a free thinking woman

You know how things come in threes?  Death, they say, comes in threes… And I’ve been wondering who the three would be for me following the death of Paul Newman who I admired my whole life.   I’m getting to an age where the number of dead people I know is going up in proportion to the number of new people I know being born.  In fact there is a definite deficit because most of the thirty somethings I know who should have been reproducing by now are postponing parenthood until who knows when?

Anyway, so Paul Newman dies and I cry thinking of Joann Woodward and the many years of great marriage they shared.  And I cry for the whole body of work he has left to us from Cool Hand Luke,  Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,  The Hustler, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to the Newman’s Own products he sold to benefit children’s charity projects.  I cry to celebrate his life and give thanks for enriching mine.

And then I hear through the grapevine that Father Butch, a Russian River Sister (Brother) of Perpetual Indulgence is on his death bed in a coma with little hope of recovery.  Father Butch was thoughtful, funny, and strong -  the kind of man you would look to for comfort.  He was the natural father of three and a big gay bear father to whoever needed him for advice or a good laugh.  We shared many jokes and he was always kind to me.    He and his fellow sisters raised thousands of dollars for local Russian River charities including 4-H, the volunteer fire department, and Face to Face AIDS charities.  So, I guess this is my number two I think as I cry again for the loss of this wonderful man.

And then I hear about Barack Obama’s grandmother who raised her African American grandson to become the next president of the United States .  Although I don’t know much about her I think she must have been instrumental in helping Barack become the man he is today.  This has been a long campaign and even though he knows she has been ill, he doesn’t need this significant loss at this time.  So, I cry again this time for Barack.

All of these people: Paul Newman, Father Butch, and Tutu Dunham had something greater than themselves to give to others.  All were generous, caring, loving humans who will be missed on this earth.  I can just see them meeting in the here after.  What an oddly perfect trio of personalities and humanity. I’m sure they’ve shared a hug and a laugh or two and a prayer for the hope of the future of the country and the world.

My first thought was, “Now they can’t vote for Obama,” or “If they voted early, does it count?”  I ring the bell that I keep at the entry in front of a statue of Quan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy.  I ring it for Paul and Joann, I ring it for Father Butch and his sisters and children, I ring it for Tutu Dunham and her grandson, Barack.  I ring it for our country and for the world.  I light three sticks of incense.  Their fragrance burns down to the quick leaving a trail of my prayers in smoke and ash.

Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Namu Amida Butsu.

I must confess that when the topic of gay marriage first came up, I was reluctant to accept the idea.  My own marriage (straight, traditional, one man and one woman) has lasted over thirty years.  It has almost been heaven meaning that even though we do have our little fights once in awhile, we are still in love, faithful to one another, and are totally the best friends we have in the world.  We complete each others’ thoughts, give each other space, and are there for each other in total companionship and support.

I debated this issue both in my mind and with close friends.  How would gay marriage affect my concept of traditional marriage?   How would marriage change if gay marriage were allowed?  What could be the harm in gay marriage?

My mind was already open to the gay lifestyle.  Beginning in high school I have had many gay friends in my life both men and women.  I love them, I think they’re fun to be around, they have their own set of problems just like everyone else, and they have additional problems because they are gay trying to fit into a mostly straight world.

Descrimination abounds.  They are teased from the very beginnings of their lives because they dress or act different.  They are chosen last for games.  No one wants to sit next to them.  They are beaten up.  They have a lot of sadness that they mask with an incredible sense of humor.

They want what everyone wants.  They want good jobs and an education.  They want companionship.  They want love.  They want a family.  They want children.   They want marriage.

I worked in a town that was very gay friendly and had a large population of gays  (maybe 30-40%).  I taught school and came into contact with parents who were gay.   I met students who I thought were gay, but was unable to say anything to them about it.  I tried to teach tolerance to a town that also had a conservative base of loggers and the like.  It was a challenge to say the least.  How do you counsel a teenager who isn’t sure?

We also had many gay neighbors.   I was raised in show business and my family always had gay friends, so it seemed normal to me that some people are just gay.   Later when I owned and managed a restaurant I was host to many parties and events that were gay themed.  We had Bear Week and Women’s Weekend, Leather Weekend, etc.  At times the whole town was teeming with gays and I have to say that I loved it!  But gay marriage?  Well, I just hadn’t thought about it.

The thing that really changed me was when we hosted a party for gay couples who had children.  These were parents exchanging stories about how they got their children, how they were coping with the legal issues, and the straight societal norms.  I was so impressed.  It melted my heart to hear how badly they wanted to be parents, the elaborate procedures they went through to become parents, and finally the joy they all had being parents.  Some had managed to adopt children.  Often these were kids  were unadoptable because they had health problems or were of mixed racial parentage.  These parents didn’t care.  They had love to give a child.  Some couples traded sperm for incubation rights.  A gay couple would trade sperm in exchange for a lesbian couple’s  eggs or surrogacy.  However they worked it out, these were caring loving couples raising happy priviledged children.  Priviledged because they were wanted.

The final argument that won me over to being an advocate for gay marriage was the issue of health care and legal rights.  If one of the partners becomes ill or dies in the relationship, who receives the benefits remaining?  Who inherits the house?  Who maintains custody of the minor children?  Who is there at the death bed conferring with doctors about medical care?  Who decides what becomes of the body or the funeral arrangements in case of death?

I heard so many horror stories of couples who couldn’t get stitches for Johnny because Mommy #1 was unavailable to sign the paperwork,  Or Daddy #2 can’t be at the bedside of Daddy #1 because angry grandparents are interfering.  How would I feel if this was happening to me or my husband?   After thirty years of marriage I want my sweet husband to look me in the eyes as I travel to the next plane holding my hand and getting the benefit of my pension and the home we built together.  I want my children to know that my husband will be there for them as I go.  I am for gay marriage.

Who really has “It” and what is “It” exactly?  “It” is something undefineable that makes you pay attention, look up and listen, watch and behave:

Bush has “It”. So likeable even if I don’t agree with him.
Arnold (California’s Governator) has a super dose of “It”.
Clinton had “It”, still does really.  Just ask my middle aged female friends.
Obama has “It” too.  He is like a favorite son who makes a mother beam with pride.

Cheney  doesn’t have “It”. (Unless you happen to like Darth Vader)
McCain lost “It”. (Even if he got “It” he would have told all his friends)
Barney Frank (the Ernest Borgnine of Congress) really doesn’t have “It”.
And sad to say Hillary doesn’t have “It” either. (Sorry, honey)

The charming, gracious, attractive, and capable Republican “It Girl”, Sarah Palin has “It”.  This persistent, almost unfair questioning of Palin is way more than she expected.  I laughed when I heard about her nomination saying, “She doesn’t have a clue about what’s coming.”  The press has been relentless in their pursuit of dirt on her and I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon.  Even after the election – win or lose – she will be hounded like a starlet with no underpants.  It’s just too juicy to ignore!

I have to admit that even this liberal heart begins to feel a little bit sorry for her as I recall my own feelings of inadequacy in extemporaneous speech as a high school junior.  My fellows (boys I dated) went on to become lawyers and such.  But I am reminded that she is running for VP and should have a better grasp.

She jokes about being “Joe Six Pack” and how now everyone should know that even they too could be vice president or even president!  EXCUSE ME!!!  I don’t want Joe Six Pack in a position of that much power.  I want someone greater than the common man.  I want John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, or Abraham Lincoln.  While we’re at it, I don’t want Joe Six Pack as a doctor performing surgery, a lawyer defending me in a court of law, or an engineer designing a high rise building in NYC.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love Joe Six pack.  I would buy him a drink, teach his children, shake his hand and look him in the eye with respect.  I appreciate Joe Six Pack as my mechanic, tree trimmer, oil rig worker, electrician, or plumber.  But if he’s going to draw a knife on me, send me to war, or decide if I go to prison or not, I want something more. Someone more capable than myself.  Someone better than me.

I don’t want Sarah Palin.  But she is cute and I would date her.

Mother had two beautiful daughters born three years a part.  The first was a beautiful, large blue eyed, strawberry blonde named for her aunt and her great grandmother.  The second was a cute, petite, pixyish brunette also with piercing blue eyes who was named for a cousin and a close friend.  Now after six years, her husband’s new job a success, the purchase of their dream home in the suburbs, she was thrilled to be expecting again in hope of a son.  She was still young enough – merely thirty – and so expected a healthy pregnancy and birth.

When the baby boy was born, he was truly the apple of his father’s eye.  He had a shock of bright red hair , pale skin, and those big blue eyes that run in our family.  He was named for both a saint and a baseball player.  He was adored by the whole family and his sisters especially welcomed this new live doll into their hearts.

The worst thing about it for the girls was that now their shared bedroom also became a nursery for the baby, his crib, and other essential furnishings. It was time to add on another bedroom and an additional bathroom as a reward for the wife who had produced this squalling, laughing heir nicknamed “Pony Boy”.

When Pony Boy was one year old, Mother was already three months pregnant with another child.
“Why don’t you get an abortion?”  Grandmother asked.
“Where would I go?”
“Mexico?”
“Unsafe.”
“Japan?”
“Too far.  Too expensive.”

Mother became noticibly quieter sitting on the sofa in her red  shorts jump suit, her belly growing bigger by the day.  She had no choice but to have the child and a second beautiful son was born with that red hair again, those same blue eyes, and a sweet disposition.  He was named after an uncle and  his great grandmother.  He grew into a kind quiet child with some learning challenges that could be traced to increased alcohol use due to Mother’s depression during that unplanned pregnancy so close together.

The discussion continues:

Abortion was  illegal in the U.S.  There was still the option of the back alley abortion by someone who might or might not be qualified to do the job.   Sometimes in the past a woman in trouble could get a doctor or midwife to perform the illegal procedure.  Grandmother herself had had three abortions in the days before birth control became reliable and readily available.  Sexual mores were relaxing  in the 1920′s to allow some experimentation by women who were a little wild and curious.  Bathtub gin was the order of the day.  Shortened skirts, bobbed hair, and jazz further enticed a generation who had been pent up by the 19th century.  Many women died or received permanent injuries as a result of botched procedures.  Grandmother almost died during one of these procedures.

Another problem occurred because of “change of life” babies.  A woman thinking she didn’t have to worry as much about birth control became pregnant in her mid to late forties or even fifties.  The risk of these pregnancies producing Down’s Syndrome  babies was one out of nineteen.  Down’s Syndrome kids are so sweet.  They have sweet personalities, but are plagued with other complicated health problems as a result of their condition and usually have a shortened life span.  Still,  abortion was illegal even in these cases.

Birth control just didn’t exist reliably until the mid sixties when the pill gained approval and accepted use.  Before the pill a woman had the choice of convincing her male partner to use a condom or she could use a diaphragm or spermicide.  Condoms have actually been in use for thousands of years.  In the way old days they were made from animal intestines and were used primarily to prevent the spread of venereal disease.  Douching and the rhythm method were other unreliable methods used to prevent pregnancy.  If a woman became pregnant her only recourse was to have the child or risk death in an illegal  abortion.

Finally, we got a victory and the historic case of Roe versus Wade became law.  Abortion became safe and legal.  I was on the pill, but it didn’t work looking back probably because I wasn’t taking it correctly.  I chose to have an abortion when I became pregnant by a casual relationship that I had no intention of continuing.  Getting pregnant in the first place was a stupid mistake on my part,  but the abortion wasn’t a hard decision.  I simply went into the doctor’s office, filled out some papers and asked for one.  Each of my siblings had to make their own choices and several of the following generation have also had choices.

When I got pregnant with my daughter I wanted a baby.  I loved the mere idea of her.  My daughter was born on Christmas Day and she was so beautiful and such a miracle that when I became pregnant with my son on her birthday one year later, I didn’t even consider having an abortion.  It was great to have them so close together.  I loved it, but I was committed to having only two children so I had my tubes tied when I was twenty-six the day after my son’s birth.  The doctor was hesitant, but I insisted.  A woman’s choice.

I come from a family of strong women.  And I trace my lineage through my mother’s side.  I am the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter of the youngest daughter of the daughter of Lydia Meekel who came across country on a covered wagon to the west.  I long for a girl child from my own daughter to pass on my boon; a baby girl child with those famous blue eyes and reddish hair who I can sing to and rock with all my love.  But I don’t know if I’ll ever have that.  Because I taught my daughter that she has choices.  She is thirty-five years old and she has already made two choices not to have children.  I said nothing to her about it.  it was her choice, but it was hard for me.  It is always each individual woman’s choice – not the man- not any man.  Not any other woman – each woman to make for themselves.

My great grandmother had seven children; she had no choice.  My grandmother had three children and three choices.  My mother had four children and no choice.  I had two children and one choice.  My daughter has had two choices and so far no children.  Choice must be protected.  Even if it means some of our lines die out.  Each woman must have The Choice.  Must.  Choice is a must.

With an open mind I watch… The Republicans.  On the other hand, these are not my people.  They are too white, they’re too mean, they’re too rude, and they can’t dance.  I didn’t hear the Dems boo JMac or ridicule his years of service.  I saw many more faces of color in Denver.  I am feeling desperate. Nervous.  My neighbor says her blood pressure has gone up to 200 since the start of the Republican convention.  I pick up Barack’s book The Audacity of Hope and begin reading.  It is like a salve to calm my wounded spirit, a scripture for the future.

So, given the choice of hearing tired old McCain deliver a fifty minute speech or a re-run of Coyote Ugly – I choose Coyote Ugly.  I’m just tired of seeing a sea of white faces with that born again glow, tired of McCain’s voice whining about being a POW, tired of people talking about a change of power when they’re the ones who have been in power for the past eight years – long years of fear and falling down and falling down again and again.

The way I see it is that Obama IS the second coming who rides around on a unicorn with rainbows adorning his path.  I am hopeful finally – with him at the helm,  and if it doesn’t happen I will be so sorely sorry. “We are the ones we have been waiting for,” he says.  He IS the one I have been waiting for.  I can hold on a little bit longer.  Please let it be Obama.  Please save us.

These are my people – The Democrats.  I have been living at the convention for four days now through the wonder of CNN, MSNBC, and C-Span.  I love all the crazy hats, the dancing fat women, the multi-ethnic mix that is truly American.  It seems that every facet of our great country is represented on that delegate floor.

The only two groups missing (well, except for an abundance of millionaires) are the gays and the Muslims.  I have seen  a few rainbow flags waving and a couple of women in head scarves… but hey, we know that these two groups of people are part of the fabric of the quilt that makes up not only the Dems, but our country.

I can understand that Obama is in a precarious position.  He cannot be seen in a photo op with a group of Muslim women or dancing with a bunch of raving homosexuals.  Not that he is above either; he is trying to maintain a presidential demeanor appropriate to the climate of this important election.

In our history each ethic group coming to our shores has had to undergo a vetting period before becoming fully accepted as a full fledged square on quilt.  The Irish, the Jews, the Italians, the Chinese, the Japanese, and all other newcomers have had their turn in the barrel.

As a person who has grown up in show business and who has known and accepted the gay lifestyle my entire life, I can’t imagine what the problem is.  Is everyone afraid of being  schtupt in the back alley or being on the receiving end of an unwanted pass?  I love the gays, their passion and their humor.  I feel rich to have had many friends who call themselves gay.  Although  I am straight, I always joke around that I am at least two per cent gay – like the milk.

I have always been enamored with the desert cultures ever since I saw The Desert Song on stage and read 1001 Arabian Nights.  I took belly dancing classes, read The Prophet and Rumi’s poetry, and enjoy Middle Eastern cuisine..  I kept an open mind when I encountered some militant  and ill tempered Palestians while attending SFSU in the 70′s.  I have studied many religions including Islam, but I have never been to a Mosque.  I want to understand.  I love the story of the well at Mecca and how including religious relics from all tribes in the region of Saudi Arabia in the Kaaba encouraged trade and peace .  When Mohammed united the tribes under Islam he forbade this practice.

I believe fear is at the crux of the matter.  Fear of being or becoming gay.  Fear of someone different.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of changing.  Fear of even changing our minds.  The only absolution is knowledge and education.  “Getting to Know You”  as the song goes.  We are beginning to accept gays.  Soon when we have Muslim characters on sit coms and in the main stream media, we will all learn to accept and understand.  I am praying for this day.  I will be glad to add a couple of new squares to my quilt.