearse. Some artistic directors feel that rehearsals are too intimate and raw for outsiders. Years ago, preparing a piece on Mark Morris, I asked him if I could watch a rehearsal. He told me flatly No.
I have watched other companies rehearse, and for a writer it’s usually an exquisite experience. You can actually see the discipline and artistry of dance happen. For writers this is huge. As a group, we admire the discipline of dancers, something that many writers aspire to, although frankly writing is so wearing that it can only be compared to coal mining, with a few exultant breaks every now and then when everything goes perfectly, you’re not beating your head up against the wall, and you won’t have to rewrite 20 times.
So, writers envy the razor-sharp discipline of dancers, just as dancers know that there are places that writers go where they can’t—but when they do, wow! That’s when your breath is taken away and dance functions with a literature of its own. A literature steeped in the words that only the body can do.
Jonathan Campbell (left) and MADboots men.
We admire the sheer physical beauty and presence of dance, again something writers can’t pretend to have. In other words, some very schleppy people have become wonderful writers, but any kind of schleppiness, or genuine physical awkwardness, is rare among dancers.
Still, seeing dancers rehearse is strange. First because the thing that makes dance what it is—pure magic—is shown pretty naked. This is very hard work. The dancers show it.
On the afternoon I saw MADboots, the company was just coming off an arduous week of preparation for an event sponsored by the Joyce, big-time for small young companies, and they were physically tired. Both of the founders explained that to me. I could see it in the exhausted stretches of the young men on the floor.
In rehearsal, dancers become on one hand merely physical bodies—so that awkwardness thing re-appears while trying hard to draw on a bank account of energy already overdrawn—and also very human receptors of communication.
The question in dance is how to convey what the creator (in this instance, two creators, Austin and Jonathan) want to happen on the stage. There is language, and some choreographers are good at explaining what they want. They’ll tell you they want a body to drop like leaves swirling down a sewer, or they want one dancer to lift another as if the elevated body weighs only an ounce.
Or, sometimes, a ton.
Other choreographers show what they want, and one of the great questions in dance is what happens when a choreographer does not have the technique he wants a dancer to have? At that point you have to have a sense of total trust and communication, and the dancer is very much collaborating with the choreographer by expanding his vision. Dancers are good at these kinds of collaborations and this went on frequently during the MADboots rehearsal, when young dancers and young choreographers each extend the other.
In rehearsal, dance makers become like flower arrangers, deciding where something will be placed, and what will be discarded. MADboots already has a vocabulary of movement, necessary for any kind of dance, that is based on very fast stage or dance running (something Mark Morris brought in), but also with lots of beautiful lateral movements, those side movements across the floor that pick up intensity and energy, and also, very significantly, pushing. Pushing is new in modern dance, and this adds a lot of male intensity to their work. In the old days, dancers, especially male dancers never pushed each other except to show aggression and rejection—usually of an intimacy that was hinted at, but due to homophobia in the culture and dance world was consciously rejected. (And, let’s be honest, the dance world was rife was homophobia, drenched in it despite lots of protests and appearances to the contrary.) A great example of that is Jerome Robbins’ ballet “Fancy Free,” where three sailors get close to each other, achingly close, but have to push each other away and get down to business to establish “real guy” creds.
In MADboots, pushing becomes an invitation to renewing energy, as if the dancer being pushed is actually gathering energy from the push to do something else. Pushes are passed from one dancer to another; they are shared. The push becomes a way of snapping the action around the floor, intensifying it. It goes well with the sounds MADboots likes, the hard use of explosive, emotionally reactive noise, sometimes mixed with regular songs, even a bit of Judy Garland, like a haunting relic that pulls everything down to a receptive level.
The pushing, the lateral moves, the coming together and pulling apart only to come together again, brings back my feeling that all relationships in dance are human and telling: there’s no such thing as an “abstract” or meaningless dance. Not as long as there are humans on the stage. A young man sliding down to the feet of another is very telling, vulnerable, submissive. You are in the process of letting down the guard of both the dancer and the audience that makes dance so wonderful. It is here that the artistry of dance comes through, and why people become addicted to it. Men who were once football players, like the dancer John Ollom, of Ollom Dance, suddenly saw modern dance and realized this reached inside him to a place that had to come out. Dance is beyond words, and yet words open up a place that inspires dance.
Dance needs it.
MadBoots often uses men on a “pick up” basis, depending on what Campbell and Diaz have planned for a future show. MADboots dancers tend to look like “real boys,” rather than the ramrod straight physiques of dancers. They don’t have ballet boys’ bodies, but are slender with some slouchiness that is appealing. In dance of any sort, the look of the dancers is very important. Balanchine was famous for controlling every aspect of his dancers, down to their hair and what they smelled like. He would give his women perfume to wear that he wanted to smell.
Austin Diaz asks several times: “What is the shape of this movement?”
You always have to ask the question, what is it going to look like on the stage, with lights, costuming, and music behind it? Every second in a rehearsal is important—it is like a trial is going on, and at the end of it you want something wonderful to result: justice to your own work. The dancers are tired after three hours; one man does handstands as a way of reversing gravity and stretching himself up all the way out. Rest comes basically when you are not on—but even then the clock is going, because the body once it starts this process has to absorb movement even after the movement has already been performed.
At every aspect of a work the dancer is in a very special “moment,” and each aspect of the body changes that moment. People often ask me what is the difference between dance and sports? Well, in sports you don’t have to look good doing what you have to do. There is no consciousness; it’s simply done. That ball will end up across a football field no matter what. In dance, every player would have to look superb doing it, and they would have to be able to do it again and again, and yet always with the realization that it won’t happen exactly the same way twice.
I watch a duet for men. Two men suddenly holding one another without a lot of reservations and with real dance intimacy, which is more formal and in some ways more moving and fragile than real intimacy because it is so time focused. It can only happen for a measured number of beats and then it will change or stop. A duet is a relationship between two dancers. Three guys together become architectural, and that is something I like to see in dance: an architecture of bodies. Many choreographers, especially newer ones, shy away from real dance architecture, that is, how bodies in groups relate to each other and produce complex, sometimes difficult forms. Part of that is the “disco-ization” of dance—a large part of what is supposed to be serious dance now is pop inspired. This makes the audience comfortable, mostly because being uncomfortable is pretty verboten now. If you want to be uncomfortable, just get a job; you don’t want this out of an art situation which is currently only supposed to confirm your own value and self-esteem.
This of course is not my idea of what art is supposed to do. It’s supposed to shake you up and give you an experience you won’t find on America’s Got Talent. But finding genuine dance architecture in contemporary modern dance is rare. MADboots tries it, and then gives up. I wish they’d try it a lot more. Martha Graham, who made everyone, including herself, uncomfy, loved doing it, and bodies in groups take on amazing relationships and formations in Graham. They are not simply lined up facing the audience doing their own thing.
MadBoots though makes up for the lack of architecture with the vulnerability of its young men. Their work definitely has a post-9/11 feel to it, with guys showing fear, twitching, holding each other, and comforting each other. Modern dance moves from the feet up, with the feet for the most part rooted on the floor. At its best in encompasses all the deepest aspects of human life, stripped and often unexplainable. I am very glad to have discovered for myself this group of young men, and can’t wait to see what they do next.
See MADboots on Vimeo:
On Wednesday, Oct 28, Perry Brass, author of The Manly Pursuit of Desire and Love, will be hosting CELESTIAL BODY, the first of a series of workshop/performances at the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Community Center, 209 W. 13th Street in New York’s West Village. CELESTIAL BODY investigates the emotional and spiritual connection queer people have to submission, and also BDSM. CELESTIAL BODY answers the question: “Is our often-censored urge towards sex and our great, undeniable urge towards a union with God . . . the same urge?” (Perry Brass, The Substance of God, A Spiritual Thriller.)
Other dates for CELESTIAL BODY are Wednesday, November 18 and Wednesday, Dec. 16. All events for at 7 PM. They are free but a voluntary $5 contribution to support the Bureau of General Services will be asked at the door. Guest speakers Wed., Oct. 28 include Andrew Harwin, life coach, interfaith minister, and elder in the BDSM community; John Ollom, dancer, Artistic Director of Ollom Movement Art/Prismatic Productions; and Darrell Perry (Darrellblackandblue) BDSM community builder.