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  February 2007

  A WHIRLWIND FRIENDSHIP, THEN LOSS

  If you’ve paid even the slightest bit of attention to the struggle for gay rights in this country you know of Barbara Gittings. You might not recognize the name, but you remember seeing photos, from 1965, of homosexuals, men in suits and ties, women in skirts, protesting for gay rights in front of the White House. Barbara was there, and she called it picketing. Most people call it the beginning of the entire gay rights movement in this country.

  Barbara Gittings passed away too soon, on February 18 at age 75, after an incredibly courageous battle against breast cancer. She was a young 75, vigorous until close to the end, and passionate about her cause, probably until her last second of life. I’ve known of Barbara Gittings and her activist work almost from the moment I peeked my nose out of the closet in 1982, already more than thirty years into Barbara’s very visible gay rights crusade.

  And while I knew of her for years, I only got to meet her last summer. And only for one weekend. But it was a total immersion weekend, filled with astounding stories of early organizing, picketing, and the way things were.

  For the way things are, we can thank Barbara and her partner of 46 years Kay Lahausen. They were tireless and achieved a great deal in our struggle for equality. We all owe them – big time.

  When Delaware Stonewall Democrats planned their annual fundraiser last summer, they decided to honor two different parties. Their 2006 accolades were to go to Sarah and Jim Brady, for their wonderful spirit, local and national activism, and caring. The other honoree would be Gay rights pioneer Barbara Gittings.

  We had heard she wasn’t in the best of health, having fought cancer for years, and recently undergoing another course of chemotherapy. She told Stonewall organizers she was hesitant to make the drive from her home in Wilmington to the beach by herself, as her partner Kay had mobility issues and wouldn’t be coming along. Bonnie and I volunteered to pick Barbara up on Friday night, transport her to Rehoboth and welcome her to our guest room.

  From the minute she hopped (and it did seem like a hop) into our car, this petite and lively woman with the delightful smile started peppering us with questions. She wanted to know where we lived, how we met, what movies we liked, the last book we read, how many siblings we had, if we were out of the closet to relatives, and dozens more inquiries. For our part we answered, exchanged a lot of laughs, and heard much of her story, too. Two hours later, when our car turned off Route One onto Old Landing Road, we were behaving like three old friends.

  Interspersed with the life stories, Barbara cautioned that she tires easily and might not be up for too busy a weekend. No problem, we said, our house is yours for resting, relaxing and whatever you need for the weekend.

  “Where’s the best place for dinner?” she asked immediately, “I love great restaurants. And can I meet some of your friends?”

  While she disappeared into the guest room to change clothes, we invited four friends over for pre-dinner cocktails. When Barbara reappeared, she was wearing white tennis shorts, sneakers and a bright orange t-shirt with the slogan “Gay? Fine by Me!” on it.

  Our friends arrived, I mixed martinis and Barbara sat cross-legged on our sofa, one of my dogs in her lap. She told us stories about her involvement in those White House pickets (“I insisted that we had to dress conservatively”) and the early days of the organization Daughters of Bilitis – the first and most famous lesbian rights organization. We learned the inside story of her arranging for a gay psychiatrist, disguised to protect his identity, coming to speak at the National Psychiatric Association. That event led directly to the 1973 NPA vote to remove homosexuality from their list of mental illnesses.

  We offered Barbara a roster of Rehoboth restaurants and she selected a lovely upscale French place, for what turned out to be a fabulous dinner filled with great food, wine, and conversation.

  After dinner, our guest asked if we could go to the boardwalk, so we drove up past the Henlopen Hotel, where we could access the beach and a great view of Rehoboth by night. “Can we walk?” Barbara asked. “Sure,” we said, heading south along the boardwalk towards Rehoboth Avenue.

  Then we passed the Avenue, continued walking under the stars toward Funland, and quickly, all the while chatting about politics, reached the end of the boardwalk.

  “I’ll go get the car,” Bonnie said.

  “No,” said Barbara, “let’s walk back. And get some caramel popcorn on the way!”

  If our guest tired easily, there was no evidence that night, even as Bonnie and I huffed and puffed returning to the car.

  Back at home, there was a message on the phone from Barbara’s partner Kay, asking if we would please take photos of the next day’s Stonewall event for their memorabilia collection.

  The next day saw breakfast out, terrific stories, sharing of views, a little shopping at our gay bookstore and then the Stonewall event.

  With perfect summer weather, and a large crowd, the stage was set for the big backyard event at the home along Silver Lake. A host of officials spoke, along with attending politicos, and finally we got to the honors. Both Sarah and Jim Brady, as well as Barbara made passionate and effusive remarks. Stonewall presented Barbara with a lovely glass bowl, which she excitedly held over her head for all to see as she challenged us to keep up the fight.

  Following the cocktail hour event it was off to dinner again. This time Barbara chose a gourmet Asian restaurant where we had another wonderful meal and more animated conversation. Bonnie and I were a little sad, because our weekend together was coming to an end.

  On Sunday morning, Bonnie cooked pancakes as we sat around our table chatting about Rehoboth and Delaware politics. Then it was time to return Barbara to Wilmington. I don’t think any of us wanted the weekend to end. As we drove North, Barbara wanted to know everything she had failed to ask us on the trip down and we wanted to know more about her career. It turns out that she and Kay mostly held low-level administrative jobs to fund their real jobs as gay rights activists. We realized all the things Barbara and her contemporaries went through to make our current lives here in Rehoboth possible.

  When we dropped her off at home, we felt like we’d made a wonderful new friend and she promised to stay in touch as well.

  Through September we exchanged a few e-mails, and I soon got a package – a wonderful autographed book full of interviews from the early gay rights activists and quite a bit about Barbara herself. She also told me to look for a new documentary in which she was interviewed. In exchange, I sent along the Stonewall event photos.

  I was caught up in other things last fall – writing jobs, political races and putting the finishing touches on my next book. It was a while before I realized I hadn’t heard from Barbara regarding the package of pictures.

  And I was totally stunned and saddened last week when I heard she had passed away, with Kay at her side.

  Bonnie and I were unhappy we hadn’t gotten the chance to see Barbara again, but I was torn. Selfishly I’d rather remember her charging in and out of our house, curly grey hair askew, asking questions, laughing out loud and wearing her “Gay? Fine by Me!” t-shirt.

  You’re going to miss her whether you knew her or not.

  March 2007

  MOON OVER THE MILITARY, OR NAKED GUN, TOO

  With an intolerant, bigoted boss like Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Peter Pace, why would a gay person even want a military career?

  But gay people do. They want to serve their country and get an education. They are willing to slog through a hideous political blunder like Iraq, risking their lives, to do it.

  And General Pace says they are not worthy of offering that sacrifice. It’s a savage insult to gay citizens everywhere and some people are applauding him for it.

  His reasoning isn’t even as sly as the usual rant against gays in the military. The prevailing idiocy allows that gays would disrupt morale and discipline. In other words, gay people shouldn’t be allowed to serve
because straight people are scared of them. It’s a sad and frequently offered argument.

  But no, General Pace doesn’t hide behind the morale issue. He deletes an “e” and declares it to be a moral issue. To his closed mind gays are not moral, therefore they should not serve.

  I think he’s hideously wrong of course, but in America he’s entitled to his opinion. But since he’s representing the entire U.S. military, I think he should be fired faster than a speeding Baghdad bullet. That’s my exercise of free speech. It’s indefensible that he wants his personal beliefs to govern public policy. Last time I checked we weren’t a theocracy yet.

  But at least General Pace is honest.

  Bigots who hide behind the troop morale pretext make me gag. These people envision gay men who would choose military careers wearing nipple rings with their uniforms, soliciting in the showers and threatening the dignity of heterosexuals as they lie in their barracks beds. You just know that’s what they conjure in their tiny intolerant brains.

  Indulge me, but do you know any nudists? I do. At least I’ve heard that some people I know are nudists (or naturists as they prefer to be called). Since I’m not a naturist myself (I hear you breathing that sigh of relief) the world of naturism is foreign to me. Even a little off-putting, if you will, because I know nothing about it and it raises thoughts of a great big social taboo. Fine. While I’d be uncomfortable at a party with naturists behaving like naturists while I try to avert my eyeballs, I have no problem with naturists who are dressed in public. What they do behind closed doors or on secluded beaches is their business.

  But if the aforementioned naturists worked at CAMP Rehoboth (they don’t, so stop fantasizing) or in a corporate setting where they valued their careers, would they strip down and show me Trafalgar Square by the water cooler? Would they attend staff meetings in the nude? Not only wouldn’t they do it, but where would they stash their Blackberrys?

  Let’s ask ourselves if America would put up with a public policy stating that naturists are barred from military service or corporate careers because they behave in an immoral manner in private? Sadly, now that I’ve brought the subject up, under the current political administration, they just might. But it would be unforgivably stupid, insulting, and a complete waste of talented people who would show up to work in clothing, even on casual Friday.

  Okay, you can pick at this analogy, but in a hate-the-sin, love-the-sinner scenario, it’s just as disturbing to bar gay people from the military when they are not having sex as it is to bar nudist people from the military when they are not butt naked.

  Yes, I know, practicing nudity is a choice and practicing homosexuality is how we are born (besides, we don’t need practice, we are good at it). And yes, I know that being a nudist is a choice and being a homosexual is not. But face it, if we apply the ridiculous hate-the-sinner standard to both, nudists and gays would be suspect for what they DO, not who they are.

  I think it’s ridiculous to bar homosexuals and nudists from the work place even when they are not practicing, in public, for all the world to ogle, the act that labels them homosexuals or nudists in the first place.

  Ooh, here’s another imperfect but illustrative analogy of naked is as naked does. While I may not be a nudist (sorry to remind you of that image again), I do have a tattoo. A small one, on my ankle. But years ago I knew a fellow who went into a tattoo frenzy in college. By the time I met him, he was reconciled to wearing long sleeves, even on sweltering days, just to look appropriate at client meetings. He may have been a proud tattoo owner on Friday evening, but during the work week he wore his corporate drag.

  Would a person who wants to show off, all the time, tattooed arms, legs, and cheeks in both possible locations want to work in a place where everybody else covers up with Armani? I think not. Likewise it would be pretty brainless for a nudist to expect to be able to show up in the Board room without his pants.

  So too, even pea-brained bigots have to realize that a gay man who wants to succeed in the military would not jeopardize his career by wearing a feather boa with fatigues or a tank top saying “You Go Girl” while he’s in a tank.

  I’m using the boys as an example here because we all know that the military would collapse without its lesbians. But the women who value keeping their jobs will behave correctly as well.

  I say we judge everybody by the same behavior standard. There are disciplined gays and lesbians, nudists, and tattooed ladies and gentlemen along with the requisite few misbehaving naturists, tattooees, straight people and homos.

  Let everyone who wants to serve do so. After that, go to town making sure everybody behaves appropriately for the military. What’s so hard about that?

  I’m so furious, that this tattooed gay gal wants to strip and moon the military, starting with General Peter Pace. Close your eyes, sir, I’m not kidding.

  April 2007

  YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN BUT YOU CAN’T STAY VERY LONG…

  When I moved to Rehoboth full-time eight years ago, I thought I’d constantly be doing a reverse commute for Washington, D.C. weekends. How could I live without Thai food, theatres, museums, or national politics? I envisioned frequent caravans for culture.

  Hasn’t happened.

  The Rehoboth I moved to already had gourmet restaurants, and more ethnicity soon followed. Rehoboth had live theatre and more has developed; many of our friends were already weekenders, with an astonishing number having made the move full time. And frankly, knowing that most people make their closest friendships early in life, I never dreamed I’d meet so many people and enlarge my circle of friendships so meaningfully here in Sussex County.

  Oh, and the Rehoboth Museum is on the cusp of opening. It’s not the Smithsonian, but it’s ours.

  Not feeling the pull to go West, as the Village People might sing, it’s been a rare trip back to civilization.

  Bonnie and I (and the dogs) made the drive to Maryland on a recent Friday to stay with friends, see The Heidi Chronicles at Arena Stage and enjoy D.C. in the spring.

  Upon our arrival we walked the dogs through lush mounds of fallen Cherry Tree petals, and gazed with wonder at all the old-growth landscaping, bursting with bright red and pink azalea blossoms, Dogwood blooms and those ubiquitous and almost-but-not-quite-finished-blooming Cherry Trees.

  On a driving tour we were gape jawed at Bethesda and Silver Spring, once sleepy diner-dotted suburbs, now morphed into towering urban metropoli. Asian fusion food, gobs of galleries, and behemoth Barnes & Nobles punctuated the cityscape.

  Blues skies and a sunny day accompanied our winding drive down Rock Creek Parkway toward the D.C. waterfront, all the while passing the well-known architectural edifices devoted to our nation’s history. Adjacent was the sparkling Potomac River, people in paddle boats and city streets bursting with activity.

  I’m loathe to admit that I suffered a momentary pang – was it regret? – for leaving all this behind and running off to the Delaware beaches. Dare I say it? Had I erred? Could small town Rehoboth ever compete with this?

  The Capitol Dome loomed, bright white against a perfectly blue sky, looking glorious in the humidity-free air. This was a perfect 10 for a Washington, D.C. day.

  But Lo! What were all those clunky concrete barricades and big black fences? And Military Police with weapons? My God, the place was practically shouting “Code Orange!” for Homeland Security and our government buildings were cowering inside their own terrorist-proofed Green Zone. Security-blocked roads made navigation dicey on the way to the Maine Avenue seafood district. As the car whipped from Southeast to Northeast, around this circle and that, I started to long for my one tiny Rehoboth Avenue traffic circle, with its one bicycle cop in shorts and no AK47.

  On-street parking eluded us so we entered an underground bunker offering $5 for the first hour and your 401K for the rest. The shiny quarters reserved for the Rehoboth meters were useless here; credit cards with increased limits encouraged.

  Upstairs, the famed waterside seafood
restaurant sprawled from dining room to dining room, with no less than five massive buffet stations offering deep fried, steamed, broiled, and sauced seafood, fried chicken, jambalaya, chowder, a beef carving station, copious salads, butter-drenched corn, mountains of caloric desserts and an entire buffet table devoted to breakfast blintzes, burritos, pancakes, and hominy grits.

  The bounty could bring weight watchers to their knees, but it was all astoundingly mediocre – a word not associated with Rehoboth eateries. Besides, for $25 per person at home we can have breakfast or lunch anywhere in town, stroll the boardwalk for a funnel cake dessert, buy a t-shirt, and still not top twenty five bucks a head.

  In the interest of full disclosure, the matinee was pretty good. You can’t beat the production values money can buy. But truthfully, although the cast had wonderful resumes, some of the shows I’ve seen at the beach have had more heart. That surprised me.

  Heading out of the fortified Green Zone and the atmosphere of Martial Law, back to the slightly smaller city of Bethesda, we got tangled in traffic. Passing the tony Chevy Chase Metro I was astounded and saddened to see a homeless woman living in her own Green Zone of cardboard boxes right there at the station. Welcome to the big city.

  Driving along Maryland and Virginia highways and past mature neighborhoods put my local concerns for overdevelopment in perspective. Maryland and Virginia are full, completely used up, every inch developed, like a Monopoly board. I realize that we’ve cultivated a huge crop of townhouses recently, but lucky for us we still have our chicken coops, rural roads and undeveloped waterfront. At least for now.

  And Washington, D.C. doesn’t have the Apple-Scrapple celebration and the amazing Delmarva Chicken Festival. Yes, I am claiming them as mine.

  As for the Maryland Monopoly suburbs, every time we passed GO, in the shops or on the highways, it was time to pay $200 in sales tax and highway tolls – another reason to appreciate tax-free Rehoboth.