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Wade Hall 709 Fenton Johnson from Geography of the Heart Fenton Johnson is as much a daring pioneer of unexplored wilderness as Daniel Boone ever was. He is an openly gay man who exposes himself to homophobia and twisted religious zealots who write letters to the newspaper saying, “Jesus hates fags.” Born into a large Catholic family of nine children in New Haven in 1953, he attended local Catholic schools, then graduated from Larue County High School. His college degree is from Stanford University, and he has studied at the prestigious Iowa Writers Workshop. He now teaches writing at the University of Arizona. His books include Crossing the River (1989), Scissors, Paper, Rock (1993), and Keeping Faith: A Skeptic’s Journey (2003). When Fenton Johnson was asked in a recent interview if he planned ever to move back home to Kentucky, he gave an equivocal response, saying he loved the Kentucky landscape and Kentuckians and he took it all with him when he was away. In 1987 he met Larry Rose, who was HIV-positive. They lived together for four years, during which Johnson says he learned how to love unconditionally and how to live after a lover dies. In 1996 he published Geography of the Heart: A Memoir, which tells of his life with Rose. In the excerpts below Johnson tells of meeting Rose, portrays their life together, and finally describes how he copes with his great loss and carries on with his life. h August 1987: In my early thirties I decided certain things about my life. Two years earlier I’d bailed out of a relationship with a kindhearted, thoughtful man—a fine companion for summer days and winter nights, but not a life partner. I’d spent the intervening time in desultory dating, but opportunities for romance don’t present themselves often to writers, introverted curmudgeons who work at home. More to the point, everywhere I turned I encountered the inexorable law of desire: those whom I wanted didn’t want me; those who wanted me I didn’t want. Enough such hopeless affairs and I decided this: single, childless, I would close up emotional shop, to put myself out into the world and see where it might take me. I was thirty-four and aging as fast as the rest of us; I needed to spend some time alone, letting my heart repair itself. I packed up my meager belongings and stored them in a friend’s basement. I arranged to house-sit for a friend, to be followed by a residency at a nearby artists’ colony. I’d spend the year floating and writing. I turned my back on love. 709 710 The Kentucky Anthology A month later Larry Rose entered my life. Romance and sleep, in this they are alike: Each arrives only when you’re looking the other way. h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h We met at the reception following the memorial service for a former roommate of mine (as so often happens: Death provides humus for love). At the time I was catering to my worst instincts by flirting with a lawyer with whom I associated money, intellectual prowess, power; all the requirements, I thought then, for true love. The lawyer placed his hand on my arm. “I really enjoy talking with you. Maybe we should get together sometime.” “Sure,” I said. “Let me give you my phone number.” He took my number, tucked it in his pocket, and produced a business card. “Sometime soon.” Then he glanced across the room. “Oh, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go check with my boyfriend.” I watched him go. I turned around to find Larry at my side. h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h A letter to a friend; Dear B., I went to an old roommate’s memorial service on Saturday and met two guys—a lawyer whom I’m really attracted to, and a Berkeley High School English teacher named Larry Rose, who’s really attracted to me. So I came home and placed this bet with myself: The phone will ring on Tuesday, and it will be the Berkeley High English teacher. The phone rang Monday, and it was Larry. . . . Not long after Larry and I moved in together: a summer evening when he was at his healthiest, and it was possible to believe that we would be given...

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