Richard Brookhiser’s Secret Life
Writing by treason on Sunday, 28 of January , 2007 at 8:26 am
I was reading Brookhiser’s article in my most recent issue of National Review and discovered something about him that I didn’t know. Generally I can always count on him for well-crafted sentences, a few new words, a lesson from history, literature, art, popular culture, science, music, theology - have I left something out? - and when I finish reading him I always feel like I’ve just eaten something that not only tastes good, but is good for me. There’s always at least one line in a Brookhiser piece that makes me stop in my tracks and read it aloud, savoring the construction of it, the sound of it. An example:
“I am a noticer of cemeteries, especially small, forgotten, forlorn ones: family plots, cemeteries of towns that have vanished, cemeteries from colonial times…There are four within ten minutes of my house. One is still taking customers; another is a handful of crooked gravestones like busted teeth in a bum’s mouth.”
“Like busted teeth in a bum’s mouth.” I liked the sound of that and it seemed just right. He’s a joy to read because of the recognition factor - that thing that elicits an “I do that, too!” Or an “I’ve seen that/felt that/thought that!”
So I thought I knew something about him - I’ve been reading him for ages. What I didn’t know until now is that Richard Brookhiser is a lesbian. Not that it matters, mind you; I just find it surprising, that’s all.
He has probably revealed this in past articles I’ve read, but for some reason it just didn’t register until now. Richard Brookhiser drives a Subaru. And you know what that means. Especially if it’s an Outback. It’s a lesbian car - everybody knows it.
Even our local radio talk show host, who believes that you are what you drive, insists if you drive a Subaru Outback, you’re a lesbian. End of story. Yet Kathy Belge, lesbian activist, has compiled the 2006 list of top ten top lesbian cars and the Outback isn’t even on it. Number one spot belongs to the Subaru Forester. (She was going to make the Outback her top choice, but then she test drove a Forester and fell in love with it.) Maybe Brookhiser drives a Forester, who knows? Doesn’t matter. A Subaru’s a Subaru. Outback or Forester - Brookhiser’s a dyke.
When I recently shaved my head, I’d make my regular trips to PetSmart and I couldn’t help think that people would take one look at me - bald, Birkenstocked, loading giant bags of kibble into my car - and think that I was a tad butch. After all, I was loading dog food into my…okay, I admit it — my Outback.
See, I’d sworn I’d never drive a Japanese product. I was faithful to AMC (stop your snickering) and was determined to always drive American vehicles. My stepfather took me car shopping when I was applying to colleges and we checked out every car dealership on El Camino Real, from Sunnyvale to Palo Alto. I was infatuated with British cars, but even I knew - after my brother’s experience with his MGC-GT - that this wouldn’t be a practical choice. My stepfather was open to the idea of Japanese cars - rather broad-minded, considering he was almost shot down by those people during the war - but he just couldn’t get into them. I mean, physically. It was just impossible for a man his size to get behind the wheel of an average seventies model Japanese car. He tried, we laughed, and then I ended up with my brother’s 1974 Mustang II when he bought a Volvo. And that’s a whole nuther story.
I’d been driving…and towing…my 1984 AMC/Renault Alliance and had often entertained the idea of getting something more reliable. When someone pointed out that it was silly for me to be so adamant about not buying a Japanese car when I worked for a Japanese company, I had to agree. So when we moved out here I looked at Hondas first and was unimpressed. Didn’t even want to consider a Toyota. So I ended up test-driving a Subaru and was pleasantly surprised at how well it handled and how expertly it was constructed, inside and out. But I didn’t buy one.
Years passed and our friend Bob was visiting. He convinced me that it was time to part with my sixteen year-old car and get something serious. But it had been years since a new model had even caught my eye. There just wasn’t anything out there that could seduce me. And then I saw it. We were on a Subaru lot and I’d heard it call my name. I was in love with a car.
But first I had to test drive the Forester. It didn’t fit Bob, who’s very tall, and I could tell he was unimpressed. T didn’t like it’s odd triangular shape. But my heart was set on a station wagon and I still wanted an American car, but an American made station wagon at that time was a rarity. So we went to the Saturn dealership. When I compared the Saturn wagon - a vehicle that felt like a seventies era Japanese car - to the Subaru Outback, the Subaru, a thousand pounds heavier, felt more like the American station wagon I coveted. I was sold. And I went back and bought the model that had called to me that day.
T drives a big American truck, but it’s more convenient when we take the dog with us to put her in the wagon. The Outback is a great dog car - what can I say? And I assume it gets better mileage than his pick-up, so we take my car a lot. And he drives. So, like Brookhiser, he’s a lesbian.
Er…not that there’s anything wrong with that…
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