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A Break in Your Regularly Scheduled Programming

So, I know you’re just dying to read about another leg of our gay, man-infested destiny road trip–you, the one trying to research a bail bond business whilst nursing a weekend hangover. But a more pressing matter deserves the dim limelight this lil blog affords.

Now, y’all know me. Or, at the very least, have read a post or two. So you know LGBT rights are important to me. For obvious reasons.

And you might also know that Andy and I have had our share of unpleasant encounters of the bigoted bubba kind.

Fratastic fools dishing out hate speech...until the camera came out

But when I hear about friends who’ve experienced not just bigotry, but assault, I tend to lose my shit.

Especially when I haven’t had coffee.

So when I perused my Sunday Facebook feed and read about an incident involving two friends, not even the impending knowledge of coffee and French toast could keep me calm.

After being responsible adults and opting to have a cab service bring their evening to a close, my friends were called “faggots” by the driver. More disturbingly, after they’d exited, and as one of them snapped an iPhone photo of the bigoted driver, the driver attempted to hit the photographer with his cab.

Bigoted nonservice provider...

Now. To write that that’s unacceptable, unprofessional, unbelievable, and dangerous would be ridiculous. Because it’s so much beyond that.

When a person’s hatred for complete strangers—clients, even—is so severe that it propels them to channel and exercise violence against those people, it’s time for legal action.

But then “crime” and, more specifically, “hate crime” definitions come into play, and bigots often skate through the massive loopholes specific to LGBT rights protections. And they feel their behavior is justified. And they feel it more so when their local government supports alienating and “othering” a segment of the population that’s a little different from them.

Because nothing brings bigots together more than the smell of disenfranchisement in the morning, afternoon, or night.

Still, knowing that their behavior hasn’t gone unnoticed does give some bigots pause. Because, as I’ve written before, when bigots believe their victims are two-dimensional, harmless, defenseless bodies and are suddenly faced with strong-willed, outspoken individuals well-equipped to defend themselves, they shut down. They don’t get it. They can’t quite comprehend that there’s some sort of recourse, even if it’s simply expletives exchanged between counter-positioned parties.

Words do resonate. Especially when received in concert by friends, family members, and allies of LGBT people. So as Andy and I fired off strongly-worded emails to the taxi service, as did many other friends, we felt that, if nothing else, the cab service knows that our eyes are on them.

That LGBTs have friends everywhere.

That we’re not alone.

That we’re not silent.

That we’re not victims.

That the national tides are changing with the ebbing of more conservative generations’ old guards, and the inflow of their younger, more enlightened replacements.

Speaking AGAINST Amendment One at the Wake County Board of Commissioners Meeting, 2012

***

Later that day, Andy and I bumped into our friends at the grocery store, and heard a little bit more about their ordeal. And after they left and we got our groceries, we went next door to grab some coffee.

And there, in a long line, a woman met my gaze, held it, gave Andy and I the proverbial once-over, and grimaced.

I grimaced back.

Mostly because: (1) Bigots disgust me; and (2) Her faded jean short camel toe complemented both her oversized, stained tee shirt advertising her dog walking business and the pilled, circa 1993 scrunchie binding her badly highlighted, frizzed hair.

So after she and her muffin top collected a venti frappucino—with whip, of course—and flubbered along, I went out to our car, didn’t have to squeeze myself between the closely parked cars, and smiled to myself.

***

Love is like a battlefield.

But not quite in the way Jordin Sparks makes it out to be.

To love is to fight—to battle, even. Because when your life is up for public debate, when your rights can be stripped away by the majority, you’re always on alert. You’re always ready to wage war to defend those whom you love.

My Life, My Rights poster from a rally AGAINST Amendment One

So you give it your best—do what you can to prove to yourself that your voice matters. That, no matter what, you don’t stand by and watch as things crumble, backsliding into the dregs of a problematic past.

That living your life is the best weapon against discrimination.

That just being out–being yourself–may help a kid who sees you, but whom you never meet, realize, Wow, I’m not the only one.

But fighting can leave you tired and weary. And resentful.

It’s then that you realize that it’s time to transfer the mantle to willing shoulders. Because, deep down, you know it’s time for you to leave.

Because there’s a time to fight.

And a time to live. 

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Making Do

In the coming days, the average, conscientious American will think about North Carolina for a few minutes–probably as coverage of Amendment One’s passage blips across their television screen or pops up on their smart phone. There will be the shaking of the head, the exasperated sigh, the usual and oft-overused phrases about the South being backwards. But then they’ll be next in line for their coffee, or American Idol will come on, and that’ll be that–kaput for civil rights in North Carolina, at least in their minds.

But for those of us grappling with the after-effects of this hateful legislation being translated into law, Amendment One is everywhere we look. It’s along the roads, it’s on bumpers, it’s in our workplaces. We can’t escape it. We have to listen to the bigoted commentary, the enthusiastic hoots from the bubbas next door about “those fucking faggots.” And we try not to scream.

At work this morning, my friend asked me why I didn’t just move. She emphasized that the best way to exercise civil disobedience is to take myself and my money to more tolerant locales. Sure, I thought about it well before the vote came back. But I told myself that I’ve felt disenfranchised before and have stayed rooted; hell, I grew up in Alabama (insert tired cliché here). Still, Amendment One’s passage was something new for me. What made me sob into my friends’ shoulders Tuesday night wasn’t the outcome, but rather the wide margin–the degree to which so much hateful ignorance still exists. It hurt. And it hurt worse than my hangover the next morning. It still hurts today. And will for a long time.

She waited. And I told her simply, “Raleigh is my home.” That it’s taken me so long to find somewhere that felt so comfortable. That I’ve built a life for myself of which I’m proud. That I’ve been immensely fortunate to have such a strong network of friends who are more than just “family”–they’re family. And I’m not leaving any of it. Or them. Because as strong as we each are on our own, we’re a tremendous force en masse. We laugh, we cry, we fight for what’s right against those who fight for what’s Reich.

And while it’s been a time for intensive introspective reflections, a time for mourning, it’s also a time to galvanize ourselves to reach out. To offer a hand to those who feel even more isolated and alienated than they’ve ever felt before; to the youth who thought this might be a turnaround, that they might see how things get better; to the elderly who thought they’d see that same turnaround. I have to remember that in this time of anger and upset, there’re so many more who are hurting more intensely, who are contemplating darker alternatives. We have to keep the fight alive and the momentum fierce.

Responding to my inquiry about how he’s been faring this week, my dear friend Norman–82 years young–said, “It’s been up and down. Just like an erection. But you just have to make the best of it.”

Phallocentric allusions aside, we all have to make the best of it. Even if there are a lot of pricks in the state.

 
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Threading A Future Together

Moments like these demand such strength to stay upright. An observer by nature, I often soak in what I see and process it through prose, the medium through which I’ve channeled much of my life and that which has become my saving grace so many times before. But today, words fail.

Some might say I’m feeding into a defeatist mentality. That I think it’s over. That it was all for naught. But they couldn’t be more wrong. Am I disheartened that a majority of North Carolinians chose hate and ignorance, thereby causing North Carolina to backslide into the same welter of inequity and disenfranchisement promulgated by its neighboring southern states? Undoubtedly. But am I exceptionally proud of the strides the LGBTQ-ally community made over the past year, in anticipation of Amendment One? You bet your asses.

For the better part of a year, many of us have been fighting the fight: handing out buttons and posting signs in our yards; making convoys to voting stations and participating in phone banks; educating those who didn’t understand the amendment’s wide-reaching implications and bolstering those who did to keep on trucking; planning festival events and organizational activities to showcase the Triangle’s diversity in the hopes of demonstrating how problematic this sort of institutionalized bigotry is and how many it will affect; marching to make a difference and making our presence known. Coming together for a common goal; making a difference when we could’ve easily thrown up our hands and embraced apathy. We’ve made an impact. We’ve grown, we’ve cried, we’ve driven ourselves to the brink.

And sometimes we lose. But Amendment One will not stand the test of time. It will be relegated to the proverbial dustbin with other similarly authored legislation—of the same ilk that once barred other minorities from sharing basic civil rights. It will instantaneously become a horrendous blight on North Carolina’s constitution, and will be an embarrassment for future legislators to repeal. It will undermine North Carolina’s vitality. Businesses will hemorrhage employees who no longer receive benefits for their children or their partners. Everyone will know someone affected. No citizen will be spared. Amendment One is a vector of a legislative epidemic.

Hateful people will always exist. But they won’t always wield majority rule. The issues that concerned generations before mine are disturbingly laughable to us today. What today’s young people care about is making a life for themselves—and doing so together, regardless of our abilities, ethnicities, or gender identities. We realize that the religious right’s latest buffeting will be the last significant wave we will have to endure—that those of us fighting for equality have droves of advocates joining us in solidarity.

We’re all part of a quilt that’s been tattered by hate, bigotry, and ignorance. But it’s slowly being patched together through proactive activism and genuine respect. Because somewhere in the madness, we realize that our respective futures hang by threads. But if they’re sewn together, our bond will never unravel.

And our success will blanket the nation.

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Making Coble Culpable

As I walked up to the podium, I was seething with anger–so much so that I actually shook through most of my speech. It takes a lot for me to get this angry, but I was incensed by Paul Coble’s decision to speak not only for other commissioners who disagree with him–Betty Lou Ward, Ervin Portman, and James West, I commend you–but for all of Raleigh. Of course, Coble is not the only one to espouse such hatred from on high. He is of the same ilk as the Westboro Baptist Church’s hate-mongers, just more fashionably conscious in his choice of sheep’s clothing. With cavalier, grossly overgeneralized statements, he dismissed the issue, demanded a vote, and got his way. And all I could do was think how nice it must be for him to serve in an elected public office and feel as though he can say anything without consequence.

But I am one of the LGBTQs who lives with the consequences of statements such as his. I endure the hate speech, the hate crimes, the perpetuated institutionalized violence. I try to use reason and sound facts to legitimize an aspect of my life to those who have no business being a part of it. I neither embody nor perform the slanderous, outlandish, and problematic stereotypes mapped onto me, because I am no one’s puppet; I control my life’s strings.

Thoughts such as these ran through my mind as I hastily jotted-down my brief speech in a downtown coffee shop an hour before I walked up the courthouse’s steps. And while others took their turns to speak, I could not help but latch onto Coble’s expressionless face and his agitated body language. Each time an ally or member of the LGBTQ community spoke against the resolution he authored, as well as against Amendment One, his demeanor mimicked that of a petulant child. He refused to make eye contact, and did everything he could to convey that each and every one of us was wasting his time. Sadly, I expected nothing less. Maturity is not something with which age endows us; it is something built, something learned through experience. But since he has never had his life forcibly shoved beneath a societal microscope for bigoted voyeurs to poke, prod, and dissect, it is unsurprising that he can wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and be proud of his reflection.

As the worn cliche goes, actions speak louder than words. In authoring such a hateful resolution, and trying to fly it under the proverbial radar, he and his supporters become complicit in every act of violence against LGBTQs in Wake County, the Triangle, and all of North Carolina. He and his supporters are bedfellows with bullies needling vulnerable school children. He and his supporters have blood on their hands for every LGBTQ or LGBTQ-perceived child who feels less than human and finds suicide to be the only answer; for every LGBTQ senior who is left with sores and bruises in their nursing home bed by bigots charged with their care; for every act of “correctional rape” exacted upon a transgendered person; for every abduction and murder of an LGBTQ person or ally. Hate breeds hate; its implications cannot be deflected. Hate is a human invention–a social construction; it is a learned behavior. Being an LGBTQ person is not.

I am not going anywhere. I will continue to stare hatred and bigotry squarely in the eye. I will continue to show others that they are not alone. I will continue on my mission for equal rights and protections under the law until I am satisfied or dead. Power does not come from an elected position; it comes from within–from an ability to empathize, understand, and respect your fellow person.

With younger generations caring more about finding their financial footing in this economically uncertain world, leading sustainable lives, and being a part of a social network and community, Coble and his minions are quickly becoming the minority. We will be victorious. We will be equal.

I already am.

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Just Call Me Toots: An Open Letter To [Insert Bigoted Politician Here]

Dear Putzy Politician:

I’m not one for self-promotion, for tooting my own horn. It’s unseemly, and doesn’t really jive with the southern gentleman I was groomed to be. But every now and then this southern belle has to let the fro free and tell Ms. Manners to take a hike.

And while I wish I had an incredibly engaging and riveting anecdote to segue into the meat of it all, it’s been a long day, and not even a jar of Nutella has enough sugar to keep me sharp. But I think the point I’ll try to make will be gleaned from a little tale about a kid named Matt. Why, that’s you! you exclaim. Well, buckaroo, you’re right! That’s an A+ for you. Now, shut up and listen.

Like I was saying before my ADHD got in the way: I’m not one for self-promotion. I prefer self-deprecation; it’s much more apropos, and it’s easier to employ when I eat my feelings. Perhaps this penchant stems from my late-bloomer status–the feeling that I was always behind the proverbial curve, that I never quite fit in. I was always the last to be picked for four square, the first to get bloodied in a “friendly” game of dodgeball. Even now when I laugh or smile, I still partially cover my mouth, as if to prevent a rogue piece of food from being launched by phantom headgear-like contraptions that haunted my adolescence. I still lisp occasionally, or stutter mildly with my Ss and Cs; still, I think two years of speech therapy in lieu of PE was the way to go. Had I tossed a ball instead of rolling my Rs, maybe I wouldn’t have had to devour Boost bars to speed the puberty fairy along. Regardless of being the boy who was never considered “relationship material” by most middle school girls, warranting a decided “No” to be circled heavy handedly on every romantic epistle passed in class, that blob of braces and low self-esteem blossomed into the awkwardly quirky late twenty-something writing this recollection and staving off sleep in the hopes that a point will come out of all of this rambling and smack you across the face.

Sure, back then I might not have been the hottest thing with my oversized glasses, generic Air Jordans, pastel Duckheads, and bright green Umbros. But I have a few more things to offer now; and I’m not talking about my ridiculous penchant for zippered shoes or amazing hair. I have pride. What, you demand, that’s it?! That’s your point? Well, sort of.

Pride is a tricky devil that informs a litany of unmentionable behaviors and takes a variety of guises. I sometimes anthropomorphize my pride as one of Dorothy’s confidants, the Cowardly Lion. From that, it might not sound as though I’d be the one you’d want by your side in a bar fight. But if Dirty Dancing taught us nothing else, it was that nobody puts Baby in a corner. When his friends are in danger, ye olde Cowardly Lion steps up the game, and Baby takes center stage. And that’s what I do. No, not dance. Pay attention! I step it up, wrench myself from my comfort zone, and make it work–defend the Scarecrow from fire, oil the Tin Man, and tell Dorothy to get a TomTom, stop and smell the poppies, and let me try on those shiny shoes. What I’m saying is that each of my friends knows that I’m in the fight to the end, and then some.

And I am. Regardless of what you and other bigots intend to enshrine with legislative zeal, I’m not budging. It took 27 years, but I’ve finally found somewhere that fits my definition of “home;” and it’s Raleigh. While you may claim to defend god-fearing married heterosexual North Carolinians from me and my deviant ways–my alleged corruptive powers of persuasion, subterfuge, and immorality–I defend the state I know North Carolina can be from you and your unconstitutional attempts to impose your archaic interpretations of history and religion onto the state’s population. I implore you to hear me: I am not going anywhere. I will continue to stare each of you hateful, ignorant people in the face and demand to know why I–a living, breathing, bleeding, tax-paying, volunteering citizen–am somehow inferior. I am not a gay man. I am a man. I am a person. And I will be treated like one.

If I can survive dental contraptions, puberty, car accidents, fire, broken bones, shouted epithets, physical confrontations, and emotional slander, I can assuredly survive whatever you and your ilk throw at me. Sure, I never made a game-winning pass in flag football. But I scored once.

And on May 8th, I plan to score again. And again. And keep pushing for more victories until we’re all united.

Even if we don’t play for the same team.

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Billed

I should be in bed. But then I realize that tomorrow I, along with other second-class citizens, will fight for my civil rights. So, as sleep escapes me, I visualize signs and slogans, fists raised aloft in solidarity. All for equality. All for recognition.

But there’s something else bubbling beneath my insomnia: anger. As right and just as it is to take the high ground, be mature, channel reason and optimism in lieu of cynicism and doubt, what I really want to do is scream, “Wake up, bigots! It’s 2011!” And why shouldn’t screaming work for our side? After all, the slurs, taunts, and biblical verses conservatives blast through bullhorns resound in the halls of the state capitol, contorting a very straightforward decision into a sick, religiously-tainted, “morality”-governed bout of tug-of-war. But the victors’ prize isn’t a trophy; it’s the continued subjugation of a minority, the dissolution of their basic rights and privileges–the same afforded to drunken couples in Vegas drive-thru chapels, but denied to committed partners.

A variation of love shared by the majority should not be mapped onto us all or given precedence. After all, everyone loves another in multiple, complicated ways; there is no one way to practice love, no one way to express it. Love is nebulous and messy. But we all deserve to have it recognized, not just by our friends and families, but by the legislators and other elected officials that we, their constituents, look to as arbiters of justice and equality.

Hope as currency has been financing the LGBT community for decades. Let us all fund a better tomorrow.