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GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE NOVEMBER 24, 1995
GRAND OPENING!
THE DOWN UNDER
THE
UT B42
THE DOWN UNDER "OUT" BACK
THROWS A BIG BANG FOR THE WHOLE GANG! SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1995 JOIN HOSTESS MONIQUE STARR
WITH
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SATURDAY DECEMBER 16TH CLUB OPENS AT 7:00 FESTIVITIES BEGIN AT 10:30
GO "DOWN" WITH A FRIEND COME "OUT" WITH A FRIEND
THE DOWN UNDER THE
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421 Graham Rd. Suite D. Cuyahoga Falls, OH 44221
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One of the angels among us
The following is the winner of our "Angels in America, Angels Among Us" essay contest. The author receives two pairs of tickets to see the award-winning play at Cleveland's Playhouse Square, and dinner for two at the Fulton Avenue Cafe in Ohio City.
by Eric Oswald
Growing up in suburbia, Los Angeles, California and having been weaned on television of the seventies, I never understood how it was that we weren't as picture plastic perfect as the "Bradys" or the "Bradfords." Mom and Dad said, “That's just not how real life is, Ricky."
Then, why was it that the other families on our street were so cookie-cutter alike? Reality was that not only were we very Catholic (read: repressed) with the stereotypical Catholic family of four girls and three boys, we
were also cursed with the last name that, my parents
"Oswald." On top of
was wrong, and I knew he was right, because his laugh was the most reassuring sound I heard. It was the same laugh that echoed through the house every time the Cowardly Lion jumped out the window to get away from the Wizard. It's the laugh that I still hear every time I watch it today. My dad found humor in simple, clean things, and I learned to appreciate the same.
I was his first-born son and he tended to treat me like it, much to my mother's chagrin. Whenever I asked my mom for a quarter, she would retort, "What chores are you going to do for me to earn it?" So I'd ask my Dad for a quarter. He'd give me a dollar.
He was also very supportive of my music and creative pursuits. He bought me a muchtoo-expensive tape recorder so I could record my music and songs that I was writing since the fifth grade. He was also at every performance I was ever in.
My dad found humor in simple, clean things, and I learned to appreciate the
same.
somehow got the nickname "Ricky" out of my real name, Eric. A red-headed, skinny, pimply faced, six-foot tall brainiac by the seventh grade, I got to hear all the possible uses of my name: "Ricky Ricardo," "Lee Harvey," "Ricky Picky," "Eric the Red," "Eric Oddball,” and that was just from my family. You can imagine the names that courteous young schoolchildren came up with.
I learned quite early that I was different. I even learned the word gay in the sixth grade. At the height of the Anita Bryant crusade, my classmates used it to taunt me. But even then, I knew that I was gay. I came out to my parents at the ripe old age of 15, but that was after a suicide attempt. Though at the time I thought my life was sheer hell, it took another 17 years to learn how truly blessed I was. That was when my father passed away, in July of this year.
I've always believed in guardian angels. Not the Catholic version, but more like the Steven Spielberg Always version--that spirits of friends and relatives keep watch over us. That point was driven home to me by several close calls: having a cyst removed from my skull (after having a hole drilled in it) at age four; a car accident three years ago; and having been carjacked at gunpoint on my first St. Patrick's Day in Cleveland this year. At all those times, I was never really scared. There was a determination that flowed through me.
My father tried to never show me when he was scared. I remember quite a lot about my hospital visit at age four. I even remember coming out of surgery and hearing my mom and dad asking me to wake up. I could hear the worry in my mom's voice, but I could tell my dad had that big grin on. The grin that I was to inherit. He was laughing as if nothing
I used to think I was at home alone playing the piano, singing out loud because no one could hear, making all the mistakes I wanted to, only to turn around
and find my father there in the recliner, just listening. He would always say, "Go on! Keep playing!" He never cared if I made any mistakes, he listened anyway.
My dad didn't accept my sexuality at first, though. He blamed himself “for not playing enough sports with me when I was young." It took my mom and time to help him learn that I was still his son, and that hadn't changed.
However, my father started to change. He was diagnosed with Parkinson's in the mid1980s. We had to place him in a nursing facility in 1992, and he had pretty much stopped talking by 1993. I sent my mom a tape of my songs for Mother's Day and she told me that when she went to pick him up for a drive to the park and to A & W (his favorite), she played the tape and told him it was me, but he didn't acknowledge her. When the second song started playing, however, he pricked up his ears and said, "Hey, that's Rick!" It was the first thing he had said in months, and I don't care that he called me by that dreaded nickname.
My father passed away in July, but I was lucky enough to be able to tell him how much he meant to me before his mind was gone. But I know that his soul is still here. He commands the angels that watch over me, and they are the muses in my music. Thanks Dad. ✓
Eric Oswald moved to Cleveland from Los Angeles in 1994 and works for a Fortune 200 company. In addition to his day job, he works for Eastern Onion Singing Telegrams and is a featured artist in the Western Reserve Historical Society's "Sound of Cleveland" exhibit. He currently makes his home in Lakewood and is happy to be in a relationship with John Cooperrider of Kent.
•
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