In November of 2003, when a Massachusetts court declared the ban on same-sex marriages unconstitutional in that state, Catherine Reid was left with an unexpected choice: to get married, or not. As the ten year anniversary of marriage equality in Massachusetts approaches, Reid, in this excerpt fromFalling Into Place, takes us back to those heady early days of victory and apprehension after the first marriage licenses could be issued to same-sex partners.
We have sixty days to take action before the marriage certificate expires, less than thirty before our blood tests will no longer be valid. We still have time to change our minds, and we consider backing out often, though now that we’ve agreed to do this with two other couples, we’ll be considered traitors if we develop a case of cold feet. Besides, my short list of excuses—how to deal with the bizarre notion of “wife,” or the difficulty in telling my ninety-nine-year-old grandmother, or the support this lends to the institution of the privileged—can’t compare with the number of reasons to go through with this, which became longer with an unexpected Sunday-night phone call.
“As a father of two children,” the automated voice begins, “I am horrified at the changes about to take place in our country.” Despite my own horror, I don’t hang up; I want a phone number, I want to register protest. “We urge you to support Article 8,” the voice insists, describing a bill that will empower the legislature to repeal “activist judges” and prevent married homosexuals from tainting our nation’s moral character.
On February 20th of 1980, I was pushing through the most gruesome of training sessions, running—really racing—stairs (nine flights per set, six to ten sets per session) in hot pursuit of my dream: a berth on the U.S. Rowing team scheduled to compete in at the Moscow Olympics in five months. As I reached the top landing, gasping for breath, I huffed to my workout companion, Sally Fisher, “Why are we doing this? Today is Carter’s deadline: the boycott’s official.” Sally shrugged, “I know. But we have two more sets,” and started back down the stairs. Of course I had to keep up. Politics or not, I had a workout to finish.
Those stairs made me strong, and my dream came true, committed beyond reason as I was to that outcome, driven by my passion for rowing—the feel of a fast boat skimming across water, the belief that I could move a slender racing shell faster than anyone else, and the longing to represent my country honorably at the incomparable global celebration of human achievement known as the Olympic Games.
I was no different from today’s Olympians, those who have spent the past two weeks at Sochi, pursuing their dreams of Olympic hardware, driven by similar compulsions. But the ending of their story is a happy one, whether they come home with medals to savor or memories to share, whereas mine was not. They got to compete, but I had to stay home.
About 10 percent of people are gay or
lesbian. Homosexuals are born that way. All religions condemn homosexuality. There’s no such thing as a gay or trans child. All bisexual men are actually gay; all bisexual women are
actually straight. Coming out today is easier than ever
before. Hate crime laws prevent
violence against LGBT people.
We’ve all heard (and repeated) statements like these
before. But, are any of them actually true? According to Michael Bronski, Ann Pellegrini, and Michael Amico, these are common myths and misconceptions about lesbian, gay,
bisexual, and transgender life and people. And in their new book, "You Can Tell Just by
Looking”: And 20 Other Myths about LGBT Life and People they take us through some of the most enduring myths, providing historical background and examining the
social and political factors that gave rise to and inform each myth. The myths covered here aren't just those that have been used to justify discrimination against and
oppression of LGBT people, but the authors also examine those that have been embraced by the LGBT community and their allies. We hope the book will challenge readers to question their own beliefs and dispel some of the false assumptions many of
us (even some of us at Beacon) have been carrying around for years.
Read on to see what the authors have to say about ten of the myths covered in "You Can Tell Just by Looking."
Although Beacon has not primarily been known to publish poetry, we have always had a select list of exceptional poets who reflect the values at the core of our mission, including, for many years, the premier poet of the natural world, Mary Oliver, and, of course, the inimitable Sonia Sanchez, who represents a vibrant tradition of oral interpretation that blends and bends the lines between verse and music. Sonia has famously performed with rap artists and memorably with Sweet Honey in the Rock and other artists, including Diana Ross. Sonia has been on a mission for decades of using poetry in public schools and she makes it a rule that wherever she’s invited to read for an adult audience, she also tries to visit a local school and read to and engage with the students. We are enormously proud of her work.
We are also proud to have on our backlist several books of Spanish-language poets in bilingual editions, including a wonderful volume of Lorca and Jimenez, and one of Neruda and Vallejo, both translated by Robert Bly.
On the left, previous editions of James Baldwin's Jimmy's Blues and Gypsy. On the right, Beacon's forthcoming edition of Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems
Russia's new anti-gay law has a loophole: The law, which has led to numerous arrests, beatings, and bans against LGBT people, specifically prohibits the "propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations," but homosexuality is as traditionally Russian as vodka and caviar.
Where does one begin the list of prominent LGBT Russians? Peter Tchaikovsky, one of Russia's foremost composers; Nikolai Gogol, one of its leading writers; from the world of dance, Diaghilev, Nijinsky, Nureyev; not to mention members of Russia's ruling classes, including Grand Duke Sergei Romanov, brother to the czar and mayor of Moscow from 1891 to 1905.
What could be more "traditional" than this list? Indeed, so "traditional" was Russian homosexuality that it was even seen as a distinctive symptom of Russian decadence by some revolutionaries. Indeed, none other than Ivan the Terrible (1538-1584) and Dmitry 'the Pretender (unk.-1606) were known to be homosexual, or at least to have had male lovers.
In fact, what is nontraditional is the suppression of sexual diversity, not its expression. Following the Russian Revolution, the regime under Lenin formally legalized homosexual acts (along with divorce and abortion), but Stalin criminalized them in 1933. So they would remain until 1993: officially illegal, yet tolerated on and off, depending on those in power. Which of these legal regimes is "traditional" and which is "nontraditional"? Is Stalin more traditional than Lenin?
The reality is that, as everywhere, sexual diversity in Russia is entirely traditional and entirely natural. Of course, contemporary labels -- "gay," "lesbian," "bisexual," "transgender" -- are culturally specific and of relatively late vintage. But the existence of same-sex relationships goes back as far as Russian history itself. Indeed, a few years ago, a 600-page volume containing 69 biographies of famous Russian lesbians and gays was compiled by Vladimir Kirsanov, editor of the gay magazine Kvir.
Now we all know that Vitaly Milonov, the most vocal of the anti-gay bill's sponsors, had homosexuality in mind when he introduced the bill. But a literal reading of the bill's actual language, coupled with even a passing glance at Russian history, does not agree.
Of course, it's unlikely that a Russian jurist will really read the law so cleverly -- although doing so would provide an "out" for moderates seeking to control the damage it has caused, which now extends to calls to boycott the 2012 Winter Olympics, Russian vodka, and Russian performance venues.
Yet even if such a literal reading never finds its way into a judicial decision, it serves as an important reminder that although homosexuality goes by different names in different places and at different times, it is a traditional part of every culture that the human race has ever created. Sexual diversity is, like other forms of diversity, an intrinsic, natural part of the human experience. Alas, so are efforts, like Russia's, to deny it.
Photo by thisisbossi on Flickr. Used under Creative Commons.
Dr. Jay Michaelson is vice president of the Arcus Foundation and the author of five books and two hundred articles on religion, sexuality, ethics, and contemplative practice. His most recent book, God vs. Gay? The Religious Case for Equality, was a Lambda Literary Award finalist.
The "Scalia Dissent" has been a particular subgenre of legal discourse for two decades now, amply studied in the academic and popular literature. Vitriolic, hyperbolic, littered with witty bon mots and invective against faulty reasoning (i.e. any reasoning with which Justice Scalia does not agree), it is something one now comes to expect in any high-profile Supreme Court case decided in a more liberal direction.
But Justice Scalia's dissent in U.S. v. Windsor, the Defense of Marriage Act case, feels different. Scalia pulled out the same rhetorical flourishes as ever, but he seems remarkably oblivious to context: the lives of millions of Americans. Windsor was not another case about crèches in the public square (the occasion of some of the earliest Scalia rants) or obscure administrative procedures. It was the case that decided the fates of tens of thousands of families, and, more broadly, established that discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation is wrong, regardless of one's personal views on the subject. Agree or disagree that same-sex families are marriages or not -- they certainly are families, and certainly are made up of human beings. Justice Scalia's contemptuous dissent is contemptuous of these millions of Americans' humanity.
The majority's opinion in Windsor was clear enough, and exactly what most legal experts had expected. After dispensing with the issue of standing, the majority noted that marriage is a matter of state, not federal, regulation. Thus a couple married in New York is duly married, whether same-sex or opposite-sex. To discriminate against a married couple requires a secular interest which was lacking in the Defense of Marriage Act -- on the contrary, the legislative record showed evidence of bias. Thus, such discrimination violates the Constitution's guarantee of equal protection of the laws.
This reasoning is what Justice Scalia termed "legalistic argle-bargle."
Really? Argle-bargle? The term doesn't appear in my dictionary, but I take it to mean an incoherent ramble, the equivalent of gibberish. And to apply it to the legal arguments that a generation of lawyers and legal scholars have debated for years is, itself, offensive. It is offensive to those lawyers, of course, but even more so to people like Edie Windsor, the 84-year-old plaintiff in the case, suing to not be penalized that her legal spouse was a woman and not a man. It is offensive to my friend who can now apply for a Green Card, finally, after living apart from his husband for a year. Context matters, a Scalia Rant in this context is deeply offensive.
Of course, no one expected Justice Scalia to strike down DOMA. Yet ironically, the reason we all knew this is that, over the years, Justice Scalia has shown himself to be a duplicitous legal reasoner when his legal ideology meets his political or religious ones. That is, he argle-bargles. For example, for years Scalia waved the banner of state's rights -- until Bush v. Gore, in which he suddenly voted to overturn a state supreme court's interpretation of its own constitution. Indeed, just one day before Scalia's impassioned defense of deference to Congress in Windsor, he voted to overrule Congress in Shelby County, the Voting Rights Act case. So what is the principle here? We defer to Congress when it discriminates, but not when it bars discrimination? Is there a principle? Or is there, rather, just argle-bargle?
We also know Scalia is bargling in Windsor because of his many extra-judicial comments about what was at issue in the case. Shockingly defiant of the principle that justices not comment on cases before the Court, Scalia said only a few days before the decision was handed down that the case, like Lawrence v. Texas, was about "consensual sodomy." Sodomy - an act. Not sexual orientation, not what millions of people are telling us about their lives; not friends and neighbors and family members - but a sexual act. As if opposite-sex marriage is about cunnilingus.
Ironically, this clear contempt for and ignorance of LGBT lives is precisely the sort of animus Justice Scalia says we should not impute to DOMA's backers. In the same words with which he complains of being called a bigot, he writes like a bigot.
The ignorance of the lives of gay and lesbian people is not unique to Justice Scalia, of course. Others, too, cover up their ears when they hear about lesbian ministers, or gay boy scouts. No, they insist, there are no gay people -- only gay acts, only sodomy, only a "lifestyle."
But this is ignorance of the facts. The facts are that gay people exist, that many (though not all) say they were 'born that way,' that same-sex families are families. And while such ignorance may be expected among the extremist rabble, it ought to have no place in the Supreme Court.
Indeed, even if Justice Scalia still denies the humanity of gay people, one might've hoped that he would have recognized the gravity of the moment and of his role as a Supreme Court justice, and held back from ranting, just this once. But instead, by demeaning the people whose lives were at stake, by dismissing with an invented slur the articulation of their hopes and aspirations, their very sense of what it means to be an American, Justice Scalia has demeaned the institution he is meant to serve.
As for the LGBT community, we will not be brought down to his low state. At a rally in New York's Tompkins Square Park, a beloved artist and performer named Donald Gallagher -- a man who was present at Stonewall, who recently lost his partner of 40 years to cancer, and who once laboriously painted the entire ceiling of his church in Jersey City -- proclaimed that, in the secret language of the ancient gay elders, "Argle Bargle" really means "Joy to All." Argle Bargle! the crowd shouted. Argle Bargle!
James Baldwin (1924-1987) was a novelist, essayist, playwright, poet, and social critic, and one of America's foremost writers. His essays, such as "Notes of a Native Son" (1955), explore palpable yet unspoken intricacies of racial, sexual, and class distinctions in Western societies, most notably in mid-twentieth-century America. A Harlem, New York, native, he primarily made his home in the south of France.
His novels include Giovanni's Room (1956), about a white American expatriate who must come to terms with his homosexuality, and Another Country (1962), about racial and gay sexual tensions among New York intellectuals. His inclusion of gay themes resulted in much savage criticism from the black community. Going to Meet the Man (1965) and Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (1968) provided powerful descriptions of American racism. As an openly gay man, he became increasingly outspoken in condemning discrimination against lesbian and gay people.
The following essay opens Notes of a Native Son, a collection considered by many his most influential work. We publish it here today in conjunction with an essay by Eboo Patel about the impact this essay had on his life and work.
I was born in Harlem thirty-one years ago. I began plotting
novels at about the time I learned to read. The story of my
childhood is the usual bleak fantasy, and we can dismiss it
with the restrained observation that I certainly would not
consider living it again. In those days my mother was given
to the exasperating and mysterious habit of having babies. As
they were born, I took them over with one hand and held a
book with the other. The children probably suffered, though
they have since been kind enough to deny it, and in this way
I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and A Tale of Two Cities over and
over and over again; in this way, in fact, I read just about
everything I could get my hands on—except the Bible, probably because it was the only book I was encouraged to read.
I must also confess that I wrote—a great deal—and my first
professional triumph, in any case, the first effort of mine to
be seen in print, occurred at the age of twelve or thereabouts,
when a short story I had written about the Spanish revolution
won some sort of prize in an extremely short-lived church
newspaper. I remember the story was censored by the lady
editor, though I don’t remember why, and I was outraged.
Also wrote plays, and songs, for one of which I received a
letter of congratulations from Mayor La Guardia, and poetry,
about which the less said, the better. My mother was delighted
by all these goings-on, but my father wasn’t; he wanted me to
be a preacher. When I was fourteen I became a preacher,
and when I was seventeen I stopped. Very shortly thereafter I left home. For God knows how long I struggled with
the world of commerce and industry—I guess they would say
they struggled with me—and when I was about twenty-one I
had enough done of a novel to get a Saxton Fellowship. When
I was twenty-two the fellowship was over, the novel turned
out to be unsalable, and I started waiting on tables in a Village restaurant and writing book reviews—mostly, as it turned
out, about the Negro problem, concerning which the color of
my skin made me automatically an expert. Did another book,
in company with photographer Theodore Pelatowski, about
the store-front churches in Harlem. This book met exactly
the same fate as my first—fellowship, but no sale. (It was a
Rosenwald Fellowship.) By the time I was twenty-four I had
decided to stop reviewing books about the Negro problem—
which, by this time, was only slightly less horrible in print
than it was in life—and I packed my bags and went to France,
where I finished, God knows how, Go Tell It on the Mountain.
Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he
was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent—which attitude certainly has a great deal
to support it. On the other hand, it is only because the world
looks on his talent with such a frightening indifference that
the artist is compelled to make his talent important. So that
any writer, looking back over even so short a span of time as
I am here forced to assess, finds that the things which hurt him and the things which helped him cannot be divorced
from each other; he could be helped in a certain way only
because he was hurt in a certain way; and his help is simply to
be enabled to move from one conundrum to the next—one is
tempted to say that he moves from one disaster to the next.
When one begins looking for influences one finds them by
the score. I haven’t thought much about my own, not enough
anyway; I hazard that the King James Bible, the rhetoric of
the store-front church, something ironic and violent and perpetually understated in Negro speech—and something of
Dickens’ love for bravura—have something to do with me today; but I wouldn’t stake my life on it. Likewise, innumerable
people have helped me in many ways; but finally, I suppose,
the most difficult (and most rewarding) thing in my life has
been the fact that I was born a Negro and was forced, therefore, to effect some kind of truce with this reality. (Truce, by
the way, is the best one can hope for.)
One of the difficulties about being a Negro writer (and
this is not special pleading, since I don’t mean to suggest
that he has it worse than anybody else) is that the Negro
problem is written about so widely. The bookshelves groan
under the weight of information, and everyone therefore
considers himself informed. And this information, furthermore, operates usually (generally, popularly) to reinforce
traditional attitudes. Of traditional attitudes there are only
two—For or Against—and I, personally, find it difficult to
say which attitude has caused me the most pain. I am speaking as a writer; from a social point of view I am perfectly
aware that the change from ill-will to good-will, however
motivated, however imperfect, however expressed, is better
than no change at all.
But it is part of the business of the writer—as I see it—
to examine attitudes, to go beneath the surface, to tap the
source. From this point of view the Negro problem is nearly
inaccessible. It is not only written about so widely; it is written about so badly. It is quite possible to say that the price
a Negro pays for becoming articulate is to find himself, at
length, with nothing to be articulate about. (“You taught
me language,” says Caliban to Prospero, “and my profit on’t
is I know how to curse.”) Consider: the tremendous social
activity that this problem generates imposes on whites and
Negroes alike the necessity of looking forward, of working
to bring about a better day. This is fine, it keeps the waters
troubled; it is all, indeed, that has made possible the Negro’s
progress. Nevertheless, social affairs are not generally speaking the writer’s prime concern, whether they ought to be or
not; it is absolutely necessary that he establish between himself and these affairs a distance which will allow, at least, for
clarity, so that before he can look forward in any meaningful
sense, he must first be allowed to take a long look back. In
the context of the Negro problem neither whites nor blacks,
for excellent reasons of their own, have the faintest desire to
look back; but I think that the past is all that makes the present coherent, and further, that the past will remain horrible
for exactly as long as we refuse to assess it honestly.
I know, in any case, that the most crucial time in my own
development came when I was forced to recognize that I was
a kind of bastard of the West; when I followed the line of my
past I did not find myself in Europe but in Africa. And this
meant that in some subtle way, in a really profound way, I
brought to Shakespeare, Bach, Rembrandt, to the stones of
Paris, to the cathedral at Chartres, and to the Empire State Building, a special attitude. These were not really my creations, they did not contain my history; I might search in them
in vain forever for any reflection of myself. I was an interloper;
this was not my heritage. At the same time I had no other
heritage which I could possibly hope to use—I had certainly
been unfitted for the jungle or the tribe. I would have to appropriate these white centuries, I would have to make them
mine—I would have to accept my special attitude, my special
place in this scheme—otherwise I would have no place in any
scheme. What was the most difficult was the fact that I was
forced to admit something I had always hidden from myself,
which the American Negro has had to hide from himself as
the price of his public progress; that I hated and feared white
people. This did not mean that I loved black people; on the
contrary, I despised them, possibly because they failed to
produce Rembrandt. In effect, I hated and feared the world.
And this meant, not only that I thus gave the world an altogether murderous power over me, but also that in such a self-
destroying limbo I could never hope to write.
One writes out of one thing only—one’s own experience.
Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this
experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give.
This is the only real concern of the artist, to recreate out
of the disorder of life that order which is art. The difficulty
then, for me, of being a Negro writer was the fact that I was,
in effect, prohibited from examining my own experience too
closely by the tremendous demands and the very real dangers of my social situation.
I don’t think the dilemma outlined above is uncommon. I
do think, since writers work in the disastrously explicit medium of language, that it goes a little way towards explaining why, out of the enormous resources of Negro speech and life,
and despite the example of Negro music, prose written by
Negroes has been generally speaking so pallid and so harsh.
I have not written about being a Negro at such length because I expect that to be my only subject, but only because
it was the gate I had to unlock before I could hope to write
about anything else. I don’t think that the Negro problem in
America can be even discussed coherently without bearing
in mind its context; its context being the history, traditions,
customs, the moral assumptions and preoccupations of the
country; in short, the general social fabric. Appearances to
the contrary, no one in America escapes its effects and everyone in America bears some responsibility for it. I believe this
the more firmly because it is the overwhelming tendency to
speak of this problem as though it were a thing apart. But in
the work of Faulkner, in the general attitude and certain specific passages in Robert Penn Warren, and, most significantly,
in the advent of Ralph Ellison, one sees the beginnings—at
least—of a more genuinely penetrating search. Mr. Ellison,
by the way, is the first Negro novelist I have ever read to
utilize in language, and brilliantly, some of the ambiguity and
irony of Negro life.
About my interests: I don’t know if I have any, unless the
morbid desire to own a sixteen-millimeter camera and make
experimental movies can be so classified. Otherwise, I love
to eat and drink—it’s my melancholy conviction that I’ve
scarcely ever had enough to eat (this is because it’s impossible
to eat enough if you’re worried about the next meal)—and I
love to argue with people who do not disagree with me too
profoundly, and I love to laugh. I do not like bohemia, or bohemians, I do not like people whose principal aim is pleasure, and I do not like people who are earnest about anything. I
don’t like people who like me because I’m a Negro; neither
do I like people who find in the same accident grounds for
contempt. I love America more than any other country in
the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right
to criticize her perpetually. I think all theories are suspect,
that the finest principles may have to be modified, or may
even be pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must
find, therefore, one’s own moral center and move through
the world hoping that this center will guide one aright. I consider that I have many responsibilities, but none greater than
this: to last, as Hemingway says, and get my work done.
It is an historic day for marriage equality in the United States. The Supreme Court decision in US v. Windsor struck down the Defense of Marriage Act; and the more limited ruling in Hollingsworth v. Perry effectively moots Prop. 8 in California. Beacon has been publishing books that promote valuing all families, including but not only through marriage equality, for a long time. Take, for instance, What is Marriage For? by E. J. Graff, which we first published in 1999, and is considered by many "the bible of the same-sex marriage movement."
This excerpt from What is Marriage For? explores that public/private intersection of our definition of marriage. We hope that this book continues to inspire people to fight for LGBT equality across the country and around the world.
Inside Out or Outside In: Who Says You’re Married?
One of the most basic tensions in the history of marriage is between those two interlocking sides of marriage: marriage as a publicly policed institution and marriage as an inner experience.
Which one turns your bond into a marriage: a public authority or
your heart? Are you married when the two of you decide to care for
each other for life, a decision you live out day to day, a decision only
afterwards recognized by your community? Or is it the other way
around: does the family, or church, or state pronounce some words
over your head, write your names side by side in a registry, and bestow upon you a marriage, a license and legal obligation to carry
out the responsibilities of a¤ection and care? This may sound like
one of those faces/vases illusions, and for good reason: marriage
doesn’t exist unless both parts happen—two human beings behave as married, and everyone else treats them as such. But it does
matter which side you think counts more: the decisions made
about individual marriages will be quite different if you think marriage is a publicly conferred status or an immanent state. And each position’s internal contradictions can—and have—caused social
havoc when unchecked.
In history, this debate is almost inextricable from the debate
over which authority rules marriage. Who decides where the enforceable marriage is made—in your heart, or in a registry—and
why? That decision might be less complex if the only people who
have to recognize your marriage live within twenty-five miles,
when the people who see you two behaving as married are also the
ones who oversee the granting of the widow’s dower. And it might
be more complex in our world, in which each of our daily lives goes
beyond our circle of acquaintances to touch dozens of strangers
and anonymous entities, from the motor vehicles registry to our
children’s schools. The story of the public/private marriage line is
therefore also a story of how marriage has shifted, in comparative
legal scholar Mary Ann Glendon’s words, from custom to law.
Roman marriage was the immanent kind: when challenged in
court (over, say, whether a widow inherits or whether a child is legitimate), a marriage could not be proved by anything so simple as
a public registry. A judge had to investigate whether the two lived
together with affectio maritalis, ‘‘the intention of being married.’’
To be married, all a couple had to do was ‘‘regard each other as man
and wife and behave accordingly.’’ What does that mean, ‘‘behave
accordingly’’? The Romans may never have defined it, but (like
Americans and pornography) they knew it when they saw it. A
judge sized up the couple’s ‘‘marital intentions’’ by such signals
as whether she’d brought a dowry, or whether he openly called her
his wife. Augustine and his concubine, for instance, were living
together without affectio maritalis, since he was intending a later
power-marriage. But had the same pair intended to be married—with no change in their behavior—they would have been. Marriage
was a private affair: the state could police only the consequences,
not the act.
While the Jewish configuration changed over the millennia,
what remained central is marriage as a private act: only bride and
groom could say the magic words that turned them into husband
and wife. After many centuries the rabbis inserted themselves and their seven blessings into the ceremony, before the big feast, but
even they knew they were not essential: the pair made the marriage
within themselves. Which is why, in Jewish law, a court could neither ‘‘grant’’ nor refuse a divorce. If a husband’s inner willingness
to be married evaporated (sometimes hers counted but often it did
not), then the marriage itself had evaporated: the rabbinical court
or bet din could merely decide questions of fault and finances.
Christianity, as we know, wanted nothing to do with marriage
for centuries. When asked, some priests might come by and say a
blessing as a favor, just as they’d say a blessing over a child’s first
haircut. No one considered marriage sacred, as celibacy was: marriage was one of those secular and earthbound forms rendered
unto Caesar. But as centuries rolled by, an increasingly powerful
Church saw that marriage was central to ordering Europe’s civil
and political life—not so much those few called to sainthood, sacrifice, and martyrdom, but the many ordinary folk who needed to be
told how to behave.
And so the Church launched a battle for power over marriage’s
rules, a battle that lasted roughly a thousand years. Today we have
the peculiar impression that Catholicism has always had one vision of marriage, but for every marriage rule eventually imposed
on Europe, the Church’s own debates were abundant. It first formally ruled on marriage in 774, when one pope handed Charlemagne a set of writings that defined legitimate marriage and
condemned all deviations. After another five hundred years of
struggle, the Church came up with a marriage liturgy and imposed
its new and radical rules—the ballooning incest rules, the one-man-one-marriage rule, and most controversial, the girl-must-consent rule—on the powerful clans. ‘‘It is clear,’’ writes one historian, ‘‘that this attempt to impose order on matrimonial practice
was part of a more ambitious plan to reform the entire social order. . . . regulating the framework of lay society, from baptisms
to funerals,’’ the most intimate acts of most people’s lives. The
Church’s push to rule marriage was slow and uneven but very determined. Here and there it would issue a decree and struggle with
local nobles over whether it would be observed; now it would retract a bit to permit a lord to marry his dead wife’s sister or annul
his existing marriage; then it would push forward again.
It was not until 1215 that the Church finally decreed marriage a
sacrament—the least important one, but a sacrament nonetheless—and set up a systematic canon law of marriage, with a system
of ecclesiastical courts to enforce it—and had a fair amount
of people willing to observe those rules. By 1215, the year that
the Fourth Lateran Council issued its matrimonial decrees, the
Church had ‘‘broke[n] the back of aristocratic resistance . . . after
lengthy individual battles with the nobility, kings included.’’
And according to the Church, what turned two individuals into
a married couple? It was—drumroll, please—the couple’s private
Why a drumroll? Because the Church insisted that a private
promise was an unbreakable sacrament—that marriage was an immanent experience, a spiritual reality created by the pair’s free and
equal consent. That was practically a declaration of war against the
upper classes, a radical and subversive idea emphasizing the sacredness of the individual spirit. Marriage, the Church insisted,
was not just about land and power and wombs, but about human
There are many striking aspects to the Supreme Court's DOMA ruling, but perhaps the most compelling is the role that children and their well-being played in the court's reasoning. For the last twenty years, same-sex marriage opponents have claimed that marriage must remain an exclusively heterosexual institution in part because doing so purportedly promotes the welfare of children. Opponents have contended that children do best when raised by their biological mothers and fathers and that society has an interest in promoting heterosexual marriages because they are the "optimal" way of raising children.
Unfortunately for opponents of gay marriage, there is a wide consensus among developmental psychologists and other experts that children are not harmed in any way by having lesbian or gay parents. But even putting that issue aside, it is deeply ironic that defenders of "traditional" marriage, in purporting to promote the best interests of children, have consistently ignored the needs of the tens of thousands of children who are being raised by lesbians and gay men.
This was an issue that Justice Anthony Kennedy raised during the oral argument in the Proposition 8 case last March. Kennedy asked the lawyer defending California's same-sex marriage ban whether it was not the case that the children of same-sex couples were harmed when the state prohibited their parents from marrying. The attorney responded by claiming essentially that whatever harm might exist was a constitutionally permissible price to pay for promoting "traditional marriage."
Justice Kennedy, in writing the majority opinion in the DOMA case, clearly disagreed. Kennedy emphasized that when the federal government treats state-sanctioned same-sex marriages as "second-tier marriages," it humiliates and stigmatizes the children of those marriages. DOMA, Kennedy explained, made it "difficult for children to understand the integrity and closeness of their own family and its concord with other families in their community and their daily lives."
Kennedy also emphasized the financial harm that DOMA caused the children of same-sex marriage. He noted, for example, that DOMA made paying for health care more expensive for families because it required the federal government to tax the health benefits provided by employers to their workers' same-sex spouses. DOMA also denied Social Security benefits to a surviving same-sex spouse to care for the couple's child.
The Supreme Court's opinion in the DOMA case illustrates how it is the marriage equality side that truly has had the best interests of children at heart all along. No child of a heterosexual couple is harmed in any way when the government recognizes same-sex marriages. In stark contrast, when the government refuses to recognize same-sex unions as marital, it harms the children of lesbians and gay men in tangible ways. The Supreme Court understood this, and that is one of the most compelling reasons why it struck down the federal government's unequal treatment of married same-sex couples.
All month, we've been celebrating LGBT Pride here at Beacon Press. Now, that's nothing out of the ordinary for us: Beacon publishes some of the best books around about queer history and the fight for equality under the law; gay/lesbian/transgender memoir; religion and homosexuality; and LGBT families, so we don't need a special month to celebrate. But, like many of you, we just want to wave a rainbow flag and throw confetti from a parade float every year when June rolls around. It's a time to shout a little bit louder about some books and authors who are very dear to us.
So, in honor of Pride, we're giving a special discount of 25% off all our LGBT titles at Beacon.org on orders using the Promo Code PRIDE placed during the month of June. This discount includes some amazing recent books:
It also includes some books considered classics or quickly becoming so:
And it evens includes preorders of any forthcoming LGBT title on our site:
It is in many ways appropriate that the Supreme Court will be issuing its two same-sex marriage rulings—one challenging the Defense of Marriage Act and the other California’s Proposition 8—by the end of the current LGBT Pride Month. Although it is difficult to predict what the Court will do, it is likely that the Court will grapple in some way with the relationship between recognizing same-sex marriages and the well-being of children.
One of the most telling moments during the oral arguments in the two cases that took place last March was when Justice Anthony Kennedy, who may very well cast the deciding votes, noted that there were about 40,000 children in California being raised by same-sex couples and that these children were vulnerable to an “immediate legal injury” when the government refuses to allow their parents to marry. Kennedy then asked Charles Cooper, a former assistant attorney general during the Reagan administration and the lead lawyer defending Proposition 8, whether it was not correct that “the voices of those children is important in this case.”
Cooper’s answer revealed much about the internal contradictions and moral limitations of the arguments raised by marriage equality opponents. Cooper’s response to Justice Kennedy’s question was twofold: first, he claimed that there was “no data” showing that the children of same-sex couples are harmed if their parents are not permitted to marry; second, Cooper argued that a law, such as Proposition 8, can “be sustained even if it operates to the disadvantage of a group, if it…otherwise advances rationally a legitimate state interest.”
There are (at least) two problems with Cooper’s response. First, there is a deep contradiction between contending, as marriage equality opponents routinely do, that the most important reason why society recognizes marriage is to promote the well-being of children, and then suggesting that whether same-sex couples are permitted to marry has no impact on their children. In fact, the federal judge who heard the evidence introduced by both sides during the Proposition 8 trial concluded in 2010 that the children of same-sex couples benefit in meaningful ways when their parents are permitted to marry. Even David Blankenhorn, the president of the Institute for American Values, and the only witness called upon by Proposition 8 supporters to testify during the trial about child welfare considerations, acknowledged that “adopting same-sex marriage would be likely to improve the well-being of gay and lesbian households and their children.”
Second, Cooper’s response illustrates how marriage equality opponents are willing to use the children of lesbians and gay men instrumentally, that is, they are willing to use them as means to promote (what the opponents believe is) the social good. Cooper essentially told the Court that even if the 40,000 children of same-sex couples in California were harmed or disadvantaged because the state prohibited their parents from marrying, that was a constitutionally permissible price to pay in order to promote “traditional” marriage. Although such a cavalier attitude toward the well-being of children would be troubling in any context, it is particularly so coming from a lawyer representing a movement that supposedly seeks to “defend marriage” based in part on the need to promote child welfare.
One hopes that the Court keeps children and their well-being in mind when it rules on the constitutionality of Proposition 8 and DOMA. If the Court does so, it will be marriage equality opponents who will be at greatest risk of losing the cases.
June. Pride Month. Cities are exploding with rainbow flags and pockets of celebration; the world seems utopian, fluid, full of non-judgment and unity. In days a parade will rumble through Minneapolis’s main thoroughfare and we will cheer for progress made with the recent vote for marriage equality in the state.
As this month’s Pride festivities unfold, I think of a tiny town in North Dakota of barely 200 people where I attended my most recent parade during a celebration called Uffda Day. The little town’s motto is, as it turned out, “Pride of the Prairie;” and the street I happened to be standing on for the parade is named “Gay Street.” The town seemed its own utopia of sorts—though not, to my knowledge, of the gay sort.
I stumbled upon this particular Pride of the Prairie town when I was on a “small town tour” that I had mapped for myself to visit several of the towns near where I had grown up. At the time I was in my native North Dakota to experience the unfolding of harvest, where the earth smells of corn and combine lights flicker on the horizon into the dark hours of the night. Something about harvest had always felt mystical to me; like a renewal; a resetting; a time of transition. And I wanted to experience this transition, in full, as an adult.
The Pride of the Prairie town, with a thriving general store and café, made it feel alive in a way different than its neighboring towns, which resembled the growing inventory of North Dakota ghost towns whose buildings are sunken, paint chipped, and vibrate with memories of times long past. The people I met in this town were generous, open, and welcoming. I was so enamored by my visit that I returned a few days later to experience the town’s yearly celebration, which is how I found myself at Uffda Day.
During Uffda Day the little town was bustling with people. Several buildings held craft displays; the VFW showcased a lefse station and an accordion player; the streets were crowded with antique tractors and horse drawn carts. As I wandered through the town, I was struck with nostalgia for the bi-annual “Crop Show” that took place in my own hometown. We were known as the “Corn Capital of North Dakota” and during the Crop Show the school transformed into a wonderland of adventure, or at least it seemed that way to my young mind. Candy flowed freely from agricultural-based exhibit booths; each classroom held an activity, including cakewalks, chili contests, photo displays, and 4-H craft exhibits; glass cases filled with pristine crops also lined all of the school hallways. The Crop Show, like Uffda Day, was a time to celebrate a shared place and identity with neighbors; much like, I now realize, Pride.
I found Gay Street in the Pride of the Prairie town during the Uffda Day parade; this discovery caused an ironic smile to spread across my face as it likely would anyone who is gay, from North Dakota, and home. I didn’t ask anyone about the origin of Gay Street because my inability to talk about being gay, while in North Dakota, had become a life-long practice that I didn’t yet know how to break. I feared that if I were to be honest, I would suddenly appear to people as a foreign entity in our shared rural world. Therefore, I roamed the land I loved feeling partial, sadly knowing that my inability to talk perpetuated the myth of my difference.
My fear of being out as a lesbian back home had often seemed to me a leftover childhood insecurity, borderline ridiculous even. Then, last February, the North Dakota legislature rejected an anti-discrimination bill that would have made it illegal to discriminate based on sexual orientation in the workplace, housing, and government; this means that in my beloved home state, you can be fired for being gay.
My fear of rejection suddenly seemed not so ridiculous.
In a twist of coincidence, during the time this bill was brewing, my memoir, Prairie Silence, was published. The book is, in part, about the challenge I had being open about my life when I returned home. I had written for years out of a love of writing, and I didn’t quite think through how I might feel upon publication, when my secret would obviously no longer be under wraps. And so during what should have been the pinnacle of joy in a writer’s life—the publication of one’s first book—I sunk into a state of miserable anticipation, awaiting my home state’s reaction. I even joked to some about how I wished I would have written a preface thanking people for buying the book, but asking those who lived in the zip code of 58081 to please not turn another page and, instead, to give the book away.
While I writhed in a state of dueling excitement and misery, I started to hear from my classmates, old neighbors and friends, and even my elementary principal; I heard from pastors and state senators; I heard from people with connections to North Dakota and other rural places. With each email, or Facebook post, or phone call, I took a breath and braced myself for the inevitable rejection—but it didn’t come.
Rather than ostracize me, people wrote about their own experiences. They shared with me their personal thoughts about the push and pull of home; they talked about their challenges in revealing secret parts of themselves to the people they loved; they offered their opinions about changes in rural areas; and they reflected upon their journeys of evolution around issues of identity and faith. I also heard from LGBTQ people who live in rural areas, some who even live close to my hometown; their stories conveyed challenges, but mostly acceptance. With each story I felt increasingly connected to people through our shared fears, struggles, and journeys. By the time I finally did hear that a handful of anti-gay people had complained to a local paper that ran an article about my book, I was largely unscathed; I had been fortified by the gift of other people’s stories, gay and straight alike. I knew I was not alone in my search for belonging and self-acceptance.
As I experience this year’s Pride celebration in Minneapolis, I want to imagine a time when Uffda Days, and Crop Shows, and Pride parades will overlap; when Norwegian accordion players, and crafters, and antique tractor collectors, and drag queens, and young gay families, and dykes on bikes, and champion corn growers, and quilters, and chili cook-off winners will join in a celebration of shared humanity. Sometimes this blending of utopian worlds feels close, and sometimes it feels far away; but I do believe that someday, perhaps sooner than I think, I will be able to stand on Gay Street in that North Dakota town with a new and amazing sense of what pride of the prairie can truly mean.
About the Author
Melanie Hoffert grew up on a farm near Wyndmere, North Dakota, where she spent her childhood wandering gravel roads and listening to farmers at church potlucks. Her work has been published in several literary journals, and she holds an MFA in creative writing from Hamline University. Melanie lives in Minneapolis and works for Teach For America. Learn more about her work at melaniehoffert.com.
David Plante is the author of more than a dozen novels, including the Francoeur trilogy—The Family, The Woods, and The Country—as well as the nonfiction books Difficult Women, American Ghosts, and The Pure Lover. His work has appeared in many periodicals, The New Yorker and The Paris Review among them, and he has been nominated for a National Book Award.
Plante grew up in an isolated, French-speaking community in Providence, Rhode Island, where nuns preserved the beliefs of le grand Canada amidst the profound presence of their deep, dark God. Caught between his silent, part-Blackfoot father and his vivacious but trapped mother, Plante flees this small world, losing his belief in any god and finding the center of his life in love and in writing. Still, the ghosts of his past haunt Plante and drive him to embark on a stunning spiritual and physical journey.
"This wonderful book takes on what may be the hardest questions by allowing this most observant individual to see and hear in miraculous detail. How, it asks, does any person become American, let alone find a place in the breathing cathedral that is this majestic universe?" —Jane Vandenburgh, Boston Globe
"A memoir full of doubts and hesitations, a self-scouring undertaken with resolute frankness and considerable stylistic grace . . . Plante shows that origins can work on the spirit with a force as strong as gravity." —Sven Birkets, New York Times Book Review
"A book, and a life . . . consumed with exploration and examination. It is about asking hard questions, and making hard judgments, and rummaging, mercilessly, through the hidden recesses of a mind that never rests . . . Remarkable. And memorable." —David M. Shribman, Toronto Globe and Mail
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions;
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet
are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
Dearest comrades! all now is over;
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from fœtor arising.
Walt Whitman "Hymn of Dead Soldiers," Leaves of Grass (1867)
The Army Hospital Feb 21, 1863. There is enough to
repel, but one soon becomes powerfully attracted also.
Janus Mayfield, (bed 59, Ward 6 Camp[bell] Hosp.)
About 18 years old, 7th Virginia Vol. Has three brothers also in the Union
Army. Illiterate, but cute—can neither read nor write. Has been very sick and
low, but now recovering. Have visited him regularly for two weeks, given him
money, fruit, candy etc.
Albion F. Hubbard—Ward C bed 7 Co F 1st Mass
Cavalry/ been in the service one year—has had two carbuncles one on arm, one on
ankle, healing at present yet great holes left, stuffed with rags—worked on a
farm 8 years before enlisting—wrote letter—for him to the man he lived with/
died June 20th 1863
Richard Voos: In American history the Civil War forms a
turning point in American history however one defines it, in terms of the sheer
number of Americans dead on both sides as well as the transformation of the
United States into a modern industrial nation. It also has a transformative
effect on the role of men, the sheer violence on the role of men, as well as
the ability of women to perform in a different role.
Michael Bronski: That's totally correct. When we look at the
Civil War—and the Civil Ward plays such an important role in the mythology of
American history—it really is central. But I think people don't understand the
role of violence in the Civil War. We all know that all war is violent, but the
sheer number of deaths of American men in the Civil War is tremendous. If we
were to do a percentage, based on our current population, of the Civil War
versus today and the number of deaths, the number of deaths given today's
population would be six million deaths. Which is staggering when you think about
it. So what the Civil War does within the history of American gender is
something quite unique. If after the Revolution we saw the making of the new American
man, the divorcing of the Daniel Boone/Davy Crockett type from the effete fop
from England, that trend continued and the Civil War presents us with a
complete crisis of masculinity. In the two Whitman quotes we heard, we actually
see this sort deluge of mutilation and death and harm to the male body
happening, and at the same time we see this enormous amount of tenderness
towards the male body. Because well, everybody, North and South, who fought in
the Civil War was brave, even if they
were brave for those 35 seconds before they were shot coming into the first big
battle if they were in the first wave of people.
And let’s not forget that the
Civil War deaths were fairly personal: you actually shot people or you
bayonetted them and they were right in front of you. You did not get to be in a
tank and shoot people who were 50, 150 yards away from you. The sheer amount of
death was devastating to the men who fought in the Civil War, and who survived.
So when we hear the Walt Whitman poems, it’s just this endless elegy to male
beauty, to male sentiment, to the uniqueness
of men—and quite sexualized, often, within Whitman's poetry and in his journals.
On the other hand we have… not the image of the brave Union soldier or brave “Johnny
Reb,” but in fact the young vulnerable boy who has simply been torn apart. So
the male body becomes here, and we see this later in World War II, which we'll
discuss in a later podcast, we see the male body completely heroicized and
lionized for being brave, and at the same time pitiable in its vulnerability.
RV: How does the violence associated with the Civil
War continue to influence the definition of manliness after the war?
MB: Having just spoken about the dichotomy between the
brave soldier and the vulnerable soldier, I think one thing to keep in mind
here—and it continues to be a central part of American culture today, but particularly
up until World War II—is that we see the very definition of manhood changing.
So the rite of passage for men from the age of 13, 14 up until 50 in the Civil
War, the rite of passage was actually killing someone. Killing another soldier,
killing another American, even if they had seceded from the Union. So, the very
definition of manhood—quite different from Davy Crockett, if Davy Crockett
proved his manhood by killing animals—the definition during the Civil War was
actually to kill another American.
Last weekend a group of around 400 Mormons marched in the Utah Pride Parade. Calling themselves “Mormons Building Bridges,” they were met with enthusiastic applause. Carrying signs with messages like “Love 1 Another” and “LDS heart LGBT,” they were there to show their support for the LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer) community and celebrate recent advancements in issues relating to LGBTQ people and Mormons, such as Bishops no longer excommunicating members who come out and the Boy Scouts of America voting to allow openly gay scouts to participate. (LGBTQ adults and atheists still cannot do so openly.)
As I read about Utah Pride in preparation for my remarks this upcoming weekend as the 2013 Boston Pride interfaith speaker, I couldn’t help but reflect on what I learned during a recent visit to Utah.
It was late in the evening when I arrived, and I knew I would be there for only 24 hours. I was met by Alasdair Ekpenyong, a college sophomore who stands at the crossroads of intersecting identities and convictions: black, LGBTQ-affirming, feminist, progressive, a lover of bowties—and deeply Mormon.
Two weeks later, he would speak calmly and decisively at an anti-discrimination rally. But in the car that evening he spoke quickly and excitedly, stumbling over his words a bit but still impressively knowledge and articulate, referencing countless texts and ideas I’d never even heard of. I asked if we could stop to pick up some food and, with french fries in our laps, he gave me a quick tour of Salt Lake City, demonstrating an intimate knowledge of the area and the people who call it home.
Alasdair, a student at Brigham Young University (a private university owned and operated by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, originally established in 1875), was the student organizer of “Intersecting Convictions,” the interfaith conference for which I had come to speak. The conference was held in early March at Utah Valley University, a publicly funded university in Orem, Utah, about one hour south of Salt Lake City. Audience participants and sponsors from both BYU and UVU helped bring the event into being.
During our conversation in the car en route to Orem, I confessed to Alasdair that I wasn’t sure how the event would go.
The student body at BYU is 98.5% Mormon, and UVU is 86% Mormon—the highest single-religion percentage at any public university campus in the United States of America. Atheists are already in the minority in most parts of the country, constituting a small fraction of the religiously unaffiliated in the U.S., but it seemed I was to be an especially odd one out at this event. Or, as my mother once said with a laugh when I was off to speak in Mobile, Al.: “It’s kind of hip to be a gay atheist [in Cambridge, Massachussetts]. Not so much most everywhere else.”
I was scheduled to speak in an extended dialogue with the evangelical Christian presenter—as an atheist who is also a former evangelical Christian. Additionally, I was to engage other panelists and audience members, most of whom would be religious. As a queer person and atheist, what could I—and what should I—say to people who are members of communities that, both historically and contemporarily, have played a sizable role in not only demonizing atheists and supporting anti-gay ideas, but actively working to prevent LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer) equality and civil rights?
Alasdair responded by reminding me that this event was not intended to be a collection of like-minded, progressive people. He told me that he personally holds a liberal mindset alongside an abiding respect for traditional institutions, and that it was important to him to bring an ideologically diverse crowd of liberal and conservative people together for this event.
“I like what Eboo Patel has said about making sure that interfaith work includes conservative subcultures, too, and does not merely become a festival of shared liberalism,” he told me.
And sure enough, as it turned out, we had a lot of different perspectives in the room—and a lot to say to one another. I was there as a liberal queer atheist, but I was just one of four keynote speakers, the others representing Jewish, Mormon, and evangelical Christian perspectives. We offered individual remarks and engaged in an honest public dialogue with one another. Questions of difference loomed that day, and much of the discussion centered around the idea that not only do we have, surprisingly, a lot in common—an important point worth remembering and repeating in a culture that frequently lifts up conflict while ignoring harmony—but that we also carry profoundly important and seemingly irreconcilable differences.
In that sense, the conference left me (and I suspect many others) with as many questions as answers. But these questions are vital—and the idea that we can consider them together, without sacrificing our relationships or the civility that undergirds them, is radical. I certainly don’t believe that the idea of “celebrating different beliefs” should be extended to beliefs that are used to marginalize others—but that tension should be explored, not suppressed for the sake of “getting along.” And calm, compassionate interfaith dialogue can create space to unpack them constructively in a way that shouting matches ultimately cannot.
These differences, of course, exist not only between communities but also within them. The conference served as a reminder that no community is a monolith, and that those of us who wish to see a pluralistic society will need to work with people in many different communities in order to see it realized. There are certainly Mormon people and institutions that have worked against LGBTQ equality, and many continue to. But as was evident at this year’s Utah Pride, there is also a fast-growing number of Mormons who are working for change. They may be less visible—after all our society, and the media in particular, privilege polarizing perspectives—but these Mormons are there, doing difficult but important work.
Among them is Joanna Brooks, who served as the Mormon panelist at the conference. She has been an advocate for LGBTQ equality and acceptance among Mormons and more broadly (in fact, she was featured earlier this year in The Advocate’s list of “10 Pro-LGBTQ Religious Women You Should Know”), and I am glad for her work. We may not agree on certain issues, including whether or not there is a God, but she has my support. Her activism, her ideas, and her voice reach Mormons that I, as a queer atheist, might not be able to. She speaks to Mormon identity, culture, tradition, and values in ways that I do not understand, and she is a powerful force for change in a community that she is invested in. Her work is just one reason why I am not willing to write off Mormons, or any other group of people, just because some vocal members of their community paint an exclusionary picture of what it means to be a member—and why I despair when members of my own communities dismiss them as possible allies.
And in the case of people who aren’t yet LGTBQ and interfaith allies like Brooks, I cannot help but hope that the act of encounter with someone who is unfamiliar will bring new ways of thinking to light. After all, support for marriage equality more than doubles among people who know a gay person. The Pew Research Center reports that of the 14% of Americans who went from opposing to supporting gay marriage in the last decade, 37% (the largest category) did so because of “friends/family/acquaintances who are gay/lesbian.” The second largest category, at 25%, said they learned more and became more aware. Only two percent said that they changed their minds because they came to believe that gay people are “born that way.” Visibility and education matter, but positive relationships across lines of difference seem to matter even more.
Whether we are in agreement or not, conversation is greatly needed. The kind of tribalism that causes people to be suspicious of those they think are not like them will be overcome through relationship-building, not through shouting matches on cable news or in online comment threads. Today I strive to build a relationship whenever I can—even with people who think that who I am is innately wrong—because if I refuse to engage, how can I hope for change?
I’m glad I had the opportunity to not only interact with nontraditional Mormons, but also with more conservative individuals and with traditional institutions like the Orem Utah LDS Institute of Religion—to not only build relationships with people and organizations that may not interact with LGBTQ individuals and atheists all that often, but to do so in a way that put my queer and atheist identities at the forefront of our encounters.
My queer identity is one of the reasons I’m passionate about religious pluralism, and advancing it through interfaith dialogue. A pluralistic society embraces all of its members. As a queer person, I reject heteronormativity. As an atheist, I reject theonormativity. But the eradication of heterosexuality or the eradication of religion are not my goals. Instead, I am concerned about privilege, and about fear of the other. Interfaith work can challenge both; it humanizes difference, allowing people to see that there are many ways of being and believing, and recognize that a just society makes space for all people.
I understand that some of this sounds a bit simple and idealistic—I know that appeals for pluralism and tolerance occasionally sound like the musings of a disconnected optimist. I don’t pretend that this work isn’t difficult, or that it will always work. But isn’t it worth trying?
There is a part of me that strongly resists sitting down with members of a community that has actively worked against my freedom. But whenever I can summon the patience to do so, I am glad that I did. This conference wasn’t the first time I have found myself in such a position; I have also spoken at several evangelical Christian colleges that require students to sign agreements that prohibit “homosexual activity” and disbelief in God. These are instituions that would likely expel me were I a student. Agreeing to visit these campuses isn’t easy, but they are communities that perhaps need open conversations about faith and diversity more than many others. Though getting there requires me to deal with my own discomfort, I have never regretted accepting an opportunity to enter into dialogue with members of communities that are discerning how to grapple with internal diversity and with how to engage the world beyond their community. Participating in these discussions may require some compromises on my part—having to part with my desire to say every single thing I might want to, or having to look people in the eye who would vote against my freedom—but it is worth it when I see the conversations that unfold, and realize that I have a chance to build a relationship with someone that could prove to be transformative.
Every day I try to challenge myself to think harder, to listen to others more deeply, to be more loving and patient. Needless to say, I frequently fail. But as an atheist, I don’t think any non-human force is going to intervene and solve our problems for us. Thus, it is up to us to make our world better. As much as I can, I want to leave a space at my table for just about anyone; to see every person as someone who is worth trying to understand, and to try to help others understand me—even when that feels impossible.
But sitting at my table means being willing to share. Some will take more than others, but there must be some give on all sides. In that respect, I am grateful for how much I was given by the people I met and learned from at the conference in Utah, and excited about the possibility for a more constructive and compassionate dialogue between people of all faiths and the nonreligious about how to build a world in which all people, including LGBTQ people, are respected and have equal rights. Though the road to a truly pluralistic society will be long, I learned in Utah that you can in fact build some significant bridges—even when you have less than 24 hours to do so—and I am glad to see that there are more and more Mormons building bridges at Utah Pride and elsewhere.
As I prepared to leave Utah, less than 24 hours after arriving, Alasdair gave me a hug and said: “I hope you’ll come back soon!”
Without hesitation and with the utmost sincerity, I agreed.
Get A Queer History of the United States or any of Beacon's other LGBT titles for 25% off the list price during the month of June, a.k.a. PRIDE MONTH. Use the code PRIDE at checkout. Read more at Beacon.org.
Portrait of Victoria Woodhull by Matthew Brady
“Yes, I am a Free Lover. I have an inalienable,
constitutional and natural right to love whom I may, to love as long or as
short a period as I can; to change that love every day if I please, and with
that right neither you nor any law you can frame have any right to interfere.
And I have the further right to demand a free and unrestricted exercise of that
right, and it is your duty not only to accord it, but as a community, to see I
am protected in it. I trust that I am fully understood, for I mean just that,
and nothing else.” Victoria Woodhull, "And the truth shall make you
free," a speech on the principles of social freedom, 1871
“I think we have wronged the South, though we did not mean
to do so. The reason was, in part, that we had irreparably wronged ourselves by
putting no safeguard on the ballot-box at the North that would sift out alien
illiterates. They rule our cities today; the saloon is their palace, and the
toddy stick their sceptre. It is not fair that they should vote, nor is it fair
that a plantation negro, who can neither read nor write, whose ideas are
bounded by the fence of his own field and the price of his own mule, should be
entrusted with the ballot. . . . The Anglo-Saxon race will never submit to be
dominated by the negro so long as his altitude reaches no higher than the personal
liberty of the saloon.” Frances Willard, the New
York Voice, October 23, 1890
Richard Voos: One
of the themes of Queer History is the
conflict between two political and cultural movements throughout America's
history. On the one hand what you describe in different periods of American
history as the “persecuting society”—the social purity movement—in the civil
rights movements, in contrast to advocates for religious freedom, labor, and
women's rights organizers and the gay liberation movement. Let's start with the
idea of the “persecuting society,” Michael. What is that?
This is a phrase that, as far as I can tell, was invented by a British scholar,
R. I. Moore. He wrote a
great book about the persecuting society in which he speculates that in the
Late Middle Ages, European culture was diverse enough and falling apart enough
that, as a mechanism to maintain social stability, those people in power—the
clergy and the aristocracy—began to single out distinct groups of people to be persecuted. So by persecuting these
distinct groups of people, and I'll name them in a second, the society actually
became more stable. By the exclusion of some people, more specifically some groups of people, what we might call “the
mainstream society” became much more solid.
The first groups that were targeted for persecution were
lepers, heretics, witches, and sodomites. So these are four very distinct
groups, often related to appearance or behavior: Lepers obviously had leprosy;
sodomites were accused of committing sexual sins. It’s interesting to note that
at that point “sodomy” did not just mean, as we think of it today, same-sex
behavior but a whole range of sexual misbehaviors under Canon Law. And “witches”
singled out almost entirely women and heretics who were going against some
Church doctrine. So the connections here are actually quite clear: lepers
probably—we know today this is not true—probably had leprosy because they had
committed some “sin.” Under Canon Law witchcraft was a sin, as was heresy, as
was sodomy. So there is a clear theological bent with all of this here. As
Western societies and Western civilizations progressed, these groups were
modified; we now have a much better attitude about people with leprosy,
although I must say it’s only in the last hundred years that we stopped putting
people in leper colonies. But the notion that you create and maintain a general
society by the exclusion of other people is still with us today.
RV: You cite an
example, Michael, early on in American history and it's one of the mythologies
of American history, when the Puritans expel Anne Hutchinson. Some of the
accusations made against her and her followers are sexual. Not only are they
religious heretics; they're accused of sexual behavior that contravenes the Puritan ideal.
MB: We see that
with Anne Hutchinson, we see it with the Quakers. And the Puritans, the Quakers—actually
there were nine Quakers that were executed on Boston Common. The Quakers are an
interesting case because Quakerism at its core not only attacked the theology
of the Anglican Church but also the social mores and the gender mores of the
time. Quaker men were forbidden to carry guns, a clear sign of manliness in
that society. Quaker women were allowed to speak during meetings, a clear
deviation from “women should be silent within Church.” So from the very
beginnings (in England), Quakerism—the Society of Friends—violated not only
theology but gender norms as well. When the Quakers were in America, the same
charges were also used against them there, too.
RV: We see at the
end of the nineteenth century, with the social purity movement, actual,
explicit—and as we heard earlier with the reading from Frances Willard—an
extremely explicit connection between social control and stability, and the
sexual and the racial.
MB: I think that
the tension here goes back to R.I. Moore's notion of the persecuting society,
which he admits changes over time. But the tension here is really between those
who want to control society—who want to shape society to fit their own
theological, moral, social norms—and another group of people. Emma Goldman is a
good example, being an anarchist who would like to have less state control,
less mainstream cultural control over what’s going on. So when we get to the mid-
to late-nineteenth century and the social purity movements we find a terrific
reformer like Frances Willard—who is for suffrage, who is for lots of
educational change, who is actually for lots of reform within the workplace—being
pretty explicit in her racism, and called on it by Ida B. Wells. So that even in
a progressive movement we have someone like Frances Willard who needs to use
the very concept of a persecuting society to reaffirm what we would all agree
would be generally pretty good ideas, except she's actually using
African-Americans as her foil.
RV: Some of the
ways that that conflict and contrast plays out at the end of the last century
are almost bewildering to us today, or laughable, and I'm thinking about Graham
Crackers, for example. Describe for us the invention of Graham Crackers and the
purpose, and a little bit more about Kellogg and Post. When we think of
breakfast cereal… they were thinking of something very different.
MB: They were
certainly thinking of something very different. When we look at the social
reform movements of the mid- to late-nineteenth century we're looking at people
who are concerned about a variety of social ills: the “uneducation” of people,
factory work, people starving to death. One of the main themes that connects
all of these together, and one of the main places where they place the blame
for this, is on what they would consider a dangerous and renegade male
sexuality. So it’s male sexuality that causes alcoholism, it’s male sexuality
that causes the abuse of women, it’s male sexuality that causes most of the
social ills. So one of the themes within these reform movements was to control
male sexuality. And the focus of this to a large degree—and we see this going
back to European culture as well although not as strongly as we see it in
American culture—is on stopping masturbation which was seen as a degenerative
act that could cause madness, blindness, and would lead to further acts of
sexual perdition. Some of the diet reformers, people who wanted to reform the
food industry and also how Americans thought about food, people whose names we
see in the supermarket everyday—Mr. Kellogg, Mr. Post, Mr. Graham—began to
invent cereals based on the notion that eating whole grains, unprocessed foods,
unprocessed flour, would be not only healthier but would curb masturbation. So the
origin of Corn Flakes and for Graham crackers, while they were healthier for
you in general, were seen as ways to stop—and we're speaking specifically about
men here because good women would not think about masturbating—were ways of
stopping male masturbation.
I think if you look at American history, and again this is
mirrored, to some degree in European history as well at the same time, one of
the clearest ways of seeing this divide—and its a divide that's highlighted by
the social purity movement—is to look at the divide between the American
anarchist movement and even homegrown freethinkers and atheists such as
Victoria Woodhull as well. People who are advocating a complete absence or at
least the diminishment, the great diminishment, of state control over people's
lives. So these people, let’s look at Goldman and at Woodhull, are looking to
reform people's lives, to make people's lives better to, make people more free,
and they're doing this by essentially eliminating state control over people's
activities. At the same time we have the social purity movement, people who
firmly believe they want to make a better society and who in many ways make
considerable and very significant changes within society that makes it better
for people. And their way of doing this is to actually reform society, making
society a better place for people but also by controlling people's behaviors as
Part of the social purity movement was the temperance
movement, which was to get people to stop drinking and then to ban liquor. We
see this same tension as time goes on between, let's say the African-American
civil rights movement—a movement that’s done spectacularly fine things to make
American society better—but through reforming
rather than through eliminating state
control. If we want to compare, this is not an exact comparison, but we could
compare Victoria Woodhull to Frances Willard and later on we might compare
Malcolm X, who is looking for complete freedom from white society, essentially
eliminating white society in his life, to Dr. Martin Luther King, who wants to
reform mainstream white society, to make it better for everyone. This is a
Queer History of America and I think this tension is quite a queer tension in
terms of freedom versus control. We see the gay liberation movement in 1969
quickly evolving into the gay rights movement. So the gay liberation movement,
in the tradition of Goldman and to some degree Malcom X, wanting to have
complete freedom from the state and from social controls, versus the gay rights
movement, which actually wants to reform society, to make it better for
lesbians and for gay men.
RV: It seems to
me this plays out in the culture wars of the last 20 years also, some of the
same tensions but in different ways.
MB: I think that
when we look at the culture wars—and I think its useful to see the culture wars
as coming in waves that are slightly different than each other as time goes
on—we see certain ironies. I think one irony of the culture wars of the 70's
and 80's involving the federal funding of gay and lesbian material through the
arts, we see a predicament in which a reformist movement, the gay rights
movement, which has granted the state with quite a bit of authority, is now
faced with the fact that the state has so much authority that they're actually
willing to try to wipe out even the gay rights movement and any representations
of lesbians and gay men. I think our more current cultural crises—cultural wars—involve,
lets say the fights about same-sex marriage in which we have a very clear
notion of the gay rights movement as a reformist movement wanting to support
the state in the broadest way possible, to acknowledge gay and lesbian
relationships. This seemed very radical, and is indeed radical, in our current
political setting but goes back to the early reform movements where monogamous
marriage was praised above everything else, and is quite at odds with the
sentiments of Emma Goldman or Victoria Woodhull.
For the last few months, I’ve been spending a good deal of my time and energy promoting my book, which was released in May 2012, titled Outlaw Marriages: The Hidden Histories of Fifteen Extraordinary Same-Sex Couples. In the book, I provide mini-biographies of selected high-profile couples from the past. I call the relationships that these couples created “outlaw marriages” because they existed long before same-sex couples in this country were legally allowed to marry.
I’ve given any number of interviews and also have talked about the book during several events at bookstores and book fairs. One question that several interviewers and people at the readings have asked is a variation of: “Isn’t it unethical for you to expose these people as being gay when many of them concealed their sexuality and their relationship when they were alive?”
It’s a valid question, as well as one that I’ve thought quite a bit about. As an example of such a couple who hid their relationship, I’ll point to Martha Carey Thomas and Mamie Gwinn.
Thomas is well known among education historians because, in 1885, she created the first graduate program in this country that accepted female students. She took that highly progressive step, for the time, while she was serving as dean of the faculty at the newly created Bryn Mawr College.
In Outlaw Marriages, I describe how Thomas pulled off that feat, but most of the chapter documents her and Gwinn’s 26-year personal relationship. The two women first lived together in Germany, where Thomas earned her doctorate. And then they continued their outlaw marriage for another 22 years while living in an on-campus residence provided for Thomas while she was dean of the faculty and then president at Bryn Mawr.
Neither Thomas nor Gwinn, during her lifetime, ever spoke publicly about being a lesbian. And so, the question could be asked: Was it ethically justified for me to “out” them?
Yes, I think it was.
(Before I continue, I need to say that I don’t deserve all the credit for conducting the research that revealed Thomas and Gwinn’s lengthy relationship. One person who did much of the heavy lifting in that effort was a scholar named Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz. In 1994, she published a book titled The Power and Passion of M. Carey Thomas, released by the University of Illinois Press, that unambiguously stated that the subject of the biography was a lesbian.)
As to why I was on solid ethical ground in discussing Thomas and Gwinn’s sexuality, even though both women kept the details to themselves while they were alive, I see two reasons.
First, American society is in a very different place regarding homosexuality today than it was when Thomas and Gwinn were alive. At that time, it was against the law for two women or two men to engage in sexual activity, and they likely would have been imprisoned if their relationship had become public.
What’s more, if their outlaw marriage had become widely known, that would have done serious damage to both women’s careers. Members of the Bryn Mawr College Board of Trustees wouldn’t have appointed Thomas dean of the faculty or, later, president if they’d known she was a lesbian. Nor would they have allowed Gwinn to serve on the faculty of the English Department, which she did.
But that’s simply not the case today. Openly gay or lesbian educators are presidents of American colleges and universities, while others serve in the U.S. Congress, plus any number of celebrities who have come out as either lesbian or gay—people such as Ellen DeGeneres and Wanda Sykes, Neil Patrick Harris and Anderson Cooper—are enjoying highly successful careers.
So I believe a strong case can be made that if Martha Carey Thomas and Mamie Gwinn were alive today, they’d both be open about their sexuality. These women obviously were progressive in their thinking, as they pursued professional careers when the vast majority of American women were limiting their lives to the four walls of the home.
Based on statements that I found in letters that Thomas wrote to her mother, I also believe she would have been more than happy to tell the world about her intimate relationship with Gwinn. In 1880, Thomas told her mother, in a letter the young woman wrote from Germany, “If it were only possible for women to elect women as well as men for a ‘life’s love,’ I would do so with Mamie in a minute.” Thomas repeated the same thought two years later, this time writing that her “fondest dream” was that “Mamie and I could go through the marriage ceremony together.” Likewise, Gwinn often referred to herself, in letters she wrote, as being Thomas’s “wife.”
The second of the two reasons why I believe I’m fully justified in publishing a book that discusses the sexuality of gay men and lesbians from the past has to do with my readers.
Casting all modesty aside, I believe my book and other works about high-achieving gay people have enormous benefit for members of today’s LGBT community. People who are stigmatized because of their sexuality—and, yes, despite the advances that have been made, gay people still carry a stigma in the minds of many people—are looking for examples of widely respected individuals who share their sexual orientation.
Young gay or questioning teenagers, in particular, are eager to learn about successful members of the LGBT community.
Indeed, the couples who come to life in Outlaw Marriages, I believe, are particularly attractive subjects for lesbian and gay youths to read about because they’re what I might call “two-fers.” That is, the individuals in the book not only made major contributions in their individual fields—such as Jane Addams in social reform, Elsie de Wolfe in interior design, and Ismail Merchant and James Ivory in filmmaking—but also triumphed by sharing their lives with another lesbian or gay man for many years—Addams and Mary Rozet Smith were together for 43 years, de Wolfe and Bessie Marbury were a couple for 41 years, and Merchant and Ivory were together for 44 years.
Successful careers + successful outlaw marriages = stellar LGBT role models.
Dr. Jay Michaelson is vice president of the Arcus Foundation and the author of five books and two hundred articles on religion, sexuality, ethics, and contemplative practice. His most recent book, God vs. Gay? The Religious Case for Equality, was a Lambda Literary Award finalist
The murder of Mark Carson, targeted for being gay, is the third, and most serious, in a recent string of attacks against gay men in New York City. The horrific act, under investigation as a hate crime, has brought appropriate condemnations from all quarters.
But what it should not have brought is surprise. On the contrary -- Carson's murder highlights the shortcomings of a rights-based, marriage-based approach to LGBT equality, and cries out for deeper, and more difficult, forms of engagement.
With states falling like dominos into the marriage-equality camp, many have expressed shock that homophobic hatred and violence is "still" possible. But why is this shocking? The advent of civil rights for African Americans did not end racial violence, still widespread nearly 50 years after the Civil Rights Act. Feminism has not ended violence against women. Indeed, from Seneca Falls to Selma to Stonewall, to echo President Obama's historic turn of phrase, legal inequality is only the tip of the iceberg. Submerged beneath it are deep-seated patterns of injustice, privilege, prejudice and fear.
In an astonishingly short period of time, homophobia has gone from commonplace to contemptible. To take but one example, star athletes are today punished for saying a word - "faggot" -- that was one of the most common slurs of 'trash talk' just five years ago. Indeed, in coverage of Carson's murder, the word, like the 'n-word,' was referred to only euphemistically, as an "antigay slur."
This change is welcome, but it is also so rapid as to induce whiplash. And banning language from polite speech does not remove it from consciousness. On the contrary: the tamping down of hatred only increases its intensity, leading to tragic bursts of rage.
So too the advances in same-sex marriage, the cultural acceptance of LGBT people, and other hard-earned markers of the normalization of sexual diversity. All of these are crucial signposts on the path to equality, and they did not come about overnight; they were, in fact, the culmination of decades of struggle. But none of them, nor all of them altogether, can uproot the roots of homophobia, which lie (among other places) within religion, culture and psychology.
In social struggles, legal equality is not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning. Yes, the state's imprimatur upon animus is now being, gradually, removed. But the animus itself remains. Carson's murder; the other acts of violence against LGBT people in New York; and, further from the camera's lights but more tragic and more prevalent, the spree of violence against transgender people -- particularly transgender women of color, some of the most vulnerable members of the LGBT community -- are not vestiges of bygone days we thought we'd left behind. Rather, they are a reminder that most of the work still lies ahead.
The work to come is different from what's come before. To be sure, legal inequality still persists in most states; in my home state of Florida, for example, I can be fired from a job simply for being gay, and my husband and I cannot adopt a child. But the real debates take place not in legislatures but in living rooms, locker rooms, and, yes, churches as well. For example, religious leaders cannot stand on the sidelines, or equivocate between 'sin' and 'sinner.' You're either opening hearts or closing them, fighting hatred or abetting it. Unfortunately, neutrality is not an option.
Nor is blissful ignorance. It's fun to live in "gay ghettos," or closed bubbles of like-minded friends. But these spaces are permeable. They are not as safe as they seem. And if we want to fight the causes of violence, LGBT folks and our allies need to venture out of them, and have more difficult conversations with those who aren't yet allies. This is more difficult than winning lawsuits; it takes time, and requires vulnerability, dialogue, and persistence. It is the responsibility of all of us, not just a few lobbyists and lawmakers. But personal relationships, personal stories, and personal experiences are the water that will erode the stone of the hardened heart. Nothing else will.
Nor can we imagine that because some of us are secure, all of us are secure. Progress has been uneven. It has not reached LGBT people in red states, in conservative religious families, in many communities of color, or in economically disadvantaged communities. It has not encompassed those whose gender presentation is different from the norm, or who do not "pass," or who are not "just like everyone else." These are people who live in constant threat of violence and marginalization, often intersecting with other forms of oppression.
Carson's murder reminds us that violence can strike anyone, anywhere. But it should also remind us that some people live with this fear every day.
Some privileged pundits have recently opined that the gay mission has been accomplished, that gay organizations should shut their doors, that victory may now be declared. To them, I suppose, Carson's murder is just an anomaly -- and those of more marginalized people, like Ce Ce Acoff, the most recent transgender woman of color victimized by hate, are simply invisible.
But this violence is neither anomalous nor invisible. It should not even be surprising. Rather, it is a reminder that hate doesn't disappear when discriminatory laws are taken off the books. For those of us who need reminding.
In honor of Mother's Day and moms everywhere, where sharing a few of our favorite Mom moments in Beacon books. In these passages we've posted on the Beacon Press Scribd page, we have three varied perspectives on motherhood. Michael Patrick MacDonald reflects upon his mother's strength in a passage from All Souls: A Family Story From Southie. Amie Klempnauer Miller recounts the decision-making path she and her partner went down on their way to becoming moms in an excerpt from She Looks Just Like You. And, in Remembering the Music, Forgetting the Words, Kate Whouley tells the story of the challenges funnier moments of one Mother's Day with her mom.