Portrait of a Loving Man
Author: Todd Hoskins Issue: 2024-01-17
Portrait of a Loving Man
by Todd Hoskins
I met Clinton in grad school in 2001. He was the funniest person in every class, prone to saying what no one else felt brave enough to say, and laughing contagiously at absurdities. We were in classes for religion and psychology, so ridiculousness was plentiful.
We became friends quickly, both of us moving to Seattle from thousands of miles away. We were both struggling in our marriages. We were both asking big questions. And we both loved beer. The first batch of beer I brewed was with Clinton and Greg in 2001. We were ambitious beer making amateurs, mostly failing in brewmastery, but loved getting to “do something together” since our lives were full of talking.
We had therapy three times per week–professional, peer, and group–plus an additional peer session each of us facilitated. Between psychology, our marriages, and our professional lives, we felt life was an endless discussion. We were both craving silence.
Clinton taught me to fly fish. We would sometimes go out early in the morning, coffee in hand, with few words passed between us. We found our places in the river, usually within shouting distance but out of sight, though we seldom shouted.
When it wasn’t raining, we played tennis at lunch time once a week. When Clinton suggested we go skiing up in the Cascades, I confessed that I had not put on downhill skis since 1986. He re-taught me to ski, staying above me on the slopes, picking up my skis after frequent wipe outs, and gently offering encouragement and advice.
On a chairlift ride up to the peak, I confessed that I was feeling his patience with me was too much. Perhaps he should let me take it from here? He could go find a slope where he can do a full descent without interruption?
“No”, he said. “This feels good.” “I’m happy.” “I am happy when I am loving.” There was an awkward silence–not the desired type–then he continued, “I’m starting to believe that love is all that matters. Not God, not intelligence, not accomplishments.”
Six months later I would decide not to return to grad school. I moved back to Chicago. Clinton ended up staying in Seattle and getting two Masters degrees. For two decades we have managed to see each other at least once a year, whether it’s a cabin on a river, or a stay at his farm. We live 2,400 miles away from each other now and have gathered in the flesh three times in the past fifteen months.
Less than a year after I had returned to the Great Lakes in 2002, Clinton learned he had a faulty valve in his heart. He needed a valve replacement–open heart surgery–while still in his late twenties. I flew back for the surgery and for a short period of his recovery. The first porcine valve did not work, so a few years later he had to have his ribs pried open yet again for a mechanical valve to be inserted. It seemed wrong that a man with so much love to offer had a broken heart.
Confronting mortality seemed to expand his capacity. When I was going through a divorce, he was there. When I was short on money, he offered to pay me to paint his house. When I needed to rant about something, he lent me his ears.
I don’t mean to imply that Clinton is a perfect human being. He wrestles with meaning and purpose. Like many of us, he avoids conflict. Like me, it’s a default for him to give more than receive. He gets in his own way. His energy can be zapped, and hope punctured. The pandemic was extra tough on him, especially with three kids still at home while running a nonprofit and a small farm with his wife engaged as a medical professional and a priest.
Even when he is struggling, he is loving. And the older he gets, the more that love gets extended to him too. When I am in pain, I call him. When I have great news, I call him. He does the same. The laughter over the course of our relationship has followed a U-curve. At first, humor was welcome to distract us from what we didn’t want to face. Then there were years of seriousness–for both of us. Now, the laughter has been returning as we take ourselves less seriously and spend more time with plants and animals.
In Costa Rica it is common to see two men of all ages riding on the same seat of a motorcycle together. Cyclepooling makes sense for many reasons, but what struck me was how I was not accustomed to this sight. In North America, the motorcycle is more of a symbol, and less a means of effectively getting where one (or two) need to go. But more than that, there’s often a stigma of two men pressed up against each other with a motor underneath them.
I felt sad. Men loving men should not be appropriated only to sexuality. The first time I told Clinton I loved him, I have to admit, I felt wildly uncomfortable. As a hetero cisgendered man growing up in the ‘80’s, many, if not most of, the insults reserved for people like me were about being gay.
That was (and is) tragic and horrific.
Friendship between men is often expressed with slaps on the back and hands on the shoulder. I enjoy this, and I feel called to a greater diversity of public demonstrations of mutual care and affection. I love many men. I’m more comfortable telling them now because it’s true, and because the world needs love–out in the open, known, acknowledged, and spreading. Thank you, Clinton, for being a great teacher. I love you.
[Image not included in the current archive. Images may be included in the future.]
Related:
- Todd Hoskins (author)
- 2024 (year)
- Topics: