Breaking the Surface (43 page)

There was a young man who came to one of my signings whose father had died of AIDS just the night before. He told me that his father had made him promise to come meet me to lend his support. Someone else brought a cellular phone so I could speak with his friend who was in the hospital with an AIDS-related illness. I got on the phone and told the friend that I was sorry he couldn’t make it to the book signing, but I was signing his book as we spoke.

A lot of women told me the book gave them the courage to stay away from their abusive spouse, that by talking about my abusive relationship they felt better about themselves.

People brought all kinds of things for me at every book signing. After each event I’d have to send at least two or three boxes of things back to my house in California. People brought teddy bears, hundreds of teddy bears, healing crystals, T-shirts, earrings of all kinds. I’ve sent most of the teddy bears to the children with AIDS at a hospital in Los Angeles, and a lot of the T-shirts and clothes I’ve given to one of the local AIDS hospices. Everything has gone to good use.

I was given scores of Bibles, many with my name inscribed on them. And people also brought food of all kinds and herbal teas that are supposed to be good for people with HIV. My favorite was the peanut butter cookies that a woman named Helen brought to give out to people at my signing in San Francisco. Helen had this warm, loving smile. She had originally planned to bake chocolate chip cookies, but she didn’t want the chocolate to get all over the books. When she got to the front of the line, she told me about her son who was HIV-positive. At some point while she was telling me how wonderful he is, I realized that she may have been trying to make a match. Mothers are amazing. They just want their children to be happy.

People also sent me scores of audiocassettes and videocassettes, mostly concerning alternative treatments for people with AIDS. Remember, this was just before the lifesaving AIDS drugs became widely available, so people were trying everything.

Then there were the letters. During the first few months after the book was published I got thousands of letters. All of the letters were special to me, but there was one in particular that I carried with me for a long time. It was written by a young woman who came to my book signing in Capitola, California. Because there were so many people at each stop, only those who had books were permitted to stand in line. She told the people at the bookstore that she just wanted to see me because I’d been such an inspiration. She left a note for me, but I never got to meet her and there was no return address on the letter or even a last name. Her letter said:

Dear Greg,

I just wanted to thank you for being a positive influence in my life. I was homeless and living in a homeless shelter during the [1988] Olympics and I saw you dive. You are the best. It made me think, “What am I doing here? What am I doing with my life?” Your victory was my victory, for it gave me the strength and courage for doing something good for myself and to society. I am currently going to school and I hope someday to be a positive influence on someone as much as you were with me. God bless you. Love, Sophia. Age 23
.

To this day, Sophia remains an inspiration to me.

Before I came out about being gay and HIV-positive, one of the things that really scared me was the potential negative response of right-wing reactionaries. What if they picketed my events or yelled at me or sent hate mail? Well, I got fewer than a half dozen pieces of hate mail, and it really wasn’t so bad. I just filed them away. The one time I encountered antigay protesters, I dealt with it. This was in Lawrence, Kansas, and I knew before going that this antigay radical was going to be picketing the event with his family. They were there with signs in their hands, standing outside the building where I was scheduled to speak. The signs said: “Die AIDS Faggot, You’ll Burn in Hell.” One of the placards had my picture on it with “666” across my forehead. They had drawn in fangs and I had horns growing from my head.

During the question-and-answer period after I gave my speech, someone in the audience asked what I thought about the people standing outside the building. I said that I thought I should hand the leader of this group a teddy bear and tell him he needed lots of hugs. I explained that if you meet hate and anger with hate and anger, then you turn your power over to them and they win. If you meet them with love and compassion, they don’t know what to do. I learned later that the gay-lesbian-bisexual student organization sent scores of teddy bears to this man. I really do think he needs hugs.

Now I know I can deal with the antigay radicals, whatever they have to say. I’m glad I didn’t let my fear of them keep me in the closet forever.

One thing that kept me in the closet for as long as I stayed there was my fear that my acting career—however limited it was—would be over if I came out. As an HIV-positive gay man I assumed I’d be a liability. Who would hire me if they knew the truth? Obviously, I reached the point where I felt it was worth that sacrifice. Surprisingly, I had some interesting opportunities to work as an actor.

During that first summer after the book was published, I was in New York for a few days, and my friend Robby Browne suggested I go see
The Only Thing Worse You Could Have Told Me…,
which was a one-man show written by and starring Dan Butler from
Frasier,
the television show. Dan is openly gay, and a lot of the show was autobiographical. Robby arranged for the producer, Scott Allyn, to take me to see it. On the way there, Scott started talking about the possibility of me replacing Dan when he went back to Los Angeles to work on
Frasier
. I thought to myself, “Yeah, right, a one-man show. I don’t think so.” I didn’t feel that I was ready for a lead role, let alone the only role in a play. But I decided not to say no right away. I figured I’d watch the show and think about it later.

It turned out that the show consists of more than a dozen different characters. There are all these different stories, and I thought, “Well, maybe I could do it.” Scott was very persistent, so I told him that I’d audition for it. I knew that if I was going to be able to do the role, I’d have to convince the director that I could. I went back to California and worked with an acting coach to prepare for the audition. There were all kinds of pros and cons about doing the show, but I decided to think about that later, because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be cast.

There was only one character that I found really intimidating. He’s this tough, foulmouthed straight guy, and I thought, “I’m never going to pull this off.” He was so far from who I am. But we worked at it, and I did well enough in the audition to be offered the part. Now I had to decide whether this was something I wanted to do. I wasn’t really sure it was even something I could do. This was a very physically demanding part. I’d recently started on a new medication, which really wiped me out for several days with flu-like symptoms. I was fearful that I’d start the sixweek run, get sick, and not be able to finish it.

I talked to my doctor and my nurse, and they thought it was an awful lot of stress to put on my body. They said they knew I would do what I wanted, but they encouraged me not to take on such a demanding show. I had to do six shows a week, and I would be on stage all by myself for a solid hour and a half.

What really helped me decide was a conversation with Dawnn Lewis. She’s the greatest. We were on our way to a movie screening, and I read some of the play to her. I asked her what she thought, and she said that she thought it would be wonderful. I told her about my concerns, about my energy level, the fact it’s a one-man show, that there’s nobody to hide behind. She said, “Greg, as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always wanted to be an actor. This is your next challenge. You said you wanted to live your life while you were still here. This is your chance. What’s to stop you?” She was challenging me with my own words. I thought to myself, What’s the worst thing that could happen? I could get sick during the middle of the run and have to drop out. Was anybody going to fault me for trying? I didn’t think so, and the next day I called to accept the part.

The first performance, I was filled with nerves. I was terrified. This was going to be the longest ten-meter dive that I’d ever done in my life. The audience was filled with friends, and they were wonderful. It may have been the longest ten-meter dive I’d ever done, but it was also the most exhilarating. When I went out for my curtain call, everyone applauded and cheered. A number of people spoke to me afterward and paid me the highest compliment; they said that after the first few minutes, they forgot it was me up there on the stage. A number of people living with HIV also told me that seeing me kick butt onstage had given them the courage to get off their butts and do something, to make the most of the time they had left. That made me feel great.

The next night, during my second preview performance, the worst happened. I got lost during the second piece. I froze. I apologized to the audience. I walked around the stage and I was thinking, God, I know I’ve got the script backstage, but I can’t leave the stage. What should I do? I walked around the stage some more, and I got back on script and then continued through. I’m sure the audience forgave me before I forgave myself.

After the show, I went backstage and I cried. Getting lost is the worst thing that can happen. I apologized to the director, and the stage manager, and the crew, and everybody. After I got that over and done with, I realized that the worst thing that could happen had happened, and I was still here. It never happened again during the six-week run, and despite my fears, I never missed a performance.

I look back now to that thrilling one-man show and to all that happened during the time immediately following the publication of
Breaking the Surface
and the years since and I can think of only one word to describe what it’s been like: incredible. Just incredible.

Perhaps the most important lesson I learned from the experience of talking about my life in my book—and in person as I’ve met people through my travels across the country—is that honesty begets honesty. When I’ve shared honestly with people about my life then they’ve felt comfortable sharing with me the things they didn’t believe they could share before with anyone else. I think the world would be a far better place if we could all feel free to simply be ourselves.

I live a much quieter life now than back in 1995, but it’s a rich life free from secrets. These days, I do plenty of public speaking, which I really enjoy. My health remains stable thanks to my doctors and modern medicine. I’m happily partnered to a lovely man. I still have several dogs, although the Great Danes are sadly long gone and I now have two Jack Russells and a Border collie. I’ve had the good fortune to do professionally a number of things I love, like the public speaking, as well as some acting, and training and showing dogs. I also work with people in the sports world to help them improve their performance and presentation. And I try to remember to count my blessings every day, because I’m a very lucky man.

Just one final thought. Over the years people have asked me what they could do to help. My answer is simple. Do what feels right. Each of us can make a difference, can make a positive contribution, in his or her own way, whether that means opening our checkbooks, volunteering to take care of someone who is ill, or intervening during gym class when a kid is teased for being a sissy.

I’m heartened most by a young girl I met at a book signing back in 1995. She was in line with her mom, her aunt, and a cousin. She said, “Mr. Louganis, I’m sorry that they called you names when you were growing up. If I hear somebody calling someone a name, then I’m going to stop them.” We should all be so brave.