Dear Tyron,
I know you're dead and won't read this. It's because you just died that I need to write this letter. It's the cheapest form of therapy I know.
Not that I need grief therapy, as I didn't know you personally. To me you were a figure in newspaper photos, standing next to—you will excuse the expression—your partner in crime, John Geddes Lawrence. I remember you as smiling, ordinary and uncomfortable in the spotlight. I remember you as a hero.
Fate is stranger than a Dali painting, and you couldn't have had an inkling that September evening in Houston when the cops burst in on you and John in John's apartment that you were on your way to the U.S. Supreme Court. I assume at that moment you were simply grappling with fear, followed by anger, your thoughts that night in 1998 probably still unprintable in 2006.
And how about that twist to your arrest, the fact that the police showed up because they were responding to a false report of a man with a gun! I've read that the false reporter was a neighbor of John's and I've also read that he was a jealous lover of yours. Either way, this was one of those times, Tyron, where a petty emotion led to a turning in the tide of history.
You and John could've pleaded guilty to the misdemeanor of sodomy and vamoosed. But you listened to the lawyers who wanted to test that Texas law. Even though they said your chance of victory was about the same as those who defended the Alamo. You knew your rights had been violated. You became an accidental activist.
I'm sure it was no treat to be known the world over as the man who got caught with his britches down. Hard to bring some dignity to that, but you managed.
After traveling through Texas courts, your case wound up in the biggest court in the land. On June 26, 2003, the Supreme Court struck down laws in 13 states that outlawed gay sex. The court overruled its own lousy decision in Bowers v. Hardwick less than 20 years before.
Thanks to Lawrence v. Texas we weren't criminals anymore, but human beings entitled to privacy and dignity in our personal lives. As you Texans say, that made us happy as a clam at high tide.
How fitting that you weren't some gleaming celebrity gay, but a southern African-American who sold barbecue from a street stand. You showed America a section of the LGBT community too rarely seen.
I have a confession to make. When I heard you died at age 39, my reaction, after shock, was apprehension that those in the religious right who opt to tell whoppers will claim this is proof that gays die younger. Have pity on me, Tyron, as a touch of paranoia is part of my job description.
I noticed too that you died on September 11. I shouldn't be surprised to hear someone insist that your passing on that day was a message from The Big Guy. God is angry at an America that lifts sodomy bans, so he snatched a symbol of that event on the five-year-anniversary of a painful day in American history. Or something like that—apparently I don't have the Falwell-esque or Phelps-ian knack for contriving an interpretation.
We in the community probably assumed we had plenty of time to honor you appropriately. We were ninnies. I apologize.
Tyron, because of you our lives are better, and I can't think of a happier legacy. You said you didn't really want to be a hero. Well, you were. Thank you.
Love, Leslie
Monday, September 25, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Temporary Insanity Caused By Lesbianism
Thomas Austin had pleaded guilty months before to taking kickbacks. As his sentencing neared, the former Tennessee county judge could only hope the federal judge presiding over his case would be lenient toward a former colleague.
And sympathetic to a man whose two-timing wife spread her legs for a dyke!
It was his wife's lesbian liaison that led Austin to extort money from two driving schools and a private probation firm. He got criminal because she got carnal.
That's the case Austin's lawyer, Gregory P. Isaacs, put forth in a sentencing memorandum to U.S. District Judge Thomas Phillips. Isaacs wrote, “In early 2005, while Mr. Austin and his second wife were in marital counseling, she admitted her year-long involvement in an extramarital lesbian relationship.“
Their marriage counselor probably charged double for that session.
“Mr. Austin was quite distraught, sought medical help for depression and was prescribed anti-depressants,“ continued Isaacs. “Additionally, he began drinking heavily despite earlier struggles with alcohol. All of the charges that are included in this indictment occurred after this difficult and tumultuous period in Mr. Austin's personal life.“
So thanks to his wife's behavior, Austin, a Roane County General Sessions Court judge, suddenly lost contact with right and wrong. He was so adrift, I bet he sometimes even forgot to count the money he extorted.
Over six months in 2005, Austin collected about $14,000. Still, Isaac also submitted to the court lots of letters from Tennessee citizens lauding Austin's notable public service, which included helping to establish a battered-women's shelter.
That appears to have been his Dr. Jekyll side, since secretly recorded tapes show Tennessee's own Mr. Hyde.
“I've pulled every (expletive) thing in the book,“ Austin said to one of the men he was shaking down during his lost months. “I've granted girls divorces in the morning and (likely the same expletive, this time a verb) them that afternoon.“
On other occasions he bragged about recent sexual encounters with women, and advised one man, “Get you a little wife and a little house and a couple of (I bet the same multi-purpose expletive) mistresses, you'll be all right. You'll be right in there with the rest of us.“
I can't imagine why Austin's wife cheated on him. He's such a treasure.
His four kids, two still in school, are another reason he asked for leniency from Judge Phillips. But on tape, notes the Knoxville News Sentinel, Austin said, “If me and my old lady get divorced, I'll just let her have them (expletive he should be ashamed of in this context) kids. Tell her it ain't my (ditto) problem.“
It's conceivable that these are the words of a man who feels emasculated and is overcompensating. I could buy that his wife's lesbian affair caused him to act hyper-masculine. I can't buy that lesbianism turned him into a crook.
Nor does the head of the FBI investigation, who believes Austin has been lining his own pockets for a decade, amassing up to $100,000. On tape Austin said federal authorities have been after him for 20 years, and I'm sure it wasn't simply for repetitious swearing.
Then there's that strong suggestion that the judge used his position to earn himself some sexual favors from women. Yup, it looks like the federal prosecutor was right in describing Austin as “corrupt to his core.“
Judge Phillips sentenced Austin to 42 months in federal prison. The devil-made-me-do-it defense didn't earn Austin leniency.
Another letter that Austin's lawyer had submitted to Phillips before sentencing came from Austin's eldest child, who wrote, “My younger brother will have to live with his mother and her new girlfriend if my dad has to go away.“ The letter-writer is a chip off the old blockhead.
And sympathetic to a man whose two-timing wife spread her legs for a dyke!
It was his wife's lesbian liaison that led Austin to extort money from two driving schools and a private probation firm. He got criminal because she got carnal.
That's the case Austin's lawyer, Gregory P. Isaacs, put forth in a sentencing memorandum to U.S. District Judge Thomas Phillips. Isaacs wrote, “In early 2005, while Mr. Austin and his second wife were in marital counseling, she admitted her year-long involvement in an extramarital lesbian relationship.“
Their marriage counselor probably charged double for that session.
“Mr. Austin was quite distraught, sought medical help for depression and was prescribed anti-depressants,“ continued Isaacs. “Additionally, he began drinking heavily despite earlier struggles with alcohol. All of the charges that are included in this indictment occurred after this difficult and tumultuous period in Mr. Austin's personal life.“
So thanks to his wife's behavior, Austin, a Roane County General Sessions Court judge, suddenly lost contact with right and wrong. He was so adrift, I bet he sometimes even forgot to count the money he extorted.
Over six months in 2005, Austin collected about $14,000. Still, Isaac also submitted to the court lots of letters from Tennessee citizens lauding Austin's notable public service, which included helping to establish a battered-women's shelter.
That appears to have been his Dr. Jekyll side, since secretly recorded tapes show Tennessee's own Mr. Hyde.
“I've pulled every (expletive) thing in the book,“ Austin said to one of the men he was shaking down during his lost months. “I've granted girls divorces in the morning and (likely the same expletive, this time a verb) them that afternoon.“
On other occasions he bragged about recent sexual encounters with women, and advised one man, “Get you a little wife and a little house and a couple of (I bet the same multi-purpose expletive) mistresses, you'll be all right. You'll be right in there with the rest of us.“
I can't imagine why Austin's wife cheated on him. He's such a treasure.
His four kids, two still in school, are another reason he asked for leniency from Judge Phillips. But on tape, notes the Knoxville News Sentinel, Austin said, “If me and my old lady get divorced, I'll just let her have them (expletive he should be ashamed of in this context) kids. Tell her it ain't my (ditto) problem.“
It's conceivable that these are the words of a man who feels emasculated and is overcompensating. I could buy that his wife's lesbian affair caused him to act hyper-masculine. I can't buy that lesbianism turned him into a crook.
Nor does the head of the FBI investigation, who believes Austin has been lining his own pockets for a decade, amassing up to $100,000. On tape Austin said federal authorities have been after him for 20 years, and I'm sure it wasn't simply for repetitious swearing.
Then there's that strong suggestion that the judge used his position to earn himself some sexual favors from women. Yup, it looks like the federal prosecutor was right in describing Austin as “corrupt to his core.“
Judge Phillips sentenced Austin to 42 months in federal prison. The devil-made-me-do-it defense didn't earn Austin leniency.
Another letter that Austin's lawyer had submitted to Phillips before sentencing came from Austin's eldest child, who wrote, “My younger brother will have to live with his mother and her new girlfriend if my dad has to go away.“ The letter-writer is a chip off the old blockhead.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Teen Rainbow Tales
A friend handed me a book and commanded me to read it. It was “Rainbow Boys,“ a novel about three high school seniors in varying stages of coming out. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, a boy, rainbow or otherwise, but this book wound up intriguing me in a bunch of ways.
I can't say it's spectacularly written, but I can say Alex Sanchez's novel for young adults has more real emotion than a month's worth of “General Hospital.“
The book is precisely the sort of thing I would've inhaled as an adolescent. I loved teen-angst novels, presumably because I was a teen with angst. I read about tempestuous subjects that were familiar to me, like peer pressure, and tempestuous subjects that weren't familiar to me, like heroin addiction.
Homosexuality I would've lumped in the latter category. No, I'm not equating gayness with drug addiction—I leave that to politicians. Back then I simply didn't know much about homosexuality. I certainly had no idea little old me was gay. But I imagine I would've been willing to read about the topic. I just don't remember seeing any young-adult novels that dealt with it back in the '70s.
Did they really not exist, or did libraries refuse to stock them? Or perhaps I self-censored myself, my unconscious mind whispering, “Oh, let's wait on this subject. It'll be much more fun to torture her with it when she's 30.“
It's edifying to see “Rainbow Boys“ and similar offerings out there now, so the younger set can read them. Gay kids will find out they're far from alone; straight kids will find out they're far from a clue, if they've been thinking gay kids are either rare or so different from themselves.
I became sufficiently wrapped up in Sanchez's characters that I'm now reading the sequel, “Rainbow High,“ with “Rainbow Road“ next. I'm following the author's rainbow path. It doesn't matter that I'm middle-aged. I still like to follow the yellow brick road now and then, too.
It's doubtful that I could write quality fiction for young adults. But I think I could come up with some compelling story lines. I'll toss a few ideas out there right now, which, for brevity's sake, I'll mold into blurbs.
“Boys? Dating? Holly didn't care about any of that. All that mattered to her was her ambition of becoming a scientist. But one day, while handing Susan Lowery a test tube, their fingers touched, and Holly felt an electric current that her textbooks couldn't explain. Would she have the guts to try her bravest experiment yet?“
“Jameel had always been happiest in church, singing in the choir, or listening to his father roar and whisper his way through sermons. Everyone expected Jameel to take his father's place someday. Jameel dreamt of that, too. But in his dream, he stood up there and preached the Lord's word wearing a dress and high heels, while those he filled with the spirit responded, 'Amen, sister!'“
“Mason really thought he was on the edge of freaking out. His mother wouldn't or couldn't quit drinking, his baseball coach benched him during the last game, and he couldn't decide whether to go to the spring dance with Jenny or William. Maybe some people thought being bi was cool, but as far as he was concerned it was just one more pain . . .“
“Stewart was disgusted. They had fought so hard for a Gay-Straight Alliance at Grover Cleveland High School. Now they had it, but the students in charge broke up and refused to speak to each other. 'Jeez,' thought Stewart, 'I wonder if it's too late to join the photography club?'“
I can't say it's spectacularly written, but I can say Alex Sanchez's novel for young adults has more real emotion than a month's worth of “General Hospital.“
The book is precisely the sort of thing I would've inhaled as an adolescent. I loved teen-angst novels, presumably because I was a teen with angst. I read about tempestuous subjects that were familiar to me, like peer pressure, and tempestuous subjects that weren't familiar to me, like heroin addiction.
Homosexuality I would've lumped in the latter category. No, I'm not equating gayness with drug addiction—I leave that to politicians. Back then I simply didn't know much about homosexuality. I certainly had no idea little old me was gay. But I imagine I would've been willing to read about the topic. I just don't remember seeing any young-adult novels that dealt with it back in the '70s.
Did they really not exist, or did libraries refuse to stock them? Or perhaps I self-censored myself, my unconscious mind whispering, “Oh, let's wait on this subject. It'll be much more fun to torture her with it when she's 30.“
It's edifying to see “Rainbow Boys“ and similar offerings out there now, so the younger set can read them. Gay kids will find out they're far from alone; straight kids will find out they're far from a clue, if they've been thinking gay kids are either rare or so different from themselves.
I became sufficiently wrapped up in Sanchez's characters that I'm now reading the sequel, “Rainbow High,“ with “Rainbow Road“ next. I'm following the author's rainbow path. It doesn't matter that I'm middle-aged. I still like to follow the yellow brick road now and then, too.
It's doubtful that I could write quality fiction for young adults. But I think I could come up with some compelling story lines. I'll toss a few ideas out there right now, which, for brevity's sake, I'll mold into blurbs.
“Boys? Dating? Holly didn't care about any of that. All that mattered to her was her ambition of becoming a scientist. But one day, while handing Susan Lowery a test tube, their fingers touched, and Holly felt an electric current that her textbooks couldn't explain. Would she have the guts to try her bravest experiment yet?“
“Jameel had always been happiest in church, singing in the choir, or listening to his father roar and whisper his way through sermons. Everyone expected Jameel to take his father's place someday. Jameel dreamt of that, too. But in his dream, he stood up there and preached the Lord's word wearing a dress and high heels, while those he filled with the spirit responded, 'Amen, sister!'“
“Mason really thought he was on the edge of freaking out. His mother wouldn't or couldn't quit drinking, his baseball coach benched him during the last game, and he couldn't decide whether to go to the spring dance with Jenny or William. Maybe some people thought being bi was cool, but as far as he was concerned it was just one more pain . . .“
“Stewart was disgusted. They had fought so hard for a Gay-Straight Alliance at Grover Cleveland High School. Now they had it, but the students in charge broke up and refused to speak to each other. 'Jeez,' thought Stewart, 'I wonder if it's too late to join the photography club?'“
Monday, September 4, 2006
The L‘s Versus the T‘s
You may well have heard of the Michigan Womyn‘s Music Festival. After all, it‘s been taking place each summer since 1976. For one week, lesbians flock to the northern Michigan woods to listen to music and revel in an all-female atmosphere.
It sounds wonderful. But Phyllis Schlafly is more likely to go than I am. Tents, mosquitoes and communal bathing are my idea of an anti-vacation. So I‘m content to include myself out of Michigan.
Other women are being asked to self-select themselves out of the festival, and they‘re not happy about it. I‘m speaking of transgender women. In my view, if they‘re willing to put up with night after night in clammy sleeping bags that may also house creatures with extravagant leg counts, I say let ‘em attend.
For some years transgender women and their supporters have set up Camp Trans, a protest across the road from the festival. In a press release issued after the festival‘s close in August, Camp Trans said that each year one of its number walks to the festival gate, says she is trans, and asks for a ticket. The box office‘s role in this performance is to refuse, and hand over a copy of the policy.
Until this summer. “This time, the response was, ‘cash or credit?‘“ reported Camp Trans organizer Jessica Snodgrass. “They said the festival has no policy barring any woman from attending.“
Camp Trans rejoiced in print, in a restrained, ladylike sort of way. “This is not about winning,“ said Snodgrass. “It‘s about making our communities whole again. The policy divided people against each other who could be fighting on the same side. We want to be part of the healing process.“
Before so much as a pimple could heal, festival founder and producer Lisa Vogel released a statement “to correct misinformation“ distributed by the trans campers.
“Since 1976, the Michigan Womyn‘s Music Festival has been created by and for womyn-born womyn, that is, womyn who were born as and have lived their entire life experience as womyn. Despite claims to the contrary by Camp Trans organizers, the Festival remains a rare and precious space intended for womyn-born womyn.“
Calling Dr. Kissinger. We have a conflict in the wilds of Michigan that needs your attention stat.
In her release, Vogel said the box office told the trans folks the festival is meant for “womyn-born womyn,“ and would-be entrants are asked to honor that. Michigan‘s attitude hasn‘t changed, said Vogel. “If a transwoman purchased a ticket, it represents nothing more than that womon choosing to disrespect the stated intention of this Festival.“
If I have to cope with one more fanciful spelling of “woman,“ this reporter is breakdown-bound.
More to the point, I agree with Mara Keisling, leader of the National Center for Transgender Equality, who told D.C.‘s Metro Weekly that “it‘s a very insidious form of discrimination. (Vogel) is saying you‘ll discriminate against yourself if you‘re good.“
It‘s discrimination Nancy Reagan could get behind: “Just say no—to yourself.“
Vogel has allowed that this is in part a generational issue, and I can understand the frustration of older lesbians who worked long and hard for safe spaces, only to be told to share with those they might see as pretend or pseudo-women.
But transwomen face so much discrimination; that we dykes should provide more is ironic, wrong, and gives me hives.
I suspect another part of the problem is the yuck factor, the discomfort around those who play fast and loose with their anatomy. Well, remember that we‘re in the process of demanding the larger world get over its yuck factor where gays are concerned.
Finally, this animosity cannot make for good vibes in northern Michigan. Soon the mosquitoes will start to complain.
It sounds wonderful. But Phyllis Schlafly is more likely to go than I am. Tents, mosquitoes and communal bathing are my idea of an anti-vacation. So I‘m content to include myself out of Michigan.
Other women are being asked to self-select themselves out of the festival, and they‘re not happy about it. I‘m speaking of transgender women. In my view, if they‘re willing to put up with night after night in clammy sleeping bags that may also house creatures with extravagant leg counts, I say let ‘em attend.
For some years transgender women and their supporters have set up Camp Trans, a protest across the road from the festival. In a press release issued after the festival‘s close in August, Camp Trans said that each year one of its number walks to the festival gate, says she is trans, and asks for a ticket. The box office‘s role in this performance is to refuse, and hand over a copy of the policy.
Until this summer. “This time, the response was, ‘cash or credit?‘“ reported Camp Trans organizer Jessica Snodgrass. “They said the festival has no policy barring any woman from attending.“
Camp Trans rejoiced in print, in a restrained, ladylike sort of way. “This is not about winning,“ said Snodgrass. “It‘s about making our communities whole again. The policy divided people against each other who could be fighting on the same side. We want to be part of the healing process.“
Before so much as a pimple could heal, festival founder and producer Lisa Vogel released a statement “to correct misinformation“ distributed by the trans campers.
“Since 1976, the Michigan Womyn‘s Music Festival has been created by and for womyn-born womyn, that is, womyn who were born as and have lived their entire life experience as womyn. Despite claims to the contrary by Camp Trans organizers, the Festival remains a rare and precious space intended for womyn-born womyn.“
Calling Dr. Kissinger. We have a conflict in the wilds of Michigan that needs your attention stat.
In her release, Vogel said the box office told the trans folks the festival is meant for “womyn-born womyn,“ and would-be entrants are asked to honor that. Michigan‘s attitude hasn‘t changed, said Vogel. “If a transwoman purchased a ticket, it represents nothing more than that womon choosing to disrespect the stated intention of this Festival.“
If I have to cope with one more fanciful spelling of “woman,“ this reporter is breakdown-bound.
More to the point, I agree with Mara Keisling, leader of the National Center for Transgender Equality, who told D.C.‘s Metro Weekly that “it‘s a very insidious form of discrimination. (Vogel) is saying you‘ll discriminate against yourself if you‘re good.“
It‘s discrimination Nancy Reagan could get behind: “Just say no—to yourself.“
Vogel has allowed that this is in part a generational issue, and I can understand the frustration of older lesbians who worked long and hard for safe spaces, only to be told to share with those they might see as pretend or pseudo-women.
But transwomen face so much discrimination; that we dykes should provide more is ironic, wrong, and gives me hives.
I suspect another part of the problem is the yuck factor, the discomfort around those who play fast and loose with their anatomy. Well, remember that we‘re in the process of demanding the larger world get over its yuck factor where gays are concerned.
Finally, this animosity cannot make for good vibes in northern Michigan. Soon the mosquitoes will start to complain.
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