When I was in grade school in the 1970s, every morning started the same way: My mom made breakfast while my brother, my sister, and I sat around our small kitchen table. We circled around the radio, which was always tuned to Pittsburgh’s KDKA-AM 1020, the first radio station in the country.
The morning DJ was Jack Bogut. Because of Jack, I thought it would be great to be a radio announcer. I also wanted to be president of the United States and host The Tonight Show.
But by the time I reached sixth or seventh grade, I came to my senses and figured maybe it would be easier just to become the next Jack Bogut. So I vividly remember when WKRP in Cincinnati debuted on CBS in 1978. Back then, television was limited to three networks, CBS, NBC, ABC, and maybe four if you counted PBS.
And color TVs were still something only wealthier families had. Somehow, shortly before my father died the previous year, we got a color television. I don’t know how he paid for it, but it meant that when WKRP came on, I saw it in full color. And when Loni Anderson appeared on-screen as Jennifer Marlowe, she was vividly colorful and dazzling.
Sadly, Anderson passed away Sunday at the age of 79.
Anderson as Marlowe was beautifully blond, with ruby-red lipstick and the kind of glamour that leapt off the screen. She immediately became the magnetic center of that fictional Cincinnati radio station.
Her character Jennifer was clearly supposed to lean into the stereotype of the “sexy secretary,” but even as a kid, I could tell she wasn’t a joke. She had a presence. She was surrounded by men, all of whom, in their own way, recognized her vibrant beauty but one by one would be challenged by her intellect.
There was the shameless sales manager Herb, tongue-tied station boss Arthur, the suave program director Andy, and nerdy newsman Les Nessman. I didn’t have to Google any of those names, by the way. I can even remember their real names and still know the theme song of the show. I loved that program so much, even in reruns; therefore, feel free to hit me with all the trivia you like. Especially about Jennifer Marlowe.
Or Anderson. I fell in love with Anderson, or at least, I thought I did. Because every guy in my seventh and eighth grade class talked about her like she was their dream girl, so I talked about her that way too.
But the truth was, I also had a serious crush on Andy. And I was confused. But publicly, it was all about Anderson.
I went to Catholic grade school, where being in love with a boy was out of the question. Every man I knew was married to a woman, and every boy I knew had a girlfriend. Well, except for the priest who sexually abused me in 1978. That abuse, along with the pressure to be straight, completely upended my understanding of love and desire.
So when I said I had a crush on Anderson, I didn’t know whether I was trying to fit in or if I genuinely did. Looking back now, I realize that, yes, I had a thing for her, but in a very specific way. She was safe. She was sincere. She let me feel love without shame.
As WKRP progressed, so did Jennifer. Her character grew into someone self-assured, self-aware, and deeply kind. I remember one episode where Les Nessman, awkward, balding, and thoroughly uncool, took Jennifer as his date to the Silver Sow Awards. Yes, I’ve never forgotten the name of that award that sticks out in my head.
Even then, I suspected Les might be coded as gay or whatever that was, because he was nerdy and wimpy, and stereotypes had already been hammered into my young brain. But he wasn’t. What that storyline did show was Jennifer’s real depth.
She made Les feel special, not as a joke, not out of pity but out of genuine generosity. That moment stuck with me. It was the kind of kindness I rarely saw in the real world, and it made me love her even more.
The show eventually ended, and I grew up. I came out. And I slowly realized I didn’t need a pretend girlfriend or to talk about having crushes on famous women. But I always thought of Anderson fondly. When she married Burt Reynolds, I paid attention. When they divorced, I took her side. I remember that divorce process was bitter and long, and I think Anderson got burned by that.
And so I think she sort of disappeared from the headlines — and my radar. That is until 2017, when I read about her starring in a web series called My Sister Is So Gay. But for some reason, I never watched it, maybe because “web series” had such a negative connotation. And because, well, quite frankly, I didn’t need to be in love with Anderson anymore.
Still, I thought it was great that she took on a project that celebrated queer identity. She had long embraced equal rights. In an interview about My Sister Is So Gay, she said, “I always say my political party is equal rights,” and talked about loving and accepting her gay children in the show.
When I was thumbing through the internet after her death, I came across something special. She once delivered a quiet but powerful bit of dialogue on WKRP when a character was thought to be gay: “So what if he is? He comes to work. He does his job. He’s a fine person. His sex life is his own business.”
It might sound simple now, but in the late 1970s, that was radical compassion. And I completely forgot about the fact that she said this or conveniently forgot that she did. I didn’t need to be reminded about something I wasn’t sure I was.
When the news alert popped up on Sunday that Anderson had died, my heart broke a little. As you get older, the people who shaped your world start to leave it. Each time, a small part of the younger you breaks off.
Anderson’s passing brought me back to a time that was both simpler and painfully confusing. From where I stand now, it’s hard to say exactly what I felt for her. Was it desire? Admiration? A desperate need to be like everyone else?
Maybe it was all of that. Or maybe it was the first form of affection I could understand.
What I know for sure is my feelings for Anderson were real. They were innocent, sweet, and necessary at a time when I needed sincerity more than anything. She made it feel OK to believe I could belong somewhere. And for one little boy sitting too close to a color television in 1978, that was more than enough.
Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit Advocate.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists, and editors, and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride.
This article originally appeared on Advocate: How a ‘crush’ on Loni Anderson helped a gay boy navigate his teenage years
