The Usual Suspects: Abortion and Gays

History has been swirling all around us these past few weeks.  It’s been created, changed, and dramatically altered all at once.  In the wake of a jarring decision by the Supreme Court Tuesday, which effectively gutted America’s landmark and protective Voting Rights Act of 1965, we’re on the eve of yet another string of historic and possibly life changing Supreme Court decisions. 

On Wednesday, June 20, 2013, the Supreme Court will rule on the Defense of Marriage Act, which prohibits the recognition of same-sex marriage by the federal government and also allows states to ignore same-sex marriages legally performed in other states in Windsor v. United States; and it will also determine California’s Proposition 8 case, which was a referendum where voters overturned California’s law which made marriage equality legal in California (the lower court has ruled that the Prop 8 is unconstitutional and violates CA’s equal protection clause). 

And while I’m cautiously optimistic about how they’ll rule – DOMA will get overturned and be left to the states; Prop 8 will be a very narrow decision but ultimately uphold the lower courts decision are my guesses – there is still such shit going on in the world.  As I write this, an amazing Texas State Senator by the name of Wendy Davis is filibustering a bill in the Texas state senate which would severally limit women’s health options and access to abortion in the state of Texas, forcing 37 of its 42 women’s health clinics that provide abortion services to close.  She has been speaking since 12:18 Texas time. 

Texas has arcane and annoying filibuster rules, but among the general you are not allowed to sit or lean, eat, drink or use the restroom, or stop talking about the subject of which you’re filibustering.  If the topic on which you’re speaking is not germane to the bill you’re filibustering, a warning is issued; you only get three warnings.  Then you’re done.  So this forces the opposition to stay tuned in, to try to trip up the filibusterer.  The person can also yield to questions. 

I'd been tuning in on and off since this afternoon.  At one point, a female GOP legislator rose to see if the speaker would yield for questions.  When Ms. Davis refused to yield her time for questions, the GOP female senator spat back “not even for a woman who is also a physician?”  Nope.

After more time, she was told she was no longer discussing something that was germane to the topic of the filibuster.  She was discussing sonograms – in the context of pregnant women and access to abortions.  And she was told it was off topic.  And yet Republican after Republican has made an effort to force sonograms on women who want to terminate a pregnancy, regardless of the reason.  And now they’re saying it is not germane.  My how the hypocrisy flies in Texas.

The people’s chaos erupted in the Senate chamber when the rule-changing Chair (President of the Senate for the time being) decided to dictate who he thought was in order, and why. 

In a stunning show of solidarity, the Democrats did everything they could to continue running down the clock as the rules were repeatedly broken.  And then Leticia Vande Putte (who arrived in the Senate chamber after burying her father the very same day)  raised a parliamentary inquiry.  After she was ignored on her previous question, she asked, in an additional parliamentary inquiry: “Mr. President, at what point does a female senator raiser her hand or voice to be recognized over the male colleagues in the room?”

It was stunning.  A total fucking mic drop.  And so true. 

She had been previously ignored when she was making a motion to adjourn a previous motion to table the appeal of the decision on the filibuster.  Confusing?  Yup.  But it’s important.

All these things add up.  Everyday we teach young girls and boys to respect each other, that they’re equal, and are their own being.   And yet as they age and see what the world is doing, women see their own body is constantly up for debate; members of the LGBT community are discriminated against and relegated to second-class citizenry.  That is wrong. 

No one likes abortion and in a perfect world – where access to contraception was unrestricted and free – the only need for an abortion would be in the case where the life of the mother is at stake.  But in a perfect world, you wouldn’t need that clause ‘cause the pregnancy would be perfect.  In a perfect world, where men didn’t rape women, you wouldn’t need a clause to allow raped women to get abortions, either.  And in a perfect world, legislators would stop telling doctors how to treat their patients through repressive, ignorant, and petty laws. 

But the world isn’t perfect. 

On Wednesday morning, shortly after 10:00 the voice of (I’m guessing) Chief Justice John Roberts will change millions of lives, for better or worse.  

I’ve always said that I was a feminist before I was a gayist.  Of course I’ve always been gay, but I found it easier to take the mantle for women's rights than about anything else when I was younger (meaning high school).  It was a social issue I was proud to stand for and by, and to loudly and unabashedly defend (thanks in large part to a now dear friend, Cathy Meiklem). 

The gay stuff came naturally (though not without a closet, of course), because it was in the same vein, we just didn't have the rights yet.  I’ve witnessed first hand -- and been a part of ground game operations -- tremendous advancements for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people in this country.  And as everyone says: it’s all happened in such a short amount of time. 

I get annoyed when Senators and Representatives who voted for DOMA 17 years ago say they are now opposed to the law and it should be thrown out by the courts.  What made gay people different in the 90s?  Maybe they hadn’t met any gay people, 'cause you know, we’ve never been visible before.  

I’ve be glued to the SCOTUSblog each morning SCOTUS has come down with decisions.  That will happen again Wednesday.  The folks who run it are brilliant and amazing and should be awarded for their succinct and timely reporting on an institution that does things in an utterly traditional way.  I have no complaints about how SCOTUS issues its rulings and limits certain types of media inside the court house.  Patience are a virtue. I think it part of the reason I have such a love affair – sort of a painful one – with the Supreme Court.  It is almighty, even though it is an equal branch of government.  There is something in its luster, in its stature, that makes it grandeur than the other two.

Tonight, we still don’t know if the Texas Senate voted on SB5 illegally after midnight or if it voted on a motion to consider the vote for SB5.  Either way, it was a remarkable show of courage by Senator Davis and the team that was lined up behind her all day long in the name of women and families in the state of Texas and across the country. 

Thankfully, Wednesday will not bring a decision about restricting access to abortion from the Supreme Court.  But if we don’t keep up our diligence and continue to erupt in the peoples chaos, someday it will. 

It’s remarkable to me how I feel like I’ve a foot in two battles: one where we seem to be making great strides (LGBT rights) and the other that seems to be falling backwards (women).  I’m not giving up one-way or the other.  

There will always be work to be done, because the world just isn't perfect.

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.