A Christmas Wish, Part 2

I miss Leslie Jordan. He died in October of 2022, so we’ve had to endure life on this planet without him for over a year now. I’m not sure what he was to you, or even if you know who he was. Maybe you remember him from Will & Grace or Murphy Brown or Nash Bridges. Maybe you saw him in the theater for his autobiographical show titled, “Hysterical Blindness and Other Southern Tragedies That Have Plagued My Life Thus Far.” Or maybe you caught his stage performance in “Southern Baptist Sissies.”

I didn’t know him from any of those things. I first “met” Leslie during the pandemic when his Instagram account took flight. He opened a lot of his posts with, “Well, hello fellow hunker downers.” Those were interesting days for all of us. Full of fear and anxiety and fatigue from washing the groceries before we brought them in the house and wondering how to navigate a new reality. His posts seemed to calm and reassure me. In fact, his voice and his demeanor cut through the heaviness of the pandemic for me. I became a fan.

But my favorite was his other frequent opening line: “Well, shit. What’re you all doin’?” What a perfect line. We ought to put it on currency; replace some of that Latin stuff.

If you’re one of the few that are unfamiliar with his work, go look up some of his videos and shorts online. Try not to smile or laugh when you do.

He shared a story on Facebook in 2016 and later on Instagram about one of his best Christmas memories. Here’s what he had to say:

“When I was three I asked Santa Clause for a bride doll. Daddy had taken me to Loveman's department store with a few of his army buddies. He was more than taken aback. Christmas Eve it was all I could talk about. I suppose daddy was hoping I would abandon this idea. 1958. Mom was done fixing dinner and went in to talk to Daddy and told him, ‘Are you going to explain why that doll isn’t under the tree? ‘Cause I can’t.’ My sweet daddy scoured Chattanooga, Tennessee that night in a freak snow storm and found his three year old son the most beautiful bride doll imaginable. On Christmas morning she stared out of cellophane and was life size to a three year old. When I saw her under the tree, I peed all over the floor. My daddy's plane went down in 1966. He gave his life for this country and gave his three year old son permission to be himself! God bless America.”

Indeed.

I can just imagine the scene (in 1958) when his dad, accompanied by his Army buddies, heard his son ask for a doll and not a BB gun. I can imagine the collision that happened in his father’s mind as he weighed the social constructs, his peer group, his church. Those ideals laid against the gentle plea from his wife and the clear, vocal desire of his three year old son. Christmas Eve is a magical time. And it can be a time when miracles occur. Historically, a time when an unwed mother mother can give birth to a king. Systemically, when a man can sift through generations of expectations and give his son what his heart desires.

To be clear: This is a post about authenticity. Nothing else. And so my Christmas wish for you is simply this: I hope you can give yourself permission to be you. And that you will insist (demand) those closest to you to respect who that is. And if anyone chooses not to do so, you will (gently) move them away toward the masses. Far away from your Center, so their judgment and disrespect will be nothing but a faint whisper. Barely even audible.

Some of you are unfamiliar with the feeling: Being known, accepted and respected in the same breath, by the same person. If you are, let’s change that.

My Christmas promise to you is this: There are people you have not yet met who are willing to do just that.