By Henrik Eger
Dear Rock,
This letter was to reach you on Nov. 17 to congratulate you on your 60th birthday and to wish you well. Now even the fastest runner in the world won’t make it to you anymore.
And yet, I am writing to you all the same because I believe that you’re still alive—not as the hunk of Hollywood, but as the man who had the courage to come out as both gay and strong, as the patient with AIDS, and as the all-American who acknowledged his homosexuality for everybody to know.
Rock, you were very important to many of us. I remember the times as a teenager in Europe when I came across pictures of you in movie magazines. To me, you were Mr. America, the ideal male. I wanted to be close to you. And, yes, I wanted to be loved by you. Deep down, I think I wanted to become as invulnerable as you—the most masculine male of his time.
And when you and I finally met, in a dark movie house—you up on the screen, talking to me with your deep, dark voice—my body began to shake. I was only 15 or 16, maybe, but I felt both delirious with joy and a bit ashamed about my physical reaction to you: How could I possibly fall for a man? Especially a heterosexual who had married Phyllis Gates.
This letter was to reach you on Nov. 17 to congratulate you on your 60th birthday and to wish you well. Now even the fastest runner in the world won’t make it to you anymore.
And yet, I am writing to you all the same because I believe that you’re still alive—not as the hunk of Hollywood, but as the man who had the courage to come out as both gay and strong, as the patient with AIDS, and as the all-American who acknowledged his homosexuality for everybody to know.
Rock, you were very important to many of us. I remember the times as a teenager in Europe when I came across pictures of you in movie magazines. To me, you were Mr. America, the ideal male. I wanted to be close to you. And, yes, I wanted to be loved by you. Deep down, I think I wanted to become as invulnerable as you—the most masculine male of his time.
And when you and I finally met, in a dark movie house—you up on the screen, talking to me with your deep, dark voice—my body began to shake. I was only 15 or 16, maybe, but I felt both delirious with joy and a bit ashamed about my physical reaction to you: How could I possibly fall for a man? Especially a heterosexual who had married Phyllis Gates.
Mr. & Mrs. Rock Hudson (Phyllis Gates)
Rock Hudson with Doris Day Looking back, Rock, I felt torn apart whenever your name cropped up, whenever I saw new pictures of you. On the one hand you were one of the most perfect creations that walked the celluloid earth; on the other, you were the man who confronted me with my emerging feelings for men.
I chose to forget my powerful feelings for you; instead, I wanted to work hard to become a “healthy heterosexual."
By the time I had turned 20, I thought I had managed to become like everybody else. But my first visit to the United States in the mid-sixties changed all that.
Suddenly I found myself surrounded by Americans, almost as handsome as you, Rock. Men who were real and who wanted to be with me. Men, married and divorced like you. And single men. Giants with whom I could have pillow talks, rather than having to share them with Liz Taylors and Doris Days—wonderful as these women were.
I chose to forget my powerful feelings for you; instead, I wanted to work hard to become a “healthy heterosexual."
By the time I had turned 20, I thought I had managed to become like everybody else. But my first visit to the United States in the mid-sixties changed all that.
Suddenly I found myself surrounded by Americans, almost as handsome as you, Rock. Men who were real and who wanted to be with me. Men, married and divorced like you. And single men. Giants with whom I could have pillow talks, rather than having to share them with Liz Taylors and Doris Days—wonderful as these women were.
Believe me, Rock, during that one year in the States, I followed in your footsteps, followed your magnificent obsession, and never said goodbye. Rather, I greeted every day with a joy, which I had not experienced in Europe. Almost every night became a big party, making up for years of denying my own nature.
And then, during the summer of 1965 in Los Angeles, I stayed with a young black actor who shared the apartment with half a dozen or so young men—one more beautiful and muscular than the next. Initially, I couldn’t figure out why the telephone was ringing off the hook and why one of them was always leaving—only to return after a few hours, usually exhausted but happy and often bragging about someone famous or fabulous.
And then, during the summer of 1965 in Los Angeles, I stayed with a young black actor who shared the apartment with half a dozen or so young men—one more beautiful and muscular than the next. Initially, I couldn’t figure out why the telephone was ringing off the hook and why one of them was always leaving—only to return after a few hours, usually exhausted but happy and often bragging about someone famous or fabulous.
Los Angeles hustlers, 1960s
I suppose I was too naive to realize until then that some young people earn their living by sharing their bodies with lonely men, with men who feel they can’t afford to be seen in public with another man. And that’s where your name cropped up, Rock. Frankly, I felt crushed:
You, the idol of my adolescence, the semi-God of my dreams, had become a buyer of bodies. Rock, I felt hurt, didn’t realize that deep down you were Roy Scherer of Winnetka, Illinois--a mortal like everybody else with closets full of worries, but with enough money to paint over whatever was troubling you.
But who in America or back home would believe it? I made a promise to myself never to divulge to anybody what I knew, Rock. Perhaps I wanted to keep your image intact, fearful of what might happen if your millions of fans found out about hidden aspects of your private life. I left your country, Rock, happy to acknowledge my gayness at last, but also a little sad. After all, with whom could I share some of my secrets?
You, the idol of my adolescence, the semi-God of my dreams, had become a buyer of bodies. Rock, I felt hurt, didn’t realize that deep down you were Roy Scherer of Winnetka, Illinois--a mortal like everybody else with closets full of worries, but with enough money to paint over whatever was troubling you.
But who in America or back home would believe it? I made a promise to myself never to divulge to anybody what I knew, Rock. Perhaps I wanted to keep your image intact, fearful of what might happen if your millions of fans found out about hidden aspects of your private life. I left your country, Rock, happy to acknowledge my gayness at last, but also a little sad. After all, with whom could I share some of my secrets?
Rock Hudson with Dorothy Malone in Written on the Wind, 1956
Years went by. You made more than 60 movies altogether and appeared on numerous TV shows while I studied and became a writer. And your young men? We all know what happened to James Dean.
And the other young gays? Perhaps they became famous actors and film stars in their own right, or wealthy bodybuilders, or respectable social workers and earnest ministers.
And the other young gays? Perhaps they became famous actors and film stars in their own right, or wealthy bodybuilders, or respectable social workers and earnest ministers.
Mannequins in a warehouse, ready for sale
In America, everything is possible. You knew that, Rock. After all, you started out as a mechanic in the Navy and worked as a truck driver in California before you made it to the top in Hollywood, your private life protected by a studio system, which not only systematically lied to the public, but actually “encouraged” you to get married, just to quell any possible doubts about your sexual prowess, Rock—an image product which sold extremely well for many years.
It’s at this point of awareness that I felt increasingly uncomfortable with you, Rock. You had accepted money and international fame in return for becoming one of the film-gods of heterosexuality who appeared to be deluding millions of people on a regular basis.
On the other hand, you were working in a vacuum where we, the community of gays, lesbians, and enlightened non-gays, had not yet created an environment conducive to more openness and honesty.
It’s at this point of awareness that I felt increasingly uncomfortable with you, Rock. You had accepted money and international fame in return for becoming one of the film-gods of heterosexuality who appeared to be deluding millions of people on a regular basis.
On the other hand, you were working in a vacuum where we, the community of gays, lesbians, and enlightened non-gays, had not yet created an environment conducive to more openness and honesty.
LGBT demonstration 1960s
For you to reveal that you were homosexual might have cost you your whole career. And your admittance that an all-American super-male can and does love men might have been as traumatic for many people in the USA as the suggestion that mother didn’t bake apple pie when she was young, but worked as a prostitute instead.
Well, your lifelong fear of coming out, Rock, must have been trivial by comparison to your public admittance in a Paris hospital that you had AIDS, the “plague of the twentieth century,” the disease which soon might wipe out hundreds of thousands of people.
And when you, on your deathbed, had the courage to speak out, it seemed as if some of the worst hyenas of the American and international gutter press had at last caught up with you, ready for the final kill. I hope that your friends who still dared to be associated with you—the “AIDS victim”—did not show you some of those shameless articles, which tried to exploit the general fear of AIDS in this society, almost automatically linking gayness with an unhealthy lifestyle:
“Even after his AIDS was diagnosed, the actor continued leading an unhealthy lifestyle—smoking and drinking heavily, and frequenting homosexual bars and gay baths,” according to one of the milder voices.
Well, your lifelong fear of coming out, Rock, must have been trivial by comparison to your public admittance in a Paris hospital that you had AIDS, the “plague of the twentieth century,” the disease which soon might wipe out hundreds of thousands of people.
And when you, on your deathbed, had the courage to speak out, it seemed as if some of the worst hyenas of the American and international gutter press had at last caught up with you, ready for the final kill. I hope that your friends who still dared to be associated with you—the “AIDS victim”—did not show you some of those shameless articles, which tried to exploit the general fear of AIDS in this society, almost automatically linking gayness with an unhealthy lifestyle:
“Even after his AIDS was diagnosed, the actor continued leading an unhealthy lifestyle—smoking and drinking heavily, and frequenting homosexual bars and gay baths,” according to one of the milder voices.
Rock Hudson in the latter part of his life
During the past few weeks and months, supermarkets up and down the country probably sold more magazines with pseudo-[factual], moralizing articles about you than rolls of toilet paper. But far more dangerous for all of us, Rock, is the growing witch-hunt of gays, not just in your industry, but in many other fields as well, including the Armed Forces.
Some people got fired because they had AIDS, although nobody would dare to kick them out if they had cancer. Others didn’t have their contracts renewed, simply because they were rumored or known to be gay. If this dangerous trend continues, we might soon speak of apartheid in America, apartheid based on sexual orientation.
Rock, there were times when I almost regretted my return to the land of the free, because I came to envision a frightening future for men who love men and for women who love women.
Some people got fired because they had AIDS, although nobody would dare to kick them out if they had cancer. Others didn’t have their contracts renewed, simply because they were rumored or known to be gay. If this dangerous trend continues, we might soon speak of apartheid in America, apartheid based on sexual orientation.
Rock, there were times when I almost regretted my return to the land of the free, because I came to envision a frightening future for men who love men and for women who love women.
News of Rock Hudson's death reaches the press
Rock Hudson. Photo by Bob Riha, Jr.
In the midst of all these fears, you passed away in your sleep on Oct. 2, 1985. Your once famous 6’4” body was cremated shortly thereafter. No funeral ceremony took place. But the media reported the news of your death immediately. And then something totally unexpected happened.
People from all over the world, in a most heartwarming way, wrote in, sent money for the new American Foundation for AIDS Research Fund which you and your film friends had established only recently. Even the President of the United States issued a statement, remembering your humanity, your sympathetic spirit, and your “well-deserved reputation for kindness.”
What’s more, Rock, your affliction with AIDS has galvanized a world-wide interest in that disease. Many people feel that you have given AIDS a face. I suppose what they mean is the fact that they couldn’t relate to unknown gay men but found you a known quantity, someone trustworthy.
People from all over the world, in a most heartwarming way, wrote in, sent money for the new American Foundation for AIDS Research Fund which you and your film friends had established only recently. Even the President of the United States issued a statement, remembering your humanity, your sympathetic spirit, and your “well-deserved reputation for kindness.”
What’s more, Rock, your affliction with AIDS has galvanized a world-wide interest in that disease. Many people feel that you have given AIDS a face. I suppose what they mean is the fact that they couldn’t relate to unknown gay men but found you a known quantity, someone trustworthy.
Rock, do you know what this new, unheard outpouring of sympathy could mean? Unless I am mistaken, it could signal a turning point in the relationship between gay people and society at large. It’s not just the money which is being donated to various AIDS funds; it’s the fact that people are openly talking about gayness, about our joint vulnerability as human beings, irrespective of our sexual orientation.
In plain English, Rock, you might be remembered as much more than a handsome Hollywood hunk. Perhaps you will be remembered as one of the most famous film stars of his time who, shortly before his death, had the courage to change his mind and to become honest. A man who linked the gay world with society at large through the legacy of his last appeal: become aware to help and overcome AIDS.
In plain English, Rock, you might be remembered as much more than a handsome Hollywood hunk. Perhaps you will be remembered as one of the most famous film stars of his time who, shortly before his death, had the courage to change his mind and to become honest. A man who linked the gay world with society at large through the legacy of his last appeal: become aware to help and overcome AIDS.
Legacy: Become aware, become honest, and reach out
Rock, I feel good about your final achievement.
Let me make a little confession here. Not too long ago, the general fear of AIDS made me become petty: I took down your pictures and your autographs, which were hanging next to those of Marlene Dietrich and Bette Davis. Now, I feel ashamed of having given in to the general pressure. Could you smile a bit if I tell you that I will hang up your autographed pictures again, proud of being gay?
Finally, Rock, whatever your private life, you meant a lot to me, and I want to thank you for having been Rock Hudson. Yes, and for having been Roy Scherer from Illinois. Wherever you are in the world of timelessness, let me say my last farewell: Rest in peace, Rock.
And before I forget it: Happy Birthday, old boy.
Let me make a little confession here. Not too long ago, the general fear of AIDS made me become petty: I took down your pictures and your autographs, which were hanging next to those of Marlene Dietrich and Bette Davis. Now, I feel ashamed of having given in to the general pressure. Could you smile a bit if I tell you that I will hang up your autographed pictures again, proud of being gay?
Finally, Rock, whatever your private life, you meant a lot to me, and I want to thank you for having been Rock Hudson. Yes, and for having been Roy Scherer from Illinois. Wherever you are in the world of timelessness, let me say my last farewell: Rest in peace, Rock.
And before I forget it: Happy Birthday, old boy.
Rock Hudson, symbol of life
Henrik Eger
Originally published by Windy City Times, Chicago, October 10, 1985.
Originally published by Windy City Times, Chicago, October 10, 1985.
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