As I was tootling around Milwaukee today, running errands, I was listening to the local creepy "Christian" station. (Why, oh why, do I torture myself this way? Well, someone has to keep an eye on them. And if my friend Adam can watch Joe Millionaire for the sake of his country, then this is the least I can do.)
The local host, Vic Eliason, had as his guest Peter LaBarbera. Pete is a "Senior Policy Analyst" for the Culture and Family Institute, which is part of Concerned Women for America. CWA was founded by Beverly LaHaye, wife of Timothy LaHaye, the fellow who has inflicted the Left Behind series on America. (Oh, thank you so very much, guys.) The CWA crowd spends most of their time churning out propaganda against things and people they don't like. Gay people seem pretty high on their list. (The website is of note, if only for the picture of Bev in her hair helmet. Lord knows how much ozone layer loss that woman has been personally responsible for over the years.)
Pete's an interesting character. I've heard him speak before, as he is the CWA's "expert" on "homosexual activism." Lets just say that when I heard him speak about how he "infiltrated" the Castro street crowd, he seemed to really l-i-n-g-e-r over his description of what he saw there. All in the name of research, of course. Sure, Petie.
Well, I listened as long as I could stomach it. I also had to be sure my daughter was asleep, as I don't like to expose her tender ears to such drivel. But as I heard what was said, some thoughts did occur to me.
1) I heard gay people described as "unnatural, vile, disgusting, deviant, ungodly, perverted, the result of a sinful heart, degenerate, and weapons of mass destruction." (Not all in the same sentence, though.) However, I was assured that the speakers really, really didn't hate gay people. They love them, ever so much. They just feel so strongly about this because God tells them to in the Bible.
Sure they do. Perhaps I'll believe this when I hear about a rally these folks sponsor against wearing poly cotton blends, expressly forbidden in Deuteronomy 22:11.
2) One woman called in and talked about how worried she was that gay people are becoming so "violent." She appeared astonished that "when you go up to a homosexual, and tell them that they are wrong, they get very angry. I mean, if someone came up to me and told me that being married with 5 children, like I am, is wrong, I wouldn't be angry, because I know what I'm doing is right."
Well, sweetie, let's say that being married and having children had been outlawed for years, and had only recently become legal. Let's say the police could burst into your home on a pretext and arrest you for having sex with your husband (hello, Texas!) Lets say people would fire you from your job, beat you up in the street, and torment you for your relationship with your spouse. Let's say you had fought damn hard over the years for what few rights you had. And then, let's say that someone came up to you, uninvited, and started lecturing you on the sinfulness of your life.
Angry? You're damn right I'd be angry. In fact, you'd be lucky if I didn't pop you one. Now you know how they feel. Or, most likely, you don't, because if you're the caller described above the analogy I made probably went completely over your head.
3) At one point, Vic, the host, noted that (and I paraphrase, to some extent) "When I was in school, back in the days of King Herod" (Oh, Vic. What a card you are. An absolute scream. Let hilarity ensue!) " . . . people just didn't talk about this. . . those that practiced it were abnormal, and on the fringe." There was also a lot of talk about protecting the sweet little innocent children from such wickedness and deviancy, as it could destroy them for life.
This started me thinking about my grandmother, and a picture we have, dating from either 1930 or 1931. As some background information, my maternal grandmother Mamie was born in Milwaukee in 1904. In 1930, she had two small children, a husband permanently ensconced at the VA hospital, and had lost both of her parents within 6 months of each other. She took a job at a hosiery company to support herself, and her half-cousin Mabel (who we always called Aunt Mabel), who worked at a candy factory, came to live in the same house to help. Pretty average, working class folks.
Anyway, we have a picture, taken at a party held at my grandmother's house, depicting about a dozen people posed together in the kitchen. My mother has gone through all the folks listed there with me, as I'm a big family history buff. And as she went through the faces, she came to Cookie and Alex.
"Alex, he wore makeup and curled his hair. Cookie - he was a little tougher. They worked at the factory with Aunt Mabel. They had been friends of her and her friends. They used to came over, with the rest of the group (from the photo) They ended up being friends of my mother as well."
What did you and Uncle Bob think about them, I asked.
"Well, they were just Cookie and Alex. I don't remember thinking much of anything - that was just who they were."
Hmm. Guess if Mom had been traumatized, she seems to have hidden it pretty well.
Bully for you, Grandma. And bully for Aunt Mabel.
What to say, what to say, what to say?
We're having another gourmet club dinner in two weeks, and I've been going through my old food section from the newspaper (I've finally reached 1999. My husband keeps asking me when I'll reach the Bush administration.) So I've been thinking about food.
Sometimes, you have a meal that doesn't neccessarily promise much, but becomes, through some legerdemain, extraordinary, something you remember ever after. I was thinking about when I went to see my friend Paul, oh, about 9 or 10 years ago. It was summer, so we went to the Farmers' Market in Madison to get the vegetables for dinner. There was a recipe I wanted to try from Food and Wine (which got really, really foofy when they got some dip editor from Vogue in there a few years back, so I don't get it anymore) - scallops grilled with bay leaves and a grilled tomato sauce.
Anyway, we made the scallops, and served the sauce over roasted spaghetti squash, with a side of Honey and Pearl sweet corn, picked that morning. Paul's kitchen was about the size of a bathroom, if that. The grill was some tiny Weber hibatchi. The kitchen equipment was your basic, after-college assortment of "starting to get good stuff, but still mostly college leftovers."
My God, that was an amazing meal. Every part perfection. I've tried to recreate it, on my big honkin' gas grillmaster, with my fancy-pants tools. It's never as good.
Was it the ingredients? The company? Memory, and a lack of sophistication triumphant over actual events? Or just alchemy? Dunno. I really don't care either, because it's a fine memory to consider on a winter afternoon.
As I said previously, I did have a topic percolating around inside of me. I've been of two minds whether to write about this, because the whole topic strikes me as extrordinarily stupid and self-congratulatory. Well, here goes.
Last week, I was reading the Journal-Sentinel, and came across a column by Eugene Kane. His spoke about how white people would write in to him and reference the opinions of their black friends, a premise that he stated "never fails to spark my skepticism . . . I haven't seen that many true friendships across the color line . . . . Friendships? I don't think so."
He went on to say that "Some of you have managed to make it happen; if you're willing to share the experience, I'm sure the rest of us could probably learn something from the experience."
Well, slap my face and call me a nut. I never knew I was a pioneer. But wait, there were qualifications. The friendship can't be a romantic one. No problem there, though I guess that does disqualify my sister-in-law, Sally. It can't be one popular black person in a predominately white circle. Workplace relationships require close scrutiny for "real friendship" status. And the person must be aware that you are friends.
I'm not really the type to call my friends and take a poll on how they feel on a particular issue. I've never done so based on racial catagories. But, extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. I hit the phones.
First I called Grace. You may remember her from my first entry, where we had that discussion with her father about Atlantis. We've been together since seventh grade, when we bonded over out relative dorkiness. I called San Fransisco where she is living now, to check with her.
"Hi Grace. Are you my black friend?"
She was puzzled by this. First, she wanted to know if this was the new cool thing now, like having a gay friend after "My Best Friends Wedding." No, I said, and explained the column to her.
"Boy, this guy must be really sheltered," was her response.
We talked about it for a while, and she felt that she could be my half-Jamaican friend. She's not really comfortable with labels as such, so I'm not sure if this relationship really qualifies.
Next, I called John, whose house we were at for the gourmet club party I talked about in a previous blog entry.
"Hi, John. Will you be my black friend?"
John seemed to be torn between amusement and incredulity. And, after I explained the column to him, he said that yes, he hasn't secretly hated me for all these years, and I am really and truly his friend. His opinion of the column?
"You can say that I, John Montgomary, think that this man is an idiot."
Then I got to thinking. Hm, John does have a white wife, who is also a friend of mine (Pam and I were in law school together.) And we do socialize in a circle of friends, four couples primarily, but he is not the only black person there. Better call Laura and Pepi, who were next on my list anyway. Both of them were also in law school with me, and are also part of our gourmet club. In fact, they started it.
Damn. They're in Florida. Now, Pep's mother was Hispanic, I believe, so maybe he doesn't count either. Laura is Native American, which is a whole 'nother thing altogether. And, not having checked for sure, maybe they really don't like me either.
I checked with some more friends. Maria was rather hurt that she didn't count as an interracial friendship. "But I'm a minority!" she wailed. Sorry, I said. Hispanic/Filipino doesn't count in this context. "I guess I just don't have enough melanin," she concluded glumly.
Lynne was intrigued. I said that she are her friend Helen should write in. You could be famous!" I urged. She said she would read the column and think about it.
After I was all done calling, I thought about how irritated this made all of us. What's the point?
Yes, race matters. It matters in a hundred different contexts. It matters in housing. It matters in the job market. It matters when the police pull you over. And it matters on a personal level, like when one frind had a swastika drawn in front of their house. Or when one friend lost a job when they walked into their new, previously unseen supervisor's office and were soon informed that, sorry, that new promotion would be withdrawn. Or when someone is referred to a marrying "that nigger."
But the one place where race doesn't matter is in the context of a friendship. I really dislike the thought that this is some sort of competition, some idiotic bingo game where you get points for having a full card. "Ooh, look! I've got three black people, a Hispanic, a Native American, an Asian, two gays, and some whites. With a Jew and a Muslim, I'll win Diversity Bingo!"
These are my friends. I like them. I think that they like me. I've been extraordinarily blessed to meet so many really wonderful people. And maybe, because of my years of geekdom, I treasure these friendships all the more. Having them doesn't make me a better or worse person, except that I think all my friendships help me to improve myself. I'm not special because of it. Just lucky to know them.