The Tender Activist: How gay is The Great American Read?

I recently bought someone a book as a present. I remembered them reading the genre of book, detective mystery, in the past. I had stumbled upon the book and found myself enjoying a genre I normally wouldn’t gravitate toward. I thought by gifting the book we would share something.

To my surprise, the recipient thanked me for the book then said they hadn’t read a book in a long time. There was tired weight given to the word long. What to me is a common habit was being expressed as nearly alien to them. Caught on the judgment barometer somewhere between a mindful well-that’s-okay and an arrogant what-the-fuck, I told them they didn’t need to feel obligated to read it. They said they would give it a try.

Ostensibly, The Great American Read is about getting our country reading. PBS conducted a survey of Americans to compile this list of 100 top novels—PBS is careful to note they are not endorsing the titles—which we can vote on between now and Oct. 18. There will be a total of eight shows, hosted by Meredith Vieira, on which notables will discuss the books. America’s “best-loved novel” will then be announced in a “Grand Finale” on Oct. 23. It’s a booklover’s orgasm and maybe it will inspire the rare book readers like my friend trudging through the first in Hodge’s trilogy.

As I was checking off the books I’ve read on the printable list of the 100, I got curious as to how queers fared in The Great American Read. A few jump out like Oscar Wilde, whose “The Picture of Dorian Gray” made the list, and James Baldwin with “Another Country.” Of course, “Tales of the City” by Armistead Maupin who, with a jolting lack of humility, states he knew he was writing a groundbreaking book during the series launch special in May.

My nana and I had two different takes on “A Separate Peace.” I saw it as a story about a unique friendship, but she picked up—as did legions of readers—on the books’ gay undertones, gently telling me it wasn’t for her. John Knowles, the book’s author, was gay and was quoted as saying, “If there had been homoeroticism between Phineas and Gene, I would have put it in the book, I assure you. It simply wasn’t there.” Books, like other forms of art, are partly what their creator intends and what they become in the mind of the receiver, so it’s doubtful Knowles’ revelations changed many perceptions of this layered piece of writing.

If you’ve read any of John Irving’s books, you might be unsurprised to learn he has been open about his own proclivities. He says that bisexual impulses were strong growing up but he was afraid of being gay. His “A Prayer for Owen Meany” includes a character named Johnny Wheelwright, who is gossiped about by the townspeople as a “non-practicing homosexual.” In 2009, Irving told The Denver Post: “I wanted to never state that Johnny loves Owen in that way—unrequited, because Owen isn’t gay. Yet I think it’s perfectly OK if readers think of Johnny as gay, as not only loving Owen Meany but in love with him.”

There isn’t enough space on this page to fully consider the queer quotient of each tome and it’s worth considering whether or not it matters. Does it matter if there may or not have been a romantic relationship between Shug and Celie in “The Color Purple” (Alice Walker), as there is some debate among readers? It matters when you’re part of the LGBT+ community and looking for yourself in literature. I’m reminded of Whoopi Goldberg (who, incidentally, played Celie on film and with an undeniable tryst with Shug) commenting about how important it was for her to see Uhura on the Starship Enterprise; it meant her people made it into the future. It would be many years before the LGBT+ community would get that sort of assurance from the “Star Trek” franchise.

For posterity, here are a few—let me stress, not all—of the places where The Great American Reads touch, to varying degrees, on LGBT+ material. Relationships in “The Game of Thrones,” and a flamboyant minor character in “The Confederacy of Dunces.” “The Da Vinci Code” is worth mentioning for Leonardo Da Vinci himself; some scholars have insisted the ultimate Renaissance man was asexual, but, if you read his journals, his words about his male assistants indicate he was at the very least a “non-practicing homosexual.” There’s also the oft debated “hobbmance” between Samwise Gamgee and Frodo in “The Lord of the Rings” and don’t forget none other than J.K. Rowling herself proclaimed Dumbledore to be gay.

Recently Adrian Molina, the out co-director of “Coco,” made a stir by addressing the possibility of a queer-inclusive Pixar film. He noted that Miguel’s story in “Coco” resonated with LGBT+ audiences because it told the story of someone having to hide their true selves, but it’s about time we have our own story told. This speaks to Maupin’s point: he knew “Tales” was groundbreaking because nobody was telling that type of story at the time.

In the end, the best books are the ones that leave you discovering a little more about yourself, no matter their gender or proclivity of the author, or the focus of the subject matter. I can say, with certainty, reading about blond-haired, blue-eyed Chris Dollanganger in V.C. Andrews’ “The Flowers in the Attic” as a preteen stirred something in the future practicing homosexual in me.