Give Me Sunshine
I. I’m in a hotel room in San Diego on a solo trip to work on my book. But yesterday, on my first day, instead of writing, I spent hours rewatching Heated Rivalry, then scrolling feverishly on my phone, sinking into layers of related social posts—photos, videos, fan art, re-enactments by Calico Critters—like a crazed loon plummeting into a pool of confetti, doing the backstroke with other “Hollanov” lovers, soaked in skin, sweat, and Cupid’s bows.
II. I also spent those hours trying not to think about Renee Nicole Good and Keith Porter, and Aliya Rahman and Jonathan Aguilar Garcia and five-year-old Liam Ramos with his blue bunny hat. Of masked men, with their muscles and armor, of the smell of gunsmoke.
III. By the time I woke up today it was already noon. That’s when I read that they had killed Alex Pretti.
My first thought: My god. They killed somebody, again.
My second: If they’re out here shooting white people in cold blood, what chance do the rest of us have?
My third: That’s someone’s baby.
IV. Yesterday, alone in my hotel room, I closed my eyes, touched myself. Me as Shane in Ilya’s arms. Me as Ilya in Shane’s arms. Me as Ilya kissing Shane. Me as Shane kissing Ilya. Shane stroking Ilya’s hair. Ilya stroking Shane’s hair.
(Okay, that was the PG version.)
V. All that muscle. All that tongue. All that tenderness.
VI. That masked man who shouted fucking bitch after he shot Good…how many of us have been told the same by guys who looked the same? By guys who wanted us to feel afraid, like if they had a state-paid gun and armor they would point at us and pull the trigger too?
VII. My fourth thought after I read the news: At what point do I need to start carrying my passport? My fifth: What difference would it make?
VIII. Then I broke down and cried.
IX. That crazed pool party rumbles on 24-7. So much confetti, for gay love, gay joy, queer love, queer joy. Love love. Joy joy. I sink into that confetti.
X. Yes, I know I’m old enough to be Shane and Ilya’s mom, but I don’t care. I’m post-menopausal; that I scored a natural hat trick with myself in one sitting (one lying?) is a Eucharist miracle, a post-Christmas gift from gay Santa. (Yes, I learned what a hat trick is from watching the show. Who says it ain’t about sports?)
XI. I have never commented this much before on so many strangers’ posts:
“I never want to leave the cottage!”
“In my next life I want to come back as a bowl of spaghetti.”
“I did not have gay hockey-seggsy-love story takes over my life on my 2026 Bingo card!”
“Best TV love story of all time!”
I’ve never comment-chatted with so many gay men before: “I got bills to pay but I’m too obsessed!”
“I have a problem and I don’t ever want this problem to go away.”
And also: “Thank you for sharing your story.”
And also: “This show helped me understand on another level how excruciating it must be to not be able to openly love who you love, to not feel safe to be who you are.”
They follow me. I follow back.
Soundtrack on repeat: Give me your eyes, I need sunshine.
XII. I’m a Loon. That’s what we’re called, fans like us.
XIII. A flock of loons is called an asylum.
XIV. It was minus thirty five Fahrenheit with wind chill in Minneapolis today, Alex Pretti’s last. Yet the streets were filled, thick like confetti, like in Klimt’s Kiss.
XV. Today, after I learned that Alex Pretti, a white man, was shot and killed for standing up to masked men paid by our government to terrorize and kidnap immigrants and people they think are immigrants, mostly brown people, including citizens, including children, I went on a run, dragging my heart like a bird full of lead.
I was hungry and stopped at a taco truck. A bunch of Latino men with boys hopping along stones were scarfing down fish tacos, ceviche, and caldo de mariscos. I ordered one taco and went to pay with my phone. The lady shook her head. Cash and plastic only. I mumbled, oh no, looked around wondering if I could find an ATM machine but then remembered that my wallet was still back at the hotel. One dad who had been standing behind me stepped closer, tall with boulder shoulders, brown muscles so big his seams were straining. Even before he spoke I sensed what he was going to say.
“I got it,” he said, with a smile.
“Really?” I stammered. I couldn’t believe it.
I asked if he had Venmo so I could pay him back. He nodded, sure. I was relieved to know I could Venmo him. I joined him to put in my order.
“That’s all you want? Get two. They make the best. Everything is good.”
I ordered two, thanked him as he paid. I pointed to my phone. “Can I get your Venmo?”
He waved me away. “Don’t worry about it.”
I still couldn’t believe it. We stood in silence for a long time while we waited for our orders. He was getting soup for his wife. I wanted to make small talk but couldn’t, not yet. I was too busy fighting with all my life not to let the tears break free, not to fall apart in front of this man, and the woman making our food, and the man under the truck, who was covered in grease and water fixing this taco truck blaring banda music on a Saturday afternoon, and the boys hopping on stones, not to let my knees give out and cry thank you, thank you, thank you.
XVI. At the end of her poem, “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War,” Joy Harjo writes, “Begin here.”
XVII. I am not religious, but if anyone knows a Mike in Yucaipa who was in Mission Valley, San Diego on January 24th for his eleven-year-old daughter’s softball game and bought a middle aged Chinese woman two tacos at Kiko’s seafood truck, please thank him for some of the best damned fish tacos I’ve ever had and for giving me a moment to think about angels, the healing power of random acts of kindness, and how the universe sometimes shows up as a stranger in a black tee-shirt and jeans, leans in and says I got you.
XVIII. I am rewinding to the scene where Shane and Ilya drive off into the sunset.
About the Author
Sharline Chiang is a Berkeley-based writer, editor, book coach, and publicist originally from New Jersey. Her writings have appeared in BuzzFeed, Rumpus, OZY, Hyphen, and CAAM. She is a Glimmer Train fiction contest finalist, a former Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation fellow; and co-host of the podcast “Democracy in Color with Steve Phillips.” She is an advocate for maternal mental health and wellness. Her website is: sharlinechiang.com
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