GLR November-December 2025

gay in a world that ignored and hid any hint of homosexuality. Loughery’s quest to find himself reads like a mystery novel. As its detective, he has to discover his truth by investigating leads. His curiosity leads him to musicals, plays, novels, and movies in which, buried deep in their plots, gay themes emerge. As a child growing up in Ohio, trying to be a “good boy,” he yearns to be more rebellious, and later he moves to New York City, where he finds like-minded men. He discovers bath houses, meets men who recognize his talent as a writer, and finds himself enmeshed in the thriving gay literary life of the late 1970s. For me, the book takes a vivid turn when he recounts in grip ping detail the AIDS crisis. It’s as if his voice as a raconteur of other lives shifts to the graphic, moment-by-moment intimacy of someone who had to face the devastation of a disease that was killing off his friends one by one and that threatened to kill his life partner. He narrates how at first no one in the gay com munity knew what had happened, and then how few had any reliable treatments for AIDS, and, finally, how by chance some one offered a therapy that could preserve his lover’s life. Out raged by the inaction of the Reagan administration and national press, he presents his equivocation about the activist group ACT UP, which challenged the silence surrounding AIDS and, finally, his resolve to speak out. As a teacher, Loughery explores the tightrope he had to walk with students in the late 1970s when Anita Bryant was alleging that gay educators were recruiting their pupils—a suspicion that, as late as 2010, I was still experiencing. In the latter part of the book, he talks about his research for The Other Side of Silence . He traveled across the U.S., meeting people who had managed to create havens that allowed them to be gay many decades ear lier. He distinguishes between those who wanted to be out, to be known as gay, and those who didn’t want to be called gay but who, in their private lives, associated with other same-sex-lov ingmen. Throughout the book, he wrestles with his sense of being gay, of wanting to be seen as masculine, to prove himself wor thy as a man to his family and father. His struggles to find him self mirror the struggles of the gay community to find legitimacy in American culture, where, even with all the head way we have achieved, we still are stigmatized. Yet, as his mem oir vividly demonstrates, we can grow up and find our truth, despite what the larger society may think and feel. _________________________________________________________________ Bruce Spang is a poet and writer living in Chandler, NC.

B RUCE S PANG The Arc of Liberation WHERE THE PULSE LIVES A Memoir of Growing Up Gay in the Twen ti eth Century by John Loughery Independently published. 244 pages, $17.95 J OHN LOUGHERY chronicled how closeted men managed to be gay during oppressive and dangerous times in his 1998 book The Other Side of Silence . In his new memoir, Where the Pulse Lives , he has captured what it was like for him to come out just as the Stonewall riots cracked open the op pression of LGBT people. Unlike many memoirs that focus on the angst of exploring the author’s sexuality, Loughery’s book is refreshingly coy about sex. Instead of graphic descriptions of furtive fumblings, he explores how he—as a boy, as an ado lescent, and as an adult—had to decipher the puzzle of being The narrator’s being a lesbian is not much gone into, al though in one scene the father walks in on the poet kissing her girlfriend. “You’ll ask me what it was like,” the narrator says. “It was like a crime. Inside me, shame blazed a path for itself, and the path grew wider and wider, until my entire body was a body of shame.” But the father says nothing. It’s not until he has died that her uncle addresses the subject. “You’re a wan dering woman,” he tells the poet when she comes to visit the rest of her family after her father’s death. “There’s no peace anywhere for a woman like you. You always have to be going somewhere, running from something. All most women want is to make a home, but you need something, you’re homeless and you see this homelessness not as a lack but as the only way to live. You’re not interested in men, and you don’t need them ei ther. It’s going to be hard going for you.” But she does need one man, at least—her father—even if by the end of this intensely observant book he is decomposing be neath the steppe. _________________________________________________________________ Andrew Holleran’s latest novel is The Kingdom of Sand . her father finds joy in driving his truck back and forth across Russia, the portrait of the people and places is one of over whelming bleakness. Yet we are not only drawn to this man, and to Russia itself, but forced to wonder if Vasyakina is equat ing the two. Steppe , Google informs us, is part of a trilogy investigating the deaths of members of Vasyakina’s family. But it is also a por trait of a certain class of Russians, and by extension the history of Russia itself—which can often seem to the Western onlooker like the national equivalent of an abused wife. In one scene the narrator watches her father remove a toothpick from his mouth after dinner and then insert it into his nostril. It’s little things like this that make one think of The Lower Depths , by Maxim Gorky (who is, appropriately, the father’s favorite writer). While listed as anovel, Steppe leads one to wonder where it lies on the spec trum from fiction to memoir.

November–December 2025

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