Q: Your father was apparently an extremely sensitive man. If only all fathers could be as perceptive about their gay sons.
A: I had a solid foundation of acceptance. I still remember him saying the one thing that has been utterly critical to the work I've done as a man who loves men. One day we went to an exhibit of cave paintings, which we both loved. At one point he turned and asked me who I thought had created them. I said I didn't know. "It had to be the fags," he explained. "All the other men are out hunting and killing. There's a bunch of fags sitting in the back of the cave, complaining about how ugly it is, wondering what they can do to make it look better. So they decide to paint some bison on the walls." I never forgot that conversation. Years later, I realized that my father was consciously trying to say to me, "I want you to understand that you have roots, you have a history." I grew up being told all these stories about being Jewish. That's part of my tribal consciousness. But except for a few things my father said, like that day at the museum, I realize that no one tells our gay stories except for ourselves.
Q: Is this how you regard yourself, as a gay storyteller?
A: Thousands of years ago people were sitting around a fire, telling stories. And here we are today, sitting around a tape recorder with two little red lights glowing like embers. It's all that's left of the fire, but that's enough. There's somebody who asks, What happened? And there's somebody who tells why what happened happened. And the rest of the tribe is sitting with us.