The way I see it is we didn’t advance LGBT rights by creating a new party or electing the right leaders. We did it by changing the culture. Obama has been the greatest president in history regarding LGBT rights. The best by far. He deserves our praise and admiration. But even Obama had not “evolved” yet on marriage equality when he entered office, and he wouldn’t have been able to do much for us if political opposition wasn’t weak. He was the right person to be in office during a turning point in history. We created and worked toward that turning point for 40 years. We did it by coming out, by living honestly and rejecting shame and standing up to bigotry.
Many of those who joined the labor movement in the early part of the 20th century are the ancestors of those who now vote Republican. Strong labor unions played an instrumental part in expanding the middle class in the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. Early unionists weren’t better educated or less prejudiced than their descendents. The labor movement targeted them and kept explaining to them why it was in their best interest to join a union.
Up to 40% of the population seems to be prepared to vote for Trump no matter what he does or says. To be sure, many of these people are hopeless bigots, but if you want to change our society for the better, you can’t write off 40% of the population. And many of the progressive changes we want would help poor Republican voters the most. Rather than simply looking down our noses at such people, I think we should be evangelizing to them. Some, perhaps many stubbornly vote Republican because they think those blue city voters are snobbish. Considering the sweeping comments you hear about people from rural areas and southern states, you can hardly blame them for thinking that. Many from rural areas are bigots. No doubt about that. And I don’t think we should give an inch to bigotry. But you can challenge the idea that cutting taxes and regulations will help working people. You think the labor movement would have gotten far if organizers took a condescending attitude toward poor rural workers? We need to convince them to join us. And if we can’t convince them, we need to convince their children.
One of the reasons I hope for universal healthcare in this country is because of what happened to my mother. The system pushed her aside. She didn’t receive inadequate healthcare because there was a shortage of healthcare. It was all about money. The healthcare was right there all along, but she wasn’t allowed to have it because she couldn’t pay. She died when she was 63 years old. She lived her entire life in West Virginia. West Virginia, almost assuredly, will go red on November 8. But that doesn’t mean everybody in the state is an asshole. And it doesn’t mean West Virginia will always be red.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
The Future Cult of Doctor Who
Imagine you wake up, and you’re 2000 years in the future. You’re amazed by all the new technology and how different people live. You’re also surprised by how some things have stayed the same. A few aspects of the culture simply mystify you. For instance, you discover most inhabitants of the earth are oddly devoted to and preoccupied with Star Wars, Star Trek, The X-Files and Doctor Who. Nearly everyone has one favorite, and many hold devotees of the other three in bitter contempt.
You are taken in by a family of Doctor Who lovers. They are especially enamored by the Tenth Doctor Who. You discover there are idealized images of David Tennant all over the house. During dinner, you’re asked if you ever met the Doctor. You admit that you never had the pleasure, but you proudly proclaim that a friend met one of the actors who played the Doctor. The little girl begins to cry. The teenage son smiles and says, “He’s not a believer. I told you it’s just bullshit.” The parents accuse you of leading their children astray. You are completely confused.
After dinner, you’re taken to an attic room where a Tardis figurine is on display atop a pedestal. You pick it up and tell the family how cool it is. The teenage son begins to laugh hysterically, the parents are horrified, and the little girl accuses you of being an incarnation of the Master. When you ask what you did wrong, the mother informs you that you touched the Tardis before being ceremoniously cleansed, and the father tells you that there was a time when you could have been put to death for such an offense. You put the Tardis back and ask for forgiveness.
The son asks, “It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”
You say, “Doctor Who? A lie?”
“Yeah,” says the son. “Made up bullshit.”
You say, “I wouldn’t say that. It meant something to a lot of people.”
The father asks, “So it’s the truth? It all happened just as it’s depicted in the sacred films?”
You say, “Well…”
You think to yourself these people are completely bonkers.
You are taken in by a family of Doctor Who lovers. They are especially enamored by the Tenth Doctor Who. You discover there are idealized images of David Tennant all over the house. During dinner, you’re asked if you ever met the Doctor. You admit that you never had the pleasure, but you proudly proclaim that a friend met one of the actors who played the Doctor. The little girl begins to cry. The teenage son smiles and says, “He’s not a believer. I told you it’s just bullshit.” The parents accuse you of leading their children astray. You are completely confused.
After dinner, you’re taken to an attic room where a Tardis figurine is on display atop a pedestal. You pick it up and tell the family how cool it is. The teenage son begins to laugh hysterically, the parents are horrified, and the little girl accuses you of being an incarnation of the Master. When you ask what you did wrong, the mother informs you that you touched the Tardis before being ceremoniously cleansed, and the father tells you that there was a time when you could have been put to death for such an offense. You put the Tardis back and ask for forgiveness.
The son asks, “It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”
You say, “Doctor Who? A lie?”
“Yeah,” says the son. “Made up bullshit.”
You say, “I wouldn’t say that. It meant something to a lot of people.”
The father asks, “So it’s the truth? It all happened just as it’s depicted in the sacred films?”
You say, “Well…”
You think to yourself these people are completely bonkers.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Lips That Would Kiss
In the summer and fall of 1988, I lived with my aunt and uncle in Alexandria, Virginia. Their house was near the Huntington Metro stop, and every day, I took the train into the city. My place of employment was a gourmet food store in the DuPont Circle neighborhood, which was a gay neighborhood at the time. There were gay bars close by, and the gay bookstore Lambda Rising was a few blocks north. My friend Nathan lived in the neighborhood.
I worked in the bakery, and there was a cute boy who worked in the deli on the other side of the store. He was always pleasant and polite. I got the impression that he was straight, though, and in any event, I never imagined he would be interested in me, but that didn’t stop me from looking. He was just my type—sweet natured, slim with a boyish face and blond hair. Every chance I got, I stole a glimpse.
The kitchen and the supplies were in the basement, so I made regular trips down there throughout my shifts. One day when I came out of the kitchen and headed up the narrow stairs, I found the boy from the deli in front of me. I didn’t say anything because the stairs were little more than two feet wide and quite steep. I figured I’d say hello to him once we reached the top.
Apparently, he didn’t realize I was behind him, and he started moving up the stairs at a glacier pace. It was ridiculous how slow he was moving, and I quickly realized he was deliberately wasting time. He was taking a little unauthorized break from his work. I certainly didn’t blame him for that, but I was right behind him, and after a while, it felt a little strange.
Normally, I’m shy, but now and then, I manage to be playful even with people I don’t know all that well, even with cute, presumably straight guys. So on a whim, I lowered my voice and said with menacing authority, hoping that I sounded like our boss, “All right, let’s try to get up these stairs a bit faster.”
I must have given the boy quite a start because he suddenly sprang to life and spun around before I finished my sentence. When he saw that it was just me, his expression turned to relief, and he let out a sigh. But then he pretended to be angry with me and did something unexpected. He grabbed me by the collar and pushed me against the wall. His face was suddenly very close to mine.
Knowing that I scared him, if just for a moment, made me laugh, and I continued to laugh when he grabbed me. But after a couple of seconds, it registered how we were pressed together on those narrow stairs. No more than an inch separated our lips. And he held us in this position for a while. When my giggles trailed off, and the situation was in danger of becoming awkward, he let go, dropped the pretense of anger, smiled and said, “You scared the shit out of me.” We then went on up the stairs. A couple of weeks later, I quit, and I never saw him again. But not long after that, I began to wonder if I had almost been kissed on those stairs by that cute blond boy. I now wish I had been daring enough to kiss him. All it would have taken would have been for me to pucker and our lips would have touched. That’s how close he was to me.
I worked in the bakery, and there was a cute boy who worked in the deli on the other side of the store. He was always pleasant and polite. I got the impression that he was straight, though, and in any event, I never imagined he would be interested in me, but that didn’t stop me from looking. He was just my type—sweet natured, slim with a boyish face and blond hair. Every chance I got, I stole a glimpse.
The kitchen and the supplies were in the basement, so I made regular trips down there throughout my shifts. One day when I came out of the kitchen and headed up the narrow stairs, I found the boy from the deli in front of me. I didn’t say anything because the stairs were little more than two feet wide and quite steep. I figured I’d say hello to him once we reached the top.
Apparently, he didn’t realize I was behind him, and he started moving up the stairs at a glacier pace. It was ridiculous how slow he was moving, and I quickly realized he was deliberately wasting time. He was taking a little unauthorized break from his work. I certainly didn’t blame him for that, but I was right behind him, and after a while, it felt a little strange.
Normally, I’m shy, but now and then, I manage to be playful even with people I don’t know all that well, even with cute, presumably straight guys. So on a whim, I lowered my voice and said with menacing authority, hoping that I sounded like our boss, “All right, let’s try to get up these stairs a bit faster.”
I must have given the boy quite a start because he suddenly sprang to life and spun around before I finished my sentence. When he saw that it was just me, his expression turned to relief, and he let out a sigh. But then he pretended to be angry with me and did something unexpected. He grabbed me by the collar and pushed me against the wall. His face was suddenly very close to mine.
Knowing that I scared him, if just for a moment, made me laugh, and I continued to laugh when he grabbed me. But after a couple of seconds, it registered how we were pressed together on those narrow stairs. No more than an inch separated our lips. And he held us in this position for a while. When my giggles trailed off, and the situation was in danger of becoming awkward, he let go, dropped the pretense of anger, smiled and said, “You scared the shit out of me.” We then went on up the stairs. A couple of weeks later, I quit, and I never saw him again. But not long after that, I began to wonder if I had almost been kissed on those stairs by that cute blond boy. I now wish I had been daring enough to kiss him. All it would have taken would have been for me to pucker and our lips would have touched. That’s how close he was to me.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
A short review of Capital in the Twenty-First Century
Some would accuse Piketty of being a Communist or an enemy of capitalism. He is neither. Piketty is an advocate for a particular kind of capitalism, one that is restrained with progressive taxation and regulation and balanced with social programs.
Piketty spends a lot of time on the economic history of Western Europe and the United States, and long sections of his book are focused on the extreme wealth disparity of the early 19th century. A minority of the population lived in a grand style due almost exclusively to inherited wealth while everyone else worked hard for a living from an early age until death. These lucky few did nothing to earn their station in life. Everything they had was merely given to them. But Piketty points out that redistributing their wealth wouldn’t have helped the poor a great deal, and, at the time, this elite served a social function. Everything had to be made by hand, food could not be preserved and travel involved horses and carriages. To live elegantly and with style took a lot of money. These people were living for the society as a whole. And although these people were not necessarily more intelligent or discerning than their poorer neighbors, they had the means and opportunity to appreciate art, music and literature. Some patronized artists, scholars and scientists. This class was instrumental in preserving and passing on culture from one generation to the next. However, society no longer needs a wealthy elite for this purpose.
Piketty also spends a good deal of time delving into the historic events of the first half of the 20th century. Two world wars and the Great Depression devalued and destroyed capital. And for thirty years following World War II, conditions were optimal for the expansion of the middle class. This expansion coincided with the Cold War, so there was an incentive to believe the happy developments of this period were the natural and inevitable results of capitalism. Piketty does not believe this. He insists that generally wealth has a tendency to trickle up, not down…unless something stops it.
Piketty’s most radical proposal is a global tax on wealth that would require banks everywhere to share information about their clients’ transactions with appropriate government departments so that it would be difficult to hide assets. But he admits it would be nearly impossible to make this happen anytime soon.
In the meantime, Piketty advises a return to more progressive taxation. He believes capital and inheritance should also be taxed, not just income from labor. Furthermore, Piketty advocates an increase in the minimum wage and a significant investment in education and training.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Summer of 1985
In the summer of 1985, I was 19 years old and had just finished my freshman year of college. I had done well despite my intense anxiety and social phobia. Maybe because I had looked forward to it for so long, or maybe because I was determined to make it work. I made good grades, and I discovered that I loved my classes. My high school teachers were not all that knowledgeable or scholarly, but my professors at WVU… They knew their stuff. I took a history class on ancient Western Civilization, and it turned out it was taught by an Egyptologist who could read hieroglyphics, and Latin and Greek. He had traveled extensively all over the Mediterranean region. So when he talked about ancient Greece, for instance, he’d include his personal impressions and experiences of the various cities and scenes of important battles. I was seriously impressed.
I also discovered Morgantown’s clandestine gay community which centered around a dive bar, The Double Decker, on High Street, not far from the downtown campus and within walking distance of my dorm. I spent many Friday and Saturday nights there. I made a few gay friends. I danced with a few boys, and fooled around with some, too. I started therapy, and I was lucky enough to be assigned a kind and gentle psychologist who happened to specialize in the effects of homophobia on young gay, lesbian and bi people. She became an important person in my life for a number of years.
Because I didn’t care for dorm food, and because I had been walking all over campus and Morgantown, I had slimmed down considerably. I was getting noticed. Guys at the bar were paying attention to me despite the fact that I was overtly shy and not the easiest person to approach.
The year didn’t end on a high note, though. I went home with a boy who had been drinking a bit too much. He was kind of direct and surly with me, but I overlooked this because I thought he was cute, and I thought of myself as lucky for the chance to be with him. It turned into a date rape type of situation.
Looking back now, it probably wasn’t a good idea to live with my parents that summer, but I didn’t have any money, and I lacked the social skills to arrange to have an adventure with a friend and share expenses. However, that is exactly what I should have done.
Oak Hill, my hometown in southern West Virginia, was a major culture shock after a year at college. I had changed, my attitude and expectations had changed, but Oak Hill was the same confining place it had always been. I went back to work at McDonalds, and I went back in the closet. While my young, straight coworkers parties and dated, I kept my distance for fear that someone would discover my secret.
I used the money I earned to buy some pretty clothes. I remember an oversized pink t-shirt and a pair of Madras short shorts with strips of pastel colors such as yellow, pink and turquoise. I also got a spiky haircut. I was a teenage gay boy dressed up to have a good time, but I was stuck back in my hometown.
Soon after I got home, I realized my mother was sick again. She had schizophrenia, and it went untreated all while I was growing up, but she was finally diagnosed and began receiving treatment in the spring of my senior year of high school. I was so thankful and relieved to learn that her illness could be treated, and like the young, hopeful thing that I was back then, I assumed that all the drama was finally over. It was such a huge disappointed to learn that we had only been given a reprieve.
I think that summer was the pinnacle of my youth. I had one year of college behind me, and I knew I liked it, and I knew I could hack it. I was as fit and trim as I would ever be. My confidence in myself was the highest that it has ever been. I felt reasonably attractive. I could have had more fun that summer than I had ever had. I should have been with boys like myself. I should have been able to party, hang out with friends, get lucky a few times, and maybe even have a summer romance. Instead, I went backward.
I also discovered Morgantown’s clandestine gay community which centered around a dive bar, The Double Decker, on High Street, not far from the downtown campus and within walking distance of my dorm. I spent many Friday and Saturday nights there. I made a few gay friends. I danced with a few boys, and fooled around with some, too. I started therapy, and I was lucky enough to be assigned a kind and gentle psychologist who happened to specialize in the effects of homophobia on young gay, lesbian and bi people. She became an important person in my life for a number of years.
Because I didn’t care for dorm food, and because I had been walking all over campus and Morgantown, I had slimmed down considerably. I was getting noticed. Guys at the bar were paying attention to me despite the fact that I was overtly shy and not the easiest person to approach.
The year didn’t end on a high note, though. I went home with a boy who had been drinking a bit too much. He was kind of direct and surly with me, but I overlooked this because I thought he was cute, and I thought of myself as lucky for the chance to be with him. It turned into a date rape type of situation.
Looking back now, it probably wasn’t a good idea to live with my parents that summer, but I didn’t have any money, and I lacked the social skills to arrange to have an adventure with a friend and share expenses. However, that is exactly what I should have done.
Oak Hill, my hometown in southern West Virginia, was a major culture shock after a year at college. I had changed, my attitude and expectations had changed, but Oak Hill was the same confining place it had always been. I went back to work at McDonalds, and I went back in the closet. While my young, straight coworkers parties and dated, I kept my distance for fear that someone would discover my secret.
I used the money I earned to buy some pretty clothes. I remember an oversized pink t-shirt and a pair of Madras short shorts with strips of pastel colors such as yellow, pink and turquoise. I also got a spiky haircut. I was a teenage gay boy dressed up to have a good time, but I was stuck back in my hometown.
Soon after I got home, I realized my mother was sick again. She had schizophrenia, and it went untreated all while I was growing up, but she was finally diagnosed and began receiving treatment in the spring of my senior year of high school. I was so thankful and relieved to learn that her illness could be treated, and like the young, hopeful thing that I was back then, I assumed that all the drama was finally over. It was such a huge disappointed to learn that we had only been given a reprieve.
I think that summer was the pinnacle of my youth. I had one year of college behind me, and I knew I liked it, and I knew I could hack it. I was as fit and trim as I would ever be. My confidence in myself was the highest that it has ever been. I felt reasonably attractive. I could have had more fun that summer than I had ever had. I should have been with boys like myself. I should have been able to party, hang out with friends, get lucky a few times, and maybe even have a summer romance. Instead, I went backward.
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