This Time's Different

This post rambles a bit, in part because I'm recovering.  A week ago I was recouperating from a weekend bender at Berghain in Berlin.  Today though, my recovery is emotional.  I spent my afternoon preparing for and being at the march and rally to end violence against the LGBTQ community in New York City.  This rally was magically organized by City Council Speaker Christine Quinn, the LGBT Center, and the NYC Anti-Violence Project, and was attended by nearly 2,000 people – all in 24 hours.  Social media is a blessing and a curse, that’s for sure. 

Early on Saturday, May 18, 2013, a gay man was brutally murdered in the West Village, a bastion of queer culture and bohemia since the founding of the modern gay rights movement in 1969 – and long before then, too.  With marriage equality on the books in 12 states and the District of Colombia, New York being the most populous of them all (sans CA because it’s on hold there right now pending the SCOTUS decision), and hate crime laws in what feels like almost everywhere now, it’s appalling to me that a man of 32 was gunned down for being gay.  In New York City.

This didn’t happen in Laramie or Baghdad or Kampala.  It happened in my backyard.  This man was murdered in a neighborhood in which I willingly and flauntingly cavort regularly, and in various mediums of clothing might I add. 

Marching down Greenwich Avenue, traversing east on Ninth Street, heading south on Fifth Avenue for a block, and making the turn to head back west on Eighth towards Avenue of the Americas where Marc Carson was shot in the face, I piped up to keep the chant of “Hey! Hey! Ho, Ho!  Homophobia’s got to go!” going.  Onlookers collected at every step; diners had stopped eating their meals and stood to watch, cheer, and take pictures; those with apartments took time to look down on to the sea of solidarity from their windows and balconies in the spirit of community. 

It was a solemn rally.   A girl and I joked that this was the quietest group of gays we’d ever encountered.  It was different, there’s no question about it.   But the chants filled in as we carried onward. 

I kept having flashbacks to the bibulous and errant times I’ve had on the blocks of the West Village.  I looked up, charmed by the architecture and tree lined streets.   The sun was setting gracefully; the humidity wasn’t so kind.   There was a cacophony of echoing chants and cheers.  The sound made its way up through verdant ginkgos and along red brick federal style facades to further thicken the air with a palpable, uneasy energy. 

The perp was caught a block from my favorite bar and a half block from where I probably would have been getting falafel at the time of the arrest on that Friday night.  To realize fully that this happened in a neighborhood where people of all stripes feel unabashedly comfortable is scary. 

Which is to say that processing this heinous act of violence isn’t easy.  People die every day in all different ways.  I was recently in Istanbul, where bombings have marred and slaughtered recently, and in eastern Turkey, people die daily in their fight for the claim of freedom.  And in Harlem, my neighborhood and home, people are often victims of gun violence.  Last summer, a 4 and a 9 year old were struck by bullets in the crossfire of a gunfight in Harlem (other such gunfights happened in other boroughs, too).  But that didn’t bother me: I still walked by the places where these shootings happened (a mere couple of blocks from my apartment) without hesitation or a shred less confidence. 

This time though, it’s different.  There was a target to this shooting.  Not one steeped in gang violence or drug money, lust or even the random act of shooting into a crowd (which happened in New Orleans recently).  That sordid, ignorant bullet could have been aimed at any one of my fabulous friends or me.  Just because we might be holding hands with a person of the same sex, or have really tight jeans on, or even some makeup (or none of those things at all – I’m stereotyping).  That’s why this is different.

And to think that just a week ago, I still had the eye makeup and nail polish on I’d donned to the club in Berlin because we were told to dress alternatively to get in the door at Berghain (and it worked). 

None of what I’ve said should lessen the deaths of any number of the millions who’ve died from bullets.  All those people are worth a whole lot, but, I’m not going to get into the gun debate here.  This is about stigma, it’s about targeting, and it’s about the need to bring down barriers.

A friend and colleague from another political office carried a sign with a jarring quote by the late Harvey Milk: “If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door in the country.”  Later, Milk met his fate by bullet in his office at the City Hall of San Francisco in 1978.   At the time, sure, Milk threw doors open for lots of folks.  But today, marriage equality and gender equity are leveling the playing field for LGBT Americans.  Granted, we’re behind a great number of countries in terms of equality across the board, but we’re getting there. 

Moments like this create a rallying cry for recognition, and for better or for worse, can galvanize a movement.   The fact is we’re all just human beings.  And whether you’re a Taiwanese lesbian or an Iranian homo (cause even though Ahmadinejad says there aren’t gay Iranians, there are – I’ve met some), you bleed like every other person on this earth, straight, transgender, bisexual, or otherwise. 

A lot of what I do in my day-to-day work is help people.  I have the pleasure of doing so on behalf of one of the most progressive members of the NY State Assembly, Dick Gottfried.  He represents Chelsea, Hells Kitchen, Midtown and part of the Upper West Side – all famously friendly neighborhoods for LGBT folks.  I like to joke that he has the gayest district in the world (and I get to work there!), which is unfounded, but debatable.  Had Dick not been in Albany for the legislative session, he surely would have been at the rally today.   The recent hate crimes in Manhattan happened in some of the gayest neighborhoods in America – including ones my boss represents.  How can that be? 

I don’t know, really.  I do know that we still have a major political party that puts me in the second class of society.  I do know that in schools across certain parts of this country, children and young adults are scolded for their thoughts or their love for a person of the same gender.  I do know that same-sex couples are not entitled to the same benefits of heterosexual couples by the federal government and that people are forced to die alone in hospitals even though they’ve had a partner for 30, 40, or 50-plus years.  This is disgusting and egregiously un-American. 

I marched today for myself and for millions of other LGBT persons here in New York City, in America, and around the world. 

This past weekend in Tbilisi, Georgia, a group of Orthodox priests lead a massive violent protest against a paltry number of gay-rights activists.   Nothing has happened to the hate-mongers so far, who used rocks, bats, garbage cans, and fists against the peaceful demonstrators.  This all sounds heinous and so third world, but isn’t a murder-by-bullet for being gay just as revolting?

Rambling Saturday

Out my window above the balustraded cornices of brownstones across the street, the sky is a pale shade of blue and the smattering of cirrus clouds are painted in pink as the sun sets to the west.  An early dusk is settling in over Harlem. 

The late light is always welcome.  As the days in New York grow longer, so too do the adventures.  People of all stripes stay out later and longer as the city’s hum carries into the evening. 

Spring is a glorious season.  One of the only problems I have with it is never knowing quite what to wear.  The mornings are often brisk and the evenings cool, too.  I find myself walking out the door with a jacket but shedding it by the time I get to the office or to wherever I’m supposed to be after having left my house.  To wear a sweater or to not wear a sweater: that is a daily question.

I’m one to show my ankles as soon as possible.  I’ve been pushing the envelope for a couple weeks now, sporting Sperry’s without socks and cuffing my pants when the sun shines bright.  Many have already pulled out their short shorts and tiny skirts, chiffon tops, tanks, and neon hues.  The other day, I saw someone wearing a fur coat with bare legs; surely they had short shorts or a skirt on, but you couldn’t see them.  Or maybe they were just wearing the fur.  Better to bare legs and don a fur than befit the season top and bottom. 

After my morning and afternoon at the pottery studio, I met up with a friend to enjoy Hudson River Park.  We made our way to Pier 64, as I had learned earlier in the week from a gentleman at the block association meeting that the daffodils were just gorgeous and worth the viewing.  So we made our way west, passing galleries and empty bottles of vodka on the far west side.  We took pictures and had a photo shoot.

There was a trio of guys, all in jeans, doing random yoga poses, some more extreme than others.  A runner had let his Shih Tzu out of its stroller to enjoy the grass and stretch its legs.  Yes, people have strollers for their dogs in New York.  Some, including this one, are worth more than a months rent for me.  We walked back to the start of the pier on the sloping lawn, chucking as we caught the scent of the day: marijuana.  It is 4/20 after all, and a perfect day to enjoy some bud.  Harking back to our college past, we both laughed at how different our day would have been.  Neither of us keeps pot handy, so we just enjoyed those enjoying it around us. 

Lounging in the glow of a western sun, more people passed by.  The guy and his Shih Tzu zoomed past, the dog back in his stroller, head popping out, clearly enjoying the ride.  Dad ran really fast, so I suppose it made sense to push the dog along.  Some people walked by with their bikes.  Others rode them, which is not allowed.  After a while, having laid down, eyes closed to enjoy the rays, I heard a bike zoom by and yelled “dismount!” without moving form where I laid.  They kept riding; we just laughed. 

As we enjoyed the river, the daffodils, and the sun, we talked about our lives – as friends are wont to do.  Tales from last night and stories from in between the last we’d seen each other.  A story about sex, in which asking to be spanked later elicited an apology from the spanker for thinking they spanked too hard (after having been explicitly asked to spank) drew enormous laughter, and further story sharing. 

I cherish most the moments that are utterly New York.  Today was one of them.  I spend my Saturdays in a pottery studio with a bunch of women, most of them far older than me.  We have a blast.  A couple of weeks ago, one of the ladies was complaining that she had to go to get a mammogram.   She said she’d must prefer her husband have at her tits.  This was told to all by an 86-year old New Yorker as she molded clay.  This is not a story one could make up. 

Boston has been on everyone’s mind, and we wondered how something like what occurred there would unfold in New York.  It would be hard to shut this place down.  Boston did it with aplomb, and they should be proud.  As a New Englander, I’m damn proud. 

Something that drew a lot of conversation today was how the city was under Martial Law yet no one was calling it that.  The lockdown was the right thing to do, but my god, call a spade a spade: Boston was under Martial Law for an entire day.  And in the end, the bad guys were caught.  There’s also the shocking revelation that there are instances when people who are arrested do not have be read their Miranda rights.  This was startling to me.

But above the balustraded cornices of brownstones across the street, the sun has now set and the sky is now dark.  

The Unexpected

I was reading an article about Canadian politics when the C train pulled into the 135^th Street station.  I stood up, as I always do, continuing to read the paper while exiting the train.  The paper was high in front of me and I walked directly into the pole.  I shook my head and laughed as people chuckled around me and found my way off the train.

The world is full of unexpected moments.  Tonight, one of mine happened to be a pole that never moves. 

It was a weird day for many reasons.   After a block association meeting on 21st Street and Tenth Avenue, I walked up Eighth Avenue from 23rd Street to Columbus Circle.  I was on the phone for half the walk, but found myself enjoying the cast of characters that cavort the avenue. The heart of the block vagaries happens from about 38th Street to 50th.  There’s a solid mix of tourists, commuters, and locals, with never enough room on the sidewalk. 

The locals stand out more in the crows than tourists.  I laughed out loud as a father walked out of the pizza place on the northeaster corner of 42^nd and Eighth to find his kids in a tussle.  He stopped them and said, “Guys, come on, lets hide on mom!”  “Over here,” he giddily yelled as the kids ran towards him.  I hope the person a few paces behind me got a glimpse of her reaction. 

As I climbed further north, school-aged youth skipped in wonder and with delight, marveling their way up and down.  I caught a few eyes from passersby and I even noticed a few people in restaurants looking out at me.  I wasn’t dressed special or anything, just being myself, making my way uptown.  Sometimes a walk can make you feel good.

When I reached Columbus Circle, I was happy to see Christopher atop his pillar glistening in the night.  All the scaffolding has come down after the “Discovering Columbus” exhibit and the restoration is complete.  It glows now. 

I sat for a bit, reveling in the crisp spring air, reflecting and enjoying the subtle sounds of the city.  As I made my way back south to exit the circle, a couple was dancing.

She was wearing a white tulle tutu-type dress, wrapped in colored lights.  He was in a black tux, sporting a baseball cap.  She had white point ballet slippers on, laced up to her knee.  They sashayed around the circle, making their way to the southern entrance.  Their timing couldn’t have been better. 

A Broadway party bus, where one side is all glass and people sit facing one direction stadium style, was circling the Circle as she ran up the ledge and leaped into his arms.  He caught her and they spun several times.  Everyone on the bus erupted in applause.  I couldn’t help but smile and watch.  If there weren’t windows, I’m sure we’d have heard the audience gushing and cheering.  Standing by the curb myself, I noticed the tour guide grinning at the unexpected: that impromptu wonder that makes his job better, and damn easier. 

The pit that had loomed in my stomach for the past four hours disappeared during my walk and time experiencing the City.   Of course I was saddened and angered by the events that unfolded in Boston earlier in the day. 

I left my office for an hour and a half to attend a meeting.  I hadn’t checked my email to notice the three news alerts I received from the Washington Post.  (For the record: I get the New York Times delivered to my house, but receive breaking news updates via email from the Post.  Go figure.)  My friend and colleague broke the news to me outside as I was coming and she was going.  I was shocked, but it took seeing it in print for the pit to engulf in my stomach.

The world can be a sad reality. That reality is often delivered at an ever-increasing speed.  Sometimes we don’t get to process how we actually feel before being inundated by others pontificating via 140-character statements, meme photos, prayers, or page likes.  

I’m settling in tonight knowing those I know and care about are safe.  Life is a journey in the unexpected.  Surely there is a quote by someone famous on one of those black and white cards that says something of that ilk.  But I haven’t seen one recently. 

Today I’ll remember something sad but also take comfort from the idiosyncrasies of life.   Always stop to enjoy the dancers and be sure to lower the newspaper from in front of your face while exiting the train.    

That City Called New York

            Sometimes I wake up and forget I live in the best city in the world.  Or at least that’s how I see it.  The textures, the people, the surroundings – they all add up to create an environment that breeds creativity, fuels ingenuity, and sparks change.

            There are so many types of New Yorkers.  EB White, in his brilliant and timeless 7500 word essay “Here is New York” said it best:

There are roughly 3 New York’s. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by the locust each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something...Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion.

That passion is unrelenting from those of us who still wake with an unknown, who still yearn for more, who still wonder aloud, and who still seek to do better. 

            We complain about money and development, about change, and about the train that never comes.  But we live here.  And aside from the fare increases and the litter, we love it.

            The bars that become regular and the diners where the coffee is endless are there simply because they belong.  The meetings that never end because of people with new ideas and the passion that brought them here still burns.  It's not something that should ever be slowed or stopped.  

            Tolerance is a word that’s abused.  Acceptance is better, because it is inclusive.  New York strives to be inclusive. 

I really can’t imagine being anywhere else.   

Victory

            I have spent a good chunk of time over the past two weeks breaking into tears.  Some sessions last only a minute and shed a tear or two; maybe just a welling of water in the eyes.  Others have gone on for longer, with drops falling down my face.  Tears grown from frustration, lack of sleep, fear, and in the end: utter bliss. 

            A few months back I made a conscience decision to join the folks on the ground in Pennsylvania to re-elect President Obama.  I was hesitant at first, because there were places across the country I’d thought about going – where could I be the most effective?  Expanding the map in the West was most appealing to me, and I do love Colorado.  Marriage was on the ballot in three states, too, and one of them was Maine.  In 2009, I spent a month in the great cliff state, knocking doors, making phone calls, and talking to people about why marriage equality matters.  In the end, we lost that race by 5 points.  Fast forward to 11/6/12 and we reversed the numbers: equality reigned and we won by 5 points. 

            The thing about working a single-issue campaign is that you’re not working with party people.  You might not believe it, but I worked with Republicans in Maine who were for marriage.  I learned quickly to hold my partisan tongue. 

            I was called upon and lobbied by folks I’d met on the trail there to come back because they’d returned.  But I yearned for something grander.  So I dropped the holding of the tongue and went all in for the Democratic Party to secure the White House for another four years.  Fuck it.  I’m a party person.

The 44^th President is also the first sitting president to tell me that I’m equal.  He told me and millions of others that as gay and lesbian Americans, we’re worthy and indeed entitled to the same rights as our straight brethren.  And that to me held far greater weight than winning the rights in just one state.  Now sure, equality is a battle we’re waging town by municipality, county by state.  So in no way am I discrediting the great wins across the nation for marriage on 11/6.  And let’s note that there were three wins, HUGE wins, for marriage at the ballot box: Maine, Washington, and Maryland.  Minnesota rejected an anti-gay amendment to their state constitution – also a first in the nation.  But the national leader was in our boat, and he needed to be kept in office.

So I joined the national fight.

My friend Troy, whom I’d met on the marriage campaign in ’09, was tapped to direct Outer Alleghany County in Western PA.  It’s the whole county, sans Pittsburgh – which had its own team.  It’s crucial turf to securing the 20 Electoral College votes that PA awards when you win the state.  Pittsburgh and Philly turn out big and we buttress those votes by holding the line and pushing it blue in the suburbs on Election Day.  And that we did.

The team I worked with boosted county turn out from a standard 50% to 70% on Election Day this year.  That is remarkable.  And it’s one of the many reasons we won, and won by a solid 5 points. 

Pennsylvania is a unique state.  It’s always in the swing category because you have to fight for it.  It has not voted for a Republican president since 1988.  But it’s blue is not a given.  Romney had money, but didn’t have the ground game.  He also had the gall to show up after being absent for a month three times in the last four days of the election.  How cute. 

Another unique factor is that you’ve only got 13 hours to win it.  There is no early voting and it’s extraordinarily difficult to get an absentee ballot from.  They don’t like voters in the Keystone, and more so since they enacted an oppressive voter ID law.  So you’ve got to fight with what you’ve got and you do that by organizing.  You do so by talking, by planning, by out smarting and being ever prepared for the unexpected.  You knock doors until your knuckles are blue and people ignore you.  You go back to the same doors the next day in the rain, and maybe the next day, too, to make sure people realize just how important it is that they exercise their fundamental right to vote.  And do so on behalf of Barack Obama.

There was a wrench in this battle though, and her name was Sandy. 

There’s a saying, and I’m not sure where I got it, but it’s that Republicans vote come hell or high water and Democrats vote when it’s convenient.  The fear I had from the storm – bringing lots of high water – was that it would suppress Democratic turnout.  Thankfully, that didn’t happen.  It was in large part because of how long organizers had been engaged with voters whom they made realize just how important a role they had in determining the course of this country. 

Dealing with the storm was also particularly difficult for me.  New York City was a direct target of the storm, and it really hurt that I wasn’t there to help.  Everyone tells me how lucky I was to be spared by not being here, New York is my home.  Seventy percent of the people in the district my boss represents were without electricity, heat, and hot water; homes were flooded; lives upended.  These are people I know and have been working with for years.  Not to mention the friends who were in trouble.  While I was thanked profusely upon my return for helping to re-elect the President, it hurt that I wasn’t there to lend them a hand in their time of need.  Thankfully, I was distracted and kept busy by the campaign and an amazing team.  Even once we won, I was nervous to come back to New York.  I wasn’t sure what to expect and afraid of what might have changed. 

Which brings me to time.  A month is a pretty long time though it felt like only a day.  I decided to head to Philly for the close out and party.  Friends sent messages saying, “Are you coming back?  You won!”  And yes, I came back, but didn’t necessarily want to.  Campaigns only come around every so often and the people you work with are some of the most amazing people in the world.  Maybe it’s just because I’ve been working campaigns since before I could vote so know a lot of these types now, but still.  I’m reminded anew each time just how great people are who work to win for something you believe in.  It’s a familial thing.  You work to turn out crazy Americans to vote, but you’re all just as fucking crazy being the ones there day in and day out until 3, 4, or 5 in the morning, or sometimes just not going to bed at all.  It’s because there’s a deadline, and it’s set in stone. 

I’m so thankful to my boss and colleagues for letting me take the time off work to fight.  When I spoke to Dick the day after the Election Day, after we both calmed down about how many glorious victories there were, I thanked him again for letting me join the race.  He then thanked me for doing it, because it meant just as much to him as it did to me.  The same goes for my Chief of Staff and all my colleagues, they thanked me in the end and it means the world to me. 

We won.  We defended every Democratic Senate seat and picked up two more.  We gained seats in the house, and made sure rape continues to be recognized as an egregious and horrific act of violence – not some god created event to bear a child or being such thing as a legitimate or not.  We legalized marijuana in two states.  I call this a progressive cause for a couple of reasons: one of them being about choice.  And with pot legal, we can tax the shit out of it and put that money towards education and infrastructure.  People keep calling for creative solutions to fixing budget deficits.   Well there is one growing right in front of us, and two states said yes to it (CO and WA). 

And we won on equality.  The bigots were sidelined and will continue to be banished to the back pages of history with the likes of all those who have disregard individual liberty. 

So that’s why the tears keep coming.  Headlines and news stories, commentary and conversation all bring an emotional validation of victory. 

The resident of the White House stands for me (not to mention the millions of other Americans who he fights for – for healthcare and jobs, for education and access to contraception).  The wins of 11/6 carry weight because of what was at stake and I couldn’t be happier to have been a part of it.  It feels good to fight; better to win. 

Congratulations to all those who chose to take up the mantle for a cause this year.  Revel in your victory, and when it hits you, let the tears roll.