War changes everything. I moved back to the United States in early 2010, exhausted by the treadmill work cycle of humanitarian aid, squeezed dry from the expatriate life, and convinced that I might “find myself” if I reintegrated my own culture after my lost twenties. I continued consulting on humanitarian projects and traveling to some degree. I volunteered at the local HIV/AIDS support center in my hometown, where I soaked up stories of the Gay Old South from a middle-aged queen who shared stories of farm-field romps in Virginia and chocolate shops and teardrops in Charleston, South Carolina.
Younger gay men organized a social group at the center, and I watched their highfalutin’ drama with bemused weariness and latent jealousy. Having spent the lion’s share of my twenties in Africa, an
