An unalienable right: the pursuit of happiness

Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg officiated at the wedding of two of his staff members, Jonathan Mintz, left, and John Feinblatt. The couple's two young daughters, Georgia and Maeve, were there to celebrate. (Courtesy New York Times)

New York has joined the list of states that allow its citizens to marry -- versus the states which allow only some of its citizens to marry. Connecticut joined the good list a couple years ago, so Ransom and I were legally hitched on June 20, 2009. Before that we had a legal Civil Union ceremony (January 3, 2007) and a wedding with no legal status (October 5, 1996).

Bigots argue that recognizing gay unions will destroy marriage. Hmm, how do they then explain our willingness to tie the knot three times to protect and celebrate our love? And how do they explain the loving family in the picture above?

But that’s not my point today. Rather, I am somewhat light-headed thinking about the changes I’ve seen in my lifetime. In 1974 a group of students at Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU) was denied the right to simply sit in a classroom together and talk under the group name Gay Alliance of Students. They (we) had to sue the university in federal court to gain that right. It took that suit and its appeal before the issue was settled by the United States Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit.

On October 28, 1976, Judge Howard Thomas Markey, a Nixon appointee, stirringly wrote:

It is of no moment, in First Amendment jurisprudence, that ideas advocated by an association may to some or most of us be abhorrent, even sickening. The stifling of advocacy is even more abhorrent, even more sickening. It rings the death knell of a free society. Once used to stifle "the thought that we hate," in Holmes' phrase, it can stifle ideas we love. It signals a lack of faith in people, in its supposition that they are unable to choose in the marketplace of ideas.

Now, 35 years later, gay student groups exist throughout the land, though, in truth, some are passé and no longer needed. Full marriage equality is on the horizon across the country and one can imagine an end to homophobia, or at least government-sanctioned homophobia.

Is 35 years a long time? Some would say yes; I would have said yes if asked that question in 1974 as an impatient 26-year-old. From where I sit today, and as I contemplate the long and far-from-completed struggle of women and blacks for full equality, no, 35 years does not seem so long to achieve what we have achieved.

I am proud of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo, the New York legislators and all the hard-working volunteers who brought this to pass in New York. I am also, quite frankly, proud of myself and of the small part I played in the struggle. To quote a line from The Big Chill and address it to my fellow gay revolutionaries in the Gay Alliance of Students, especially Steve Pierce, my boyfriend at the time, who committed Judge Markey's words to memory: “I was at my best when I was with you people.”

Thank you, Steve, for all you did; thank you, Governor Cuomo; thank you New York. Now will California please come to its senses?

Rights for you, no rights for you

The Rev. Clayton Crawley and his partner, Roy Kim

I spent time last weekend with friends I had made during the years I attended Trinity Episcopal Church in New Haven. I had gone decades without going to church regularly but the 9/11 attacks sent me looking for a church; I settled on Trinity, a vibrant, music-filled (4 choirs!) congregation in the heart of town. Its best asset was, of course, its people, and I met dozens of good ones.

Over time though I came to not believe in the whole god thing and eventually drifted away. Much as I liked the people, I felt a hypocrite and didn’t know what to do with my lips while everyone else was reciting the Nicene Creed.

Last weekend‘s time with Trinity friends made me think maybe I should find a way to come back to the church.

Then I read today’s Times and the story “True to Episcopal Church’s Past, Bishops Split on Gay Weddings”.  I sighed in disgust and thought, no thanks, I’ll sleep in on Sundays. (The issue is that, if you are a gay Episcopalian you can marry your loved one in church IF you live in Brooklyn and Queens, but not if you live in the other three boroughs, including Manhattan! It’s all up to your local bishop; if he’s a religious bigot, you lose.)
Yes, I see that the church has come a long way and, yes, I know that the inexorable march toward freedom will one day prevail but I am damn tired of a bunch of (mostly) old, (mostly) white (mostly) men deciding who is to have rights and who is to be denied rights.

I am damn tired of bible-based racism, homophobia, sexism, xenophobia and hatred.

I am damn tired of our cultural habit of pussy-footing around religion: behavior that is condemned by most fair-minded, intelligent Americans is somehow excused if the bigot’s excuse is religion.

Christian churches have oppressed millions for millennia. I am damn tired of it.

Slapped down again

I wrote on Tuesday about the joy of living near New York and of watching the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Romeo & Juliet.  It was a good day.

Shoulda known it wouldn’t last.

I went to the surgeon yesterday and he told me he wants to put me under his knife again. He can’t figure out why I’m still in so much pain as we approach the six-month mark since surgery. Blood tests and a bone scan told him nothing, so he figures the best thing to do is cut me up again and see what’s what.

That may be the best thing to do, but I want someone else to say that too. I mean, “I don’t know what’s wrong, so let’s operate” doesn’t sound like good medical practice to me. Might make good financial sense – for the surgeon. Not for me.

(That’s actually NOT an issue, I’m glad to say. Having the Yale Health Plan means very low prescription co-pays, no out of pocket expenses for procedures, and no forms to fill out).

So this gotdam (sic) saga continues. My knee still hurts like hell and I have to decide what to do next. I’ve already pointed out there’s a reason we call it “practicing” medicine, but can I ever hope that someday they’ll figure it out, stop practicing and just DO IT RIGHT?!

FTS!

Juliet loses her Romeo . . . twice!

One expects that poor Romeo will meet an untimely fate at the end of Shakespeare's classic. Less expected is that the show will be halted for nearly half an hour near the interval so that Romeo's understudy can be rushed into costume and onto the stage.

Such were the strange goings-on at the Park Avenue Armory as the Royal Shakespeare Company presented the world's greatest love story to an involved and patient audience this afternoon.

Near the end of the first part, at a natural break in the action, a RSC staffer came out to ask forgiveness, saying that there had been a back-stage accident and the show would pause while they sorted it out. A few minutes later she came back to tell us that the unlucky victim of said accident was none other than Romeo (actor Sam Troughton) and that his understudy, after a slightly longer pause, would take his place.

We were all asked to leave our seats so that the company might prepare, and spend a few minutes in on-stage rehearsal.

The show must go on.

Indeed!

And a good show it was. The RSC built a Globe-Theatre-like space within the cavernous armory so that even the cheap seats (like mine) were in excellent visual and aural range. The acting in the company was mostly stellar, and the staging was compelling even without much in the way of sets. Both the old and the new Romeo (Dyfan Dwyfor, earlier on stage as Peter) were in love with a Juliet I didn't really fancy, but all in all it was a solid afternoon of Shakespeare.

Such is the magic of theatre that the company could soldier on and that we in the audience could put our concern for the fallen actor on hold as we re-entered the Bard's world. At the curtain call the cast pointed to and surrounded Dwyfor and he of course got a huge ovation. He was beaming, and I reckon this will be one of his favorite tales of life in the theatre.

Just another day in New York. Just another reason I can't imagine living anywhere other than where I do.

I am Betty Ford

When I was at Hair the other day I saw my life on stage. This morning, as I read the New York Times obituary of former First Lady Betty Ford, I saw my life in print.

In discussing her addictions to pills and alcohol, Times staffer Enid Nemy writes "Her loneliness was compounded by low self-esteem and a debilitating self-consciousness about things like her lack of a college degree." Change the pronoun and you have my story. In the dark days of winter 1990 I was paralyzed with pain. Not the physical pain I've been suffering lately, but the mental pain of being lonely, miserable and ashamed of my degree-less, aimless life. It was a very difficult time for me, and for us. Luckily, just as Betty Ford's husband did, mine stuck by me; I survived, I went back and finished my BA and I blossomed.

Ford wrote in Betty: A Glad Awakening "on one hand, I loved being 'the wife of'; on the other hand, I was convinced that the more important Jerry became, the less important I became." Amen to that, sister! I was with Ransom Wilson, one of the world's most famous musicians, but I felt of no importance whatsoever -- except to him, and I will be forever grateful that he made that clear; without that I would have had nothing at all.

When confronted by her family and friends about her drinking and her abuse of pills, she denied it and called her family a "bunch of monsters." I may not have had that exact experience, but a read through my journals shows clearly that I both knew and yet denied the extent of my drinking.

The obituary goes on to point out the relaxed, friendly atmosphere the First Lady established in the White House, compared to the approach the Nixons took: servants should be rarely seen and never heard. Again, this is me. Just last night I was talking to Dan about how well I always treat staff (waiters, cashiers, etc) and how friendly I am with them. Formality in relationships is not something the First Lady and I appreciate.

Betty Ford inspired millions and, through the Betty Ford Center, directly helped and changed the lives of thousands. Here our life stories diverge, but I have grown from her example and I take strength from her story.

Wait a minute, that's my life on stage

My friend Dan McDonald and I saw the revival of Hair Thursday night. In a move that may be unique in Broadway history, the show ran from March 2009 to June 2010 and has now returned for a two month summer run. The original show was, of course, a cultural phenomenon that opened in 1968, ran for 1750 performances (over four years), spawned a million-selling cast album and put several songs on the Top 40 (Aquarius, Hair, Easy to Be Hard, Good Morning Starshine, Let the Sunshine In). I've known the music since 1968 but I have only seen the show once, and that was a so-so touring company. Last night was a full-on, high energy Broadway production that knocked my socks off. It was far from perfect and it was easier to love if you knew the songs already, since it was nearly impossible to decipher the lyrics, but I do and so I did.

The most compelling aspect for me was that I have never before seen a Broadway show that told my life story, or a part of it anyway. Up there on stage was me and some of my friends from the 60's: the pot-smoking, long-hair-wearing, war-resisting, hippie freak radicals of the era. During a climactic draft card burning scene I thought back to that night in 1967 when my friend Charlie burned his card in a Notre Dame dorm. During a pot-smoking scene I visualized a group of us sitting crossed-legged in my candlelit room in the same dorm, listening to Jimi Hendrix and discussing the war. When they sang Sodomy near the top of the show I remembered the thrill and titillation I experienced as a 20-year old, marveling that “sodomy, fellatio, cunnilingus” and “pederasty” were lyrics to a Broadway show!

There's a very brief moment in the show that likely goes unnoticed by many: high up on stage right, near the back wall, an actor puts a handgun to the head of another and pulls the trigger – a chilling reenactment on the famous Newsweek photo below. It left me stunned.

I realized while sitting in the St. James Theatre that the music of Hair is woven into my psyche. I know every word and I love every song. More than that though I was taken back in time to my life and was moved by the importance of it all, or at least the perceived importance of it. The 60s was like no other decade in our country's history, I am sure of that. The intensity of the culture clash was not something I simply read about; it was something I experienced, felt, grew from, was threatened by and was molded by.

In 2008 Charles Isherwood of the New York Times wrote about Hair's historical context:

"For darker, knottier and more richly textured sonic experiences of the times, you turn to the Doors or Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin. Or all of them. For an escapist dose of the sweet sound of youth brimming with hope that the world is going to change tomorrow, you listen to Hair and let the sunshine in."

You know me. I don't have a lot of that hope, but it was great to spend two and-a-half hours remembering a time when I did.

"Murder of a Vietcong by Saigon Police Chief." Vietnam, 1968. Photo Credit: Eddie Adams. Copyright AP. 

Independence Day

My flag flies proudly in front of our house.

It's easy for me to display the flag; this is the third time in the last several weeks; Memorial Day and Flag Day preceded it. I was even one of those people who used only red, white and blue lights on my Christmas tree in December of 2001 as the wounds of 9/11 still burned.

I'm listening to The Stars and Stripes Forever as I write this early on July 4.

I take my patriotism seriously and, yes, I am proud to be an American. I might even play Lee Greenwood later in the day.

But, as with me and everything else in my life, it's not entirely simple. I hate many of the things we have become: greedy, selfish, arrogant, fat, lazy, uncultured, unfriendly and uninformed about the real perils to our great nation.

I hate that we are fighting two ill-advised wars and that we are far too ready to fight than to talk. I hate that we fought in Vietnam, and these three wars together say to me we are a people who don't learn from our mistakes.

But I appreciate that we fought in and won World War II and I applaud the bravery, dedication and patriotism of all of those involved, including my father, Lieutenant Colonel Frank R. Foery. Later today I will start watching Band of Brothers again, the excellent HBO mini-series about that war. I just finished reading From Here to Eternity, James Jones classic megatome on the troops in Hawaii just before the war.

In other words, I am thinking a lot about our country, its army and its history. I love that history and am very proud of it. I can only hope that our future can somehow be as great. I don't see it, but will be happy to be wrong.

Tomorrow night I am meeting my friend Dan, a 2010 Notre Dame graduate who just returned from a year of volunteer work in Haiti. Perhaps he is the future. If there are enough fine young people like him then maybe we will be happily listening to John Philip Sousa for generations to come.