"But what's a pansy--apart from being a
flower?"~Quentin Crisp

I was only a boy in 1973. Yet
I still can remember the first
time I saw Lance: I thought
he was witty and honest and
vulnerable. Both my brothers
thought he was a freak. Then
went on to say I acted a lot
like him. And I better
learn to watch my step. Or
I'd wind up in some sideshow.

 

I couldn't figure out why they
hated him so? He was the
most real person in that very
fake California Dreamin'
household. AN AMERICAN
FAMILY. Praised by the likes
of Margaret Mead. I knew no
families like the one Lance
had. It seemed too pretty and
plastic. Like the flowers that
were so popular at Woolworth's
at the time. At least Lance was
a true pansy. And not some
fake red rose in a Tiffany
vase. I could smell his sadness.
Beneath all the glitter and camp.
He was my first queer hero. 

He actually made it to NYC. And
stayed at the crumbling Chelsea
Hotel: That holy place where so
many great artists once stayed.
Even though many were still
unknown while they were there:
Patti Smith once rented a tiny room
with Robert Mapplethorpe. Before all
the fame and fortune and notoriety. 

Andy and Edie famously haunted the
dingy halls--while they were still alive.
And Janis always stayed there when
she was in New York: Little Girl Blue--
all decked out in silver bracelets and
soft boa feathers. And Sid and Nancy
played out their Punk Romeo and
Juliet tragedy in one of the small
rooms. And didn't Dylan Thomas spend
a night there in the 1950's? Before all the
booze and envious poets destroyed him? 

It's no wonder Lance felt like he'd
finally found a home. And if these
were the people that most of the
country considered freaks to be
laughed at--then I wanted nothing
to do with THE AMERICAN FAMILY.
And wanted to follow in the footsteps
of Lance. And Janis. And Patti. And
Andy. And Dylan--all my brave and
doomed outsiders. They were my
family. And when Lance died--it was
like losing a brother. Because he
taught me that it's better to be a
glorious pansy. The real thing. Instead
of a fake red rose. Even if it means
leaving the world much sooner than all
those artificial flowers born in a factory. 


*Lance Loud died in 2001. He was 50.

Copyright © 2007 by Dylan Mitchell