I despise the musical Rent. I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth
anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even
more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties.
Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it?
I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when
you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society
that does not care. Rent is a mirror
held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines,
and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the
pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening
number of Rent is a declaration of
how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not
gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.
Now, I understand this
declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting
to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless
homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have
dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments.
Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed. Slowly working my way through my twenties.
Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment
dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…
I paid my fucking rent.
There is one thing that
always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my
twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing
in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their
garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent,
but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties,
I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases
for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still
those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to
show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes. From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile
named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our
twenties do not change society.
Now I live in an apartment
that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without
coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course
on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter
train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases
include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television
upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it
for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of
crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat
next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate
taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our
management company.
I guess I am viewing the
musical Rent through the eyes of
someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old
terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash
next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was
going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about
them, do not change.