Dick Van Dyke turns 100 years old on Saturday, and I’m amazed at how much this milestone has touched something deep within me and others. It’s not just nostalgia, though there’s a lot of it. It’s more of an introspective thing, and I think it’s something that a lot of gay men of a certain age share.
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Whether we realized it or not, Van Dyke unconsciously helped many of us understand ourselves at a time when the world around us had no idea what to do with boys like us.
grow up in the suburbs pittsburghI had a small black and white television set on an aluminum television tray at the end of the bed in the small room I shared with my brother. Every afternoon after I graduated from elementary school, I would turn the dial and wait for familiar music to play. dick van dyke show, Then on rebroadcast. As a kid who grew older and became an adult, I loved that show.
I was too young to admire Van Dyke, or at least to understand what it meant, but I was fascinated by him. Who wasn’t? He was handsome, funny, lithe, quick and smooth. I once heard someone say that their whole body smiled.
Then I remember seeing him mary poppins, And even more memorable, at least for me. Chitty Chitty Bang BangI must have seen it hundreds of times. I’m sure this title song has been on loop in my head since I was a child. It’s a lifelong earworm. I’m humming it now. In both of these magical musical films, Van Dyke danced and sang with panache.
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reason chitti What struck me was that his character, Caractacus Potts, fascinated me. An eccentric, whimsical, singing and dancing widow who spent her life building impossible machines and feeling a kind of bouncy joy. It seemed like a joy or trait that I had to repress, but Van Dyck expressed it with an ultra-califragilistic expiarido, and the words were forever great.
And I remember thinking, in the confused state of a pre-teen, silently wondering who I am. Is Potts different? I guess I’m talking about gay people, but there was an element of Potts that seemed to be telegraphing, “I’m you!”
Not because the story hinted at it in any way, but because in the 1970s everything felt like a clue. Gay, as we understood it at the time, at least, meant musical, flexible, expressive, traits that I recognized in him and that I was a little afraid of in myself.
I remember seeing flamboyant parishioners featured in church productions. Blister. The strong man danced and sang in a way that embarrassed me. But when he was playing, I felt the same message of “I am you” and felt fear. Van Dyke gave me some solace. So I tried to imitate Van Dyke the way only a 10-year-old boy can.
In the basement I had a small “office” that I had set up for myself. I had my father’s old hat with me and rehearsed Van Dyke’s sly movements and shuffles and arching of his back as if gravity had made a special exception for him. I sang that in a low voice chitti During the theme song, I took off my hat.
And yes, we also recreated the Ottoman gag from his TV show. We had an old stool and we pretended it was Petrie’s famous ottoman, flipping it over and jumping around in his way while humming the theme. I was always surprised by what he did in the opening, whether it was a fall or a dodge.
I had other hobbies, including sketching weather maps, predicting storms as a TV weather forecaster, and using sophisticated statistics to manage imaginary baseball and football teams. But when the numbers get frustrating or the weather gets gloomy, I go back to Rob Petrie and Caractacus Potts. That was my reprieve. It gave me permission to move through my little world with a lightness I didn’t always feel elsewhere.
Examining that action now, we see that Van Dyke provided a loophole and a shield. How to be expressive and fun without signaling danger. “I’m not girly like a church guy. I’m like Dick Van Dyke.”
I don’t think I could have put it into words at the time, but now I understand how powerful that silent permission was.
Life went on. My attention has been diverted. When I watched the reruns as an adult, I laughed even more at Alan Brady’s bombastic genius. I have fond memories of Van Dyke. Melodies of childhood. Then last year, out of nowhere, he reappeared in what felt like a cosmic moment.
There, he was 99 years old and dancing barefoot. coldplay music video. And it’s not just about dancing. He moved effortlessly, lightly, and joyfully with the same playful energy that captivated me decades ago. I watched that video dozens of times. Maybe there are more. And here’s the problem. I needed it, and so did many of us.
It was right after Trump’s electionA time when everything felt darker, heavier, meaner. The air felt thick with fear. My friend looked worried. I felt doubly anxious. I felt the uncertainty of the future that is painfully familiar to queer people of a certain age. And suddenly there he was again, Dick Van Dyke, cutting through the heaviness with simple joy.
He wasn’t just dancing. He reminded us that light exists. That playfulness is still alive and well. That the world can still move gracefully, even if politics makes everything feel fragile. And he also reminded me of the days when we played in the “office” in the basement.
And now he is 100 years old. I emailed a group of gay friends, all probably the same age, all probably all raised on the same afternoon reruns, and jokingly suggested we throw a birthday party for him. The reply came almost instantly. “Yes, yes, yes!” Everyone said something to the effect of “I love Dick Van Dyke!”
It made us think he was ours in a way we never articulated or appreciated but always felt.
Many gay men talk about the female icons of the past: judy, Lizaand shaleand rightly so. They were our torch bearers with the torch song. But Dick Van Dyke was different. he was subtle. safety. He taught little boys like me that a man can sing and dance and swoop and tap and be silly and soft without sacrificing anything.
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He gave his movements a masculine, fun, private and free feel. Before we knew how heavy the world could be, God gave us permission to be light.
And now he still teaches me and I’m on the other side of 60 years old. If he can still move like that, and reach 100 with the same brilliance, then maybe age really is just a number. Playfulness may have no expiration date.
And as I write this, I’m glancing at the ottoman in my living room. I put on my hat, hum a familiar tune, and try to give myself permission to stumble again. For him. For me. To all of us who discovered the first glimmers of self, security, and ultracalifragilistic expiaridociousness in the sight of a tall, lithe man moving across a television or movie screen.
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