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A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Late June, 1983

I went to the South Florida Gay Pride Festival, held at the Hollywood Sportatorium. Almost immediately, I saw a familiar face: an ex-student of mine whose name I couldn’t remember. Hand in hand with his boyfriend, and wearing an “I’m Proud to Be Gay” button and a huge grin, the kid had dignity.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-June, 1983

Todd dropped me off at the subway stop at 14th Street before he and Josh drove back to Brooklyn. I decided to get off at 79th rather than 86th so that I could take one last walk down Broadway. Teresa and Juliana were in their bathrobes, chatting and drinking coffee, when I got home.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Early June, 1983

He believes sex should be exciting, and he loves the danger of public sex. Elihu’s fantasy is to have sex on top of the Empire State Building, and he told me about his experiences in Brooklyn Heights playgrounds. It’s hard for me to think of him as the same quiet boy I sat next to in social studies class in high school.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Late May, 1983

One hundred years ago, the Bridge was “the Eighth Wonder of the World,” an amazing achievement by Washington, John and Emily Roebling and the workers who built it. There can be nothing like that today. I watched the fireworks from one of two 110-story towers, but I can’t imagine anyone celebrating the 100th anniversary of the sterile, utilitarian World Trade Center.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-May, 1983

We had lunch at Brownie’s. For dessert, we ordered their famous carrot cake, only to find it inferior to our memories of what the cake had been. But Ronna and I go on. I think she’s prettier today than she ever was. All I know is we can still talk and laugh the way we used to ten years ago when we were in love.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-April, 1983

Blair is 17, wears four earrings, is being published in his sister’s boyfriend’s Austin punk fanzine, and has been paid for sex. He began the letter “Dear Mr. Grayson,” and ended “Your friend, Blair.” I’m getting old, pardner. Last night one of my students handed in a paper on Jello Biafra and thought he had to explain to me who Jello Biafra was. “I know the Dead Kennedys,” I snapped defensively.

A Young Writer’s Diary Entries From Early April, 1983

You can’t make anyone love you, and if you could, it wouldn’t be worth it. Still, getting dumped hurts. Yes, yes: intellectually, I know it could never have “worked out” with Sean, and like my breakups with Ronna and Shelli, this will prove a blessing in the long run. But right now I feel like crying.

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