Small Lessons In Life

Magical Samantha is very involved in the Latino community due to her interests and her vocation. So, Sunday night we attended Spanish Mass at a church in the Bay area so we could see a play where a child she knows was to play Joseph. The play portion was canceled, but we did attend the Mass. Of course, I was clueless about what exactly was said, but got the gist. Mass seems to be Mass, in any language.

As the people were leaving, child after child ran up to Magical S., hugging her. I was introduced to parents and grandparents. Finally, the stream of people dissipated, and, because the play was canceled, we went to the boy’s house to give him and his sister’s their Christmas presents. Again, I did not speak the language, but got the gist. Kids are kids, it seems, in whatever language.

With more presents to drop, we traveled from neighborhood to neighborhood over the next two days. On Christmas Eve, we spent the evening with the large family of her comadre and compadre. Magical S is godmother to one of the children and was asked if she would serve as godmother to the baby on its way. This is a much bigger deal than the godparent gig I grew up understanding.

The family matriarch and patriarch looked over their brood proudly. Tears filled the grandmother’s eyes as she looked over them all during the prayer before dinner. Never have I felt like such an honored guest in someone’s home. I ate fabulous traditional food and met about 40 people (fortunately the non-immediate family was not in attendance–I’d have had a meltdown trying to remember names). Though they did not speak my language, graciousness is graciousness in any language.

Then, I got to participate in Las Posadas, the reenactment of Mary and Joseph trying to find lodging at numerous inns and being turned away, ultimately finding refuge. There is a whole routine for this observance that includes finally arriving at the inn and being let in–all in call and answer song. I got to be one of those inside that inn–as the people came streaming in, they were all smiling and full of love of family and their God. Though this is not my faith and this was not my family, and I didn’t speak their language, it seems that families are families in any language.

I learned a lot these past few days. I met a lot of hard working people who weren’t all necessarily documented. I started to barely, but truly, understand the concerns they have and the struggles they endure on a human and emotional level. Why coming to the United States is so important to many. And, what they contribute to our communities. Hard work is hard work, in any language. And, the desire for a better life is universal.

I always say that people need only know some gay people before the fact we are gay no longer matters. We become people–individuals they know, like, or respect. We are moms and dads and friends and neighbors. Maybe if we all sat with our immigrant neighbors in each other’s homes and shared a simple evening of family and tradition, whether we speak their language or not, we might stop seeing the differences and see all the similarities.

I support concrete and progressive immigration reform based on three primary criteria: family reunification, economic contributions, and humanitarian concerns.~ Senator Jeff Bingaman, D-New Mexico

DIGG, The Technological Version of the Patriot Act

One of the things I love about my Community, whether it be the blogging community, the GLBTI community, or the community in which I live, is experiencing our diversity.  We are of all colors, religions, ages, sexual orientations or gender identifications, socio-economic levels, or any of the other differences that make us human, different, and special in our own special way.  But, watch out—danger lurks in these here blogging waters, and it’s not the bloggers you need worry about!  It’s Digg.

Who Are These Guys?

From Wikipedia:

“Digg is a community-based popularity website with an emphasis on technology and science articles, recently expanding to a broader range of categories such as politics and entertainment. It combines social bookmarking, blogging, and syndication with a form of non-hierarchical, democratic editorial control.

News stories and websites are submitted by users, and then promoted to the front page through a user-based ranking system. This differs from the hierarchical editorial system that many other news sites employ.”

Those Banned

Recently, it was brought to my attention that several lesbian content related sites are being banned for indecency thanks to the “democratic editorial control” of Digg.  Digg has not provided reason for these bans (nor, according to their TOS, must they–seems a little Totalitarian to me) despite attempts by the blog authors to discuss the subject with Digg.  

 

Sites banned include Lesbiatopia, Just A Girl In Short Shorts, and a gay parenting blog on Parents.com.  And, really, who knows how many others. Cap’n Dyke was banned just this morning for merely supporting the bloggers’ contention that such banishment is unjust and not in line with the tenets of our greater “democracy.”

If you’ve read Becky over at Just A Girl, you know she likes to post pictures of women in very short shorts (duh, the blog name, right?) and even occasional pictures of buxom topless women.  Her content, however, ranges from her deeply held faith (a Catholic no less, not a Pagan Black Wiccan who sacrifices puppies and kittens at the altar in the midst of a sexual bacchanal), her Libertarianism and support for Ron Paul, her feminism, recommendations for adult toys (so dear to my own heart) and outrageous media stories and their impact on our communities (vis-à-vis, the woeful lack of common sense we, as Amercians, show in general by some of the laws we pull out of our ass to “protect” the citizenry).  While the photos could be considered risqué to some (if you’ve never watched network television in your life), they don’t even approach lame and ancient Playboy in levels of prurient interest.  I don’t imagine 13 year old boys are looking at Becky’s photos for inspiration—ya’ know?

Lesbiatopia is a collaborative site authored by many talented lesbian bloggers who write about social topics of interest to our community.  Obscene?  Only if the fact that lesbians both read and write for the blog, maybe.  

The Cap’n merely spoke up.  Banned.

How to Help

Please take the time to read the blog links outlining the whys and wherefores of how this situation has snowballed. It’s fascinating.  And, it scares me—who the hell are these nameless, faceless little dweebs who are apparently banning lesbian sites for “adult content” based on something they are pulling out of the ether.  And further banning those who disagree with them for nothing more than agreeing that those sites should not be banned?

At least those little snot-noses had the brilliance to headquarter in San Francisco.  I hear that Paula, Queen of the Surf Pirates, who is also a contributing author at Lesbiatopia, is planning to contact the San Francisco Human Rights Commission regarding what has MORE than the appearance of being a homophobic attack on our community’s write to free speech.

I don’t have to worry about being banned – my blog software is not supported.  Too bad.  Write about it. Boycott Digg.   Grab that photo at the top if you support the cause and post it while you still have the right to do so.

 Censorship reflects a society’s lack of confidence in itself. It is a hallmark of an authoritarian regime. ~ Potter Stewart

Oliver Twist, He Ain’t

Listening to 100.5 The Zone’s Jordan & Cash show this morning—a new duo who I absolutely love—I about lost it—this story got to me.  I’m sickeningly sentimental and mushy though the people I work with think I am the Lesbian Ice Queen or The Terminator, from one day to the next.  But, that’s an entirely different post.  Anyway, some woman called in last week, embarrassed, and told them what her son had asked to get for Christmas.  He said:  “Food.”  Now, this woman makes a living, isn’t on welfare, but doesn’t get any support from her ex.  Her son’s response stunned her, so she called Hill to talk about it.

She struggles.  Like most single parents.  She said they eat a lot of Hamburger Helper – what with her being busy working full time and not having money to be any more extravagant.  So, Hill and Shawn threw it out to their listeners.

Today, still embarrassed and proud, the mother and son went on live radio.  The folks at 100.5 started handing them gifts – including a $100 gift card to Safeway Food Stores, a facial, and a non-food related mish-mash.  All very sweet though.  But then, they pulled out the 40 additional Safeway $100 gift cards donated by Zone listeners. All because the kid wanted a little lasagna now and again. And, both of her kids will be enjoying a little shopping spree too to make it a Christmas to remember to top it all off. 

What did I love about this story?  It wasn’t about the one-legged veteran whose house had burned down and who had his disability-rigged vehicle stolen and who had no way to support his 17 adopted special-needs children.  You know what I mean—those stories that are brimming with need.  The obvious need.  Those are the people who get those most attention during the holidays. 

What did I love about this story?  It was about a regular woman, with regular kids, who has a place to live, a car that goes, but nothing else, save her tenacity and desire to take care of her family, difficult though it may be.

What did I love about this story?  I love the fact that people recognized themselves in her.  And gave.  That I recognized me in her. 

How her story highlighted that most of us are treading on a razor-thin line—mostly thanks to those people with hefty pensions and cush lobbying jobs waiting for them who “serve” us in Washington and the Party that masterminded the unraveling of the middle and working class. 

That woman could have been me at several points in my life, but for the grace of good fortune, kismet, fate, luck, God or Goddess, it hasn’t been so far.

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when? ~ Rabbi Hillel

Mother & Child

My intent wasn’t to write another holiday tale tonight. But, life happens. I had been crunching numbers all day long. My eyes were burning from staring at Excel spreadsheets for endless hours. I decided to go outside and get some fresh air. Our street is a haven for the homeless and the mentally ill—they walk or rant up and down our street all day long—begging for money, smokes, or even the coats off your backs. They have to survive, but one does get inured to the constant entreaties—especially if you see a guy you just gave a couple bucks for a sandwich to buying crack 10 minutes later around the corner.

I was standing next to the aged oak tree about 100 feet from the building, trying to text message Magical Samantha, when I saw the most adorable little boy with a worn and dirty ski cap on buzzing by me. He was about 4 by the looks of him. My eye followed his buzzing body as he zoomed back to his mother, who was pushing a baby carriage holding a baby girl, who looked to be about 18 months old. The little girl was laughing—perhaps because the ride was fun. I smiled at them and waved. Neither of the kids were dressed warm enough for our chilly Sacramento December.

I kept punching in my message – it takes all of my concentration as I am challenged that way—when the woman said, “Excuse me ma’am.” I knew what was coming. I was going to get hit up for money which I normally don’t carry for just that reason. There was something about her—a quiet dignity. A sincerity. For once, this jaded one believed her as soon as she spoke. Somehow, we fell into conversation.

Before I knew it, we were talking about all the places she’d been that day to ask for a place for her and her children to stay. All had waiting lists. She asked, as she’d just come from Berkeley (it’s not all sunshine and roses there), where she could find a really cheap hotel with hot water so she could bathe the children—all she wanted was to bathe the children-she said they hadn’t even realized that they weren’t just on an adventure for the day yet. She had everything she owned on her back and on theirs. I told her about the day rate hotels where mostly transients stay just down the block. She’d been to another of those and it was $47 for a night. I know the place, it’s a dump.

Someone had given them some bagels. Someone else was going to meet her at the Rite-Aid at 4:30 and buy her a bag of diapers. I gave her all the change in my pocket. And, my hand felt something else—my wallet – which I never carry like that. I gave her all I had—$10 in ones—payday being tomorrow, after all. It wasn’t nearly enough. I had to return to work. She said, “You’re the nicest person I’ve met since I’ve been here. You must have a lot of homeless people. I had no idea it would be like this.”

I asked her if she had family in Berkeley and she said, “I do, but they are all into drugs and are no good.” She said she’d rather be cold tonight that go there to them, where it isn’t safe. Safe. What’s safe about the street? Well, I guess for her, that’s relative.

I left early today, to go to an appointment and when I left, I looked up and down the street, hoping I’d see her. I was going to drive them to a hotel and put them put them up for a night. I had a credit card, after all. But, she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she’d found the money for that room, perhaps she’d decided to turn back Berkeley way. Maybe she was scamming me, though I doubt it.

All I know is, I can’t get them out of my mind. As I go to sleep tonight in my warm bed, in my warm house, with my well-fed children safely tucked in, I will be thinking of that young mother and her children hoping they are safe and warm on their first night in Sacramento.

http://www.stjohnsshelter.org/donate.html

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood; And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. ~ William Wordsworth

 

Sacramento Children’s Receiving Home

A while back, I asked everyone to vote for me on Blog Interviewer.  I said if I got in the Top 3, I’d donate my winnings to the Sacramento Children’s Receiving Home.  Well, you did, and I did, and Spyville did. 

Not only did Spyville forward me my prizes, but they also threw in a bunch of invisible ink spy pens to boot—how cool is that?  Thanks, Spyville! 

I dropped the gifts off at the Home at about noon today at their North Pole annex, where volunteer elves were busy at work. 

You can help the kids by donating a gift—whether you be Grinch or Elf by nature.  Please visit their website:  Sacramento Children’s Receiving Home and pick a kid’s wishlist on the right sidebar.  If you do participate, please shoot me a note, huh?

In Omaha, I used to organize gift efforts for the Nebraska Children’s Homes Society at Offutt AFB HQ—and it’s about the best feeling you can get–try it, you’ll like it!

These kids have nothing.  They have lived in tumult and often in extreme abuse or neglect for all of their young lives.  They are often in a long-lasting legal limbo and will be yanked emotionally back and forth between their family of origin and foster families or group homes until they can be yanked no more.   

Especially the teens – those in the most need.  No longer the cute little tykes everyone loves to take on as their own personal poster child for charity, they need stability, peace, and unconditional love more than the others. They often aren’t lovable on first sight and are frequently so difficult and damaged the possibility of getting what they need most are slim to none.  And they are the ones who dare not hope that someone will listen to their wishes come Holiday time.

If you prefer to give locally, look in your Yellow Pages for the nearest children’s social service agency and let them guide you to the place where your help is needed.  And, it is needed.

If you have much, give of your wealth; If you have little, give of your heart ~Arab Proverb

Arthur, Remembered

Please enjoy this vintage HAH in honor of Arthur and all those who have died before or since and for all of those surviving with HIV/AIDS.

World AIDS/HIV Awareness Day was yesterday.  I’ve seen some pretty eloquent blogs on the topic and felt a little inadequate to post anything particularly insightful.  Every single person afflicted has a story.  Today, that would make over 40 million stories.   But, I just want to tell you about one.

Arthur was a long, lithe, sexy, beautiful, graceful Black man about my age.  He was witty, bright, sardonic, seductive, charming, and though he could occasionally be a Miss Thang, he was mostly just kind.  I met him in the last two years of his life.  He had been infected very early in the epidemic, probably during his travels with the theater company he sang and danced in—he never really knew for sure.  When I first got to Omaha, he was at “the bar” (read:  social hub for almost all Omaha over-30 queers).  That night I decided I needed to get out in my new town and meet people—always a difficult thing for me to do.  In Omaha, “the bar” was really the only way to meet kindred spirits, other than the MCC church.  He made me feel most welcome and introduced me to a person who later became very important in my life and in my development as a human being. He had an incredible number of friends in the community whom he was happy to share.  We’d meet there, on the odd occasion, and talk.  Once in a while, we’d dance slow and crazy to Al Green. 

The last time I spoke to him, he sat at the bar and asked me to join him.  Slowly, he told me about the man with whom he’d been on a date.  Arthur, who was always joking and laughing, looked so incredibly sad as he told me that as much as he’d like to see the man again, and be held—just be held, comforted and loved, he knew he wouldn’t see him again in his current state, which was quickly deteriorating for some unexplained reason.  I listened and hoped I provided some comfort to him that night before I hugged him best wishes until our next meeting.  We both promised to call.  He grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly.

I moved that month to California, missing Arthur along the way with all the things needing to be done.  I kept tabs on his condition through the friends who were caring for him.  In April, I returned for my household goods.  I was told I needed to go to the hospice to see Arthur that night, as he wasn’t expected to live many more hours.  I did not recognize the man before me, his body ravaged by his illness and his mind no longer coherent.  But, that night, I joined four friends to hold Arthur’s hands, rub his now stick-like arms, massage his feet, and run a damp and cool washcloth across his forehead.  We talked to him; fairly certain he was no longer capable of hearing our words, hoping he’d understand our touch.  Finally, his family arrived.  We each took turns kissing him goodbye and left.  On the way out, I took his mother aside and told her what Arthur had meant to me.  She was polite, nothing more.  Arthur died two hours later.

The funeral was held a few days later.  It was a spiritual African-American service, but there was something not quite right in the air, according to the reports I received after my return to California.  All of his friends—his nearly 200 Gay and Lesbian friends—sat on one side of the church and streamed out the door—his family and their friends sat on the other.  The pastor addressed his comments to the family’s side of the church as he explained that Arthur, who had been lost, was inexplicably “found” before his death, renouncing his gay lifestyle and all that led him to his final day.  He admonished the “friend” side to see the error of their ways and get right with God.  At the end of the service, there was no mingling of the two camps.  No opportunity for his family to hear of Arthur’s impact on the lives of others in the many years he was not close to them.  No opportunity for the sides to come together to celebrate his life nor mourn his passing, which may have provided comfort to both sides.  Two hundred people walked away shaking their heads, wondering if his family had known Arthur at all.

Arthur’s friends raised the money to pay the cost of burying Arthur and providing him with a memorial stone.  Arthur’s friends cleaned out his apartment and made sure his final wishes were honored regarding the disposition of his trinkets and baubles that meant so much to him.  Arthur’s friends did not judge him, they loved him.  The God I know did too.

Arthur will be remembered by me for how he lived, how he loved, and how he danced to Al Green. 

Art by Patrick John Mills, www.patrickjohnmills.com with permission.

Dona Nobis Pacem

Don’t forget to stop over to Starr Ann Chronicles to see cowgirl Starr Ann herself guest posting on Dona Nobis Pacem while Margo Moon slumbers.

A few years ago, I saw a “New Twilight Zone” called, “A Small Talent for War.”  Aliens were invading a war-torn Earth.  They landed in New York, to speak to the United Nations-where they ominously warned that they were here to destroy the planet full of people who seemed to have a small talent for war.  The diplomats begged for time to fix the situation.  The aliens gave us 48 hours to improve or perish.  Diligently and intently, the world’s diplomats worked through the 48 hours until at last, all the world’s conflicts ceased.  There was peace on Earth for the first time in the history of Man.  The aliens return, astounded at what the Earthlings had done.  You see, it’s not what they were going for at all.  They, it seemed, were a superior race of warriors who had hoped somehow we would get our warrior act together and do it up right—instead, we turned into a bunch of peace pussies, thus assuring our doom.

 

In 2006, the number of worldwide armed conflicts totaled 100*.  In Africa, over 100,000 people have died in several of the conflicts.  That’s all the people in the town I grew up in.  That is my mother, father, sister, grocer, neighbors, teachers, playmates, and high school classmates.  Then, there’s “our” wars in Afghanistan and Iraq—and the war to come in Iran to consider. 

Today, the sons and daughters of my peers are serving and dying in war zones.  In another year, it could be my own son or even his best friend whom I saw today standing proud and tall in his ROTC uniform.  That is wholly unacceptable to me.  I just can’t wrap my head around why they’re there.  I mean, I’m a veteran of two services, I know how this stuff works.

It can’t be oil or worldwide oil prices wouldn’t be the highest they’ve ever been.  It can’t be for worldwide stability, because the entire region is still the powder keg it’s always been, and in the case of Iraq, the removal of Hussein has fractured the country into tribal and religious factions, each wanting control of a country that will take 20 years of reconstruction, even if we stop the conflict today. So, we’ve made a bad situation worse.   It can’t be because our allies and Iraq’s neighbors asked us to go in, because they aren’t behind us and they didn’t ask.  It can’t be because we don’t have anything else to do with our budget.  Hey, we have that idiotic and failed No Child Left Behind to deal with and poverty and a healthcare crisis and any number of untended issues domestically that keep getting shoved aside for Cheney’s bullshit war. 

So, what is it?  Could it really be that we were duped as an electorate into believing the bullshit George Bush, Dick Cheney, and his Empire of Halliburton cronies shoveled out?  That couldn’t be it, could it?  Did you know that the richest 250 people in the world hold are as wealthy as 2.5 billion of the poorest people in the world combined?  Where do the top 500 Republican contributors sit on that list of the wealthy?  Is Dick Cheney looking at relying on what’s left of Social Security for his retirement or will he get his big payoff for guiding this totally inept administration through eight years of cronyism and pocket-lining?  How is it that the children of our corporate and political elite are not serving in our wars?   How dare they rationalize that somehow they are doing something “more important” in the effort, when in fact, I believe they just don’t have the moral fortitude to do what one million of the “less fortunate” do every day by putting on that uniform. 

I’m so disheartened, and feel so defeated by our current political situation and how we’ve dug ourselves in where we are not able to dig ourselves out. I fear for my children. The heaviest weight of war, as it has through much of our history, is carried on the backs of the poor, the working class, and the over-taxed middle-class.  All the while the war mongers get richer and can show up for church on Sunday morning able to completely set aside any semblance of conscience and blot out the fact they are on one hand responsible for the fact the streets run red with the blood of innocents as the other hand picks up the green.  Oh, or stand by for the sound byte and take the credit if, for some reason, there was reason for someone to take credit (hmmm, looking back here and trying to remember the last time the mission really was “accomplished.”)

Were those aliens to land outside the United Nations today, we’d probably be spared.  We’ve grown hopelessly beyond a small talent for war.  

Stop the wars, be a pussy for peace. 

*According to Ploughshares.  Defining Armed Conflict: For the purposes of the annual Armed Conflicts Report an armed conflict is defined as a political conflict in which armed combat involves the armed forces of at least one state (or one or more armed factions seeking to gain control of all or part of the state), and in which at least 1,000 people have been killed by the fighting during the course of the conflict.

Goodbye Moll, We Hardly Knew Ye

Three years ago, in rural Yolo County, over 80 Collies, and asundry other critters, including a horse, were confiscated from an old man. The old man had also had over 50 Collies confiscated from him a few years prior in another county. He moved and started hoarding all over again. You’ve got to read the story here. Really. Read it. The guy, to this day, doesn’t think he did anything wrong.

This morning, I got word that one of the only puppies from this confiscation, Molly, had died at age three. She died of acute lymphoma. This was the dog I had fostered just prior to her placement with her permanent family. She lived the life of Riley in her last 16 months. She was adopted by a very well-off couple who love Collies. Molly was one of their favorites and she had it all—ocean-front living, playmates, love, and the very best care available.

Over three years ago, when my friend Dr. Cathy Toft, of the Road Home K-9 Rescue, and a board member of the rescue I work for, was asked to help with the evaluation, care, and placement of the dogs, she started something that would end up being all she lived and breathed for over two solid years. She rallied the animal community and through donations and pro bono services offered by the veterinary school at UC-Davis and various vet clinics, provided quality end of life services for those who would never be able to find a permanent home. She also got me to sign on for a relationship with rescue that continues today. She got most of the dogs prepared and placed with loving families.

Thirty of these dogs have died prematurely so far. Several died in Cathy’s arms. She took on the hardest cases herself. Many others died of lymphoma or other diseases associated with the overuse of vaccinations and pesticides and poor breeding.

I’m not PETA freak, but why is it someone can do this and still be out walking the streets? Twice. The toll these premature deaths are taking on the adoptive families is pretty high too. My thoughts: Yolo County needs to do everything in its power to make sure this man never, ever gets another animal in his possession. I am so pissed off, I can’t see straight (about the only thing I do straight on any kind of basis)

Molly, girl, I’ll always remember you—bye, baby!

The Road Home works with older, ill, and behaviorally challenged Collies. They help secure health services and provide rehabilitative training so the animals can again be placed in a permanent home.

National Coming Out Day

I couldn’t come up with anything original to say - so here you are - vintage HAH in honor of National Coming Out Day!  Come back tomorrow for the second Dear Middle-Aged Lesbian feature…

Grab a cocktail, this is a long one!

When I was growing up in a small city in Iowa, I knew I was different.  It was indefinable, because no one ever said the word “Gay” or “Lesbian” and no one I knew was gay, or at least that’s what I thought then.  I didn’t know what “it” was or what it meant.  I struggled through my various phases of adolescence and experimentation and came out on the side of “normal;” a normal that was never really who I was.  Things were different then—and even more different for the generations of Gays and Lesbians who had their own struggles before mine.

One day, I knew in my heart of hearts if I didn’t come out, I would surely explode into a million pieces.  Every facet of my life was crumbling around me because of my own fears of being who I was.  The process was painful.  Painful for me and painful for some of the people in my life whose range of reactions was anything from:  I was duplicitous and my entire life to that point had been some sort of fraud perpetrated on them - to offering sincere concern for my well-being and future happiness, not to mention the state of my soul and where it was most assuredly going to end up.

The day I came out to my mom I felt the closest to her I ever have.  I told her in person, struggling with the words, terrified of rejection, and she came out on the other side of her upbringing and beliefs to wrap her arms around me and tell me that she loved me.  I’m sure she had said those words before, and I’m sure she’d hugged me at some other point in my life, but this will always be the one I remember.  That hurdle leapt, I came out to others in my life one step at a time.  Though I hoped I would not lose people along the way, I did.  But, I’d say that my experience was pretty easy as these experiences go—it’s not that way for everyone.

 

Things have changed.  Recently, I was told by a teen in my life that I’d be surprised how many middle-schoolers already identify as bisexual or gay—apparently, they actually talk about it and use the words we didn’t even know existed when I was young.  Hell, yes, I’m surprised, I’m surprised any of them have even honed down their emotions and those hormonal urges to anything specific other than having the urge to hump anything that moves and some things that might not move. 

And, while queers and perceived queers continue to be the victims of homophobic attacks and torment, Gay-Straight Alliances are popping up in schools everywhere.  Now, if we could just connect the good things that are happening in schools to help all of those gay teens who will kill themselves this year because they fear facing their parents or can no longer stand the bullying, before it happens, I’d be very happy.

When a large segment of our population votes for legislation that bars gays from marrying or votes to allow discrimination against gays, they are not rejecting “what I do,” they are rejecting me, as a person, and telling me I am not equal to them.  They are rejecting me, a taxpayer who does not enjoy the same tax benefits or property succession rights, yet helps support the myriad of welfare programs that benefit those left in poverty because of heterosexual divorce and unchecked heterosexual breeding.  They are rejecting me, the human being, by denying me the opportunity to create a legal and protected relationship with a lifemate of my choice.  That pisses me off. 

This is the bottom line:  Being gay is not what I do; it’s who I am—to the core of my being.  It’s not detachable nor is it disposable. You can’t legislate it away or banish it to Hell.  Finding “the right man” won’t work, it’s been tried.  It can’t be cured and no amount of prayer will change it.  You can’t wash it down the drain and you sure as Hell can’t put it back in the closet!

Every person who walks out of that closet has family, friends, neighbors, teachers, employers, and colleagues who have the potential to change their mind on gay issues to one in our favor once they actually know/love/respect a gay person themselves.  We fear what we do not understand.  Put a face on their fear, so their fear no longer makes sense.  Have your voice heard, help make us stronger—come out, come out, wherever you are!

 

HRC has a number of tips available on their website to guide those who do choose to take the day to come out.

Columbus Day

I was walking outside today about 2 pm and was struck by the fact that the streets were not alive with the usual honking cars, pedestrians about to take their lives in their hands by crossing in a Sacramento cross-walk, or tons of people rushing back and forth to their meters to plug it for another couple of hours.

Then, I remembered, as a Nation, we were celebrating Columbus Day. You remember that from grade school, right? The brave, if deluded and navigationally challenged Columbus, convincing the Spanish queen to fund his little fleet of ships to find a shorter route to the riches of the Orient? And, who could forget the ships themselves: the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria?

The Greeks, Norse, and Romans told their heroic tales through their mythology. The Africans did the same. Back to cave dwellers, Man has put his own spin on his history–his “victory.” How would those who were vanquished or trodden upon have written the history had they the ability? Or, how, I wonder, would the Nazi version of the genocide they were responsible for been portrayed if they’d won the war?

We’ve learned, since our childhood, that our 3^rd grade knowledge of Columbus and his little jaunts across the deep blue sea was more than a little revisionist. Historians have, by virtue of better and more sophisticated techniques, less-beholden attitudes, and a desire to put historic fact ahead of fable, been able to reconstruct a series of adventures quite a bit different from the heroic visage we all came to know and love (at least for the day off of school or work). The man never even set foot on North American soil. He did, however, destroy entire populations of indigenous people through slavery and disease in other parts of the Americas. Why are we celebrating him with this holiday?

The war rages in Iraq and Afghanistan. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, and grandparents are slaughtered—civilians without a Jihadist agenda. Every day more of our service members are sent into harm’s way without a clear purpose or exit objective—and are dying—leaving loved ones, even those supporting our military mission, wondering exactly why the death was necessary. Our military “machine” is stunted by inadequate funding and personnel. Our reputation in the court of world opinion is at an all-time low. Our domestic situation is equally devastated, but focus lies elsewhere as long as the war rages.

Our country is torn in half just as clearly by red and blue as it was 150 years ago by blue and gray.

What will the history books say about us? Our generation? Our America? I don’t think it’s something I will take any pleasure in reading—even if I get a chance.

Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunters.
~ African Proverb