Derrick Martin and Richard Goodman go to the prom

Today's review of the news brought this item, from the Yahoo "A Smart Gay List" group, which I at first viewed as encouraging.

Reading it more closely, I'm saddened.
  

I find it ironic that Derrick Martin's parents kicked him out of the house after the news broke that he was taking a gay date to his prom.

I find it encouraging that Martin and his date, Richard Goodman (at left, below), were warmly welcomed.

And I find it sickening that Martin endured death threats and, it seems from this account, actual assaults with paint ball guns.  Martin is an honor student who tutors at-risk elementary and middle school students after school. He also has a full scholarship to college.  

Gay Georgia Teen Derrick Martin's Prom a Big Success

Derrick Martin and boyfriend Richard Goodman's high school prom took place on Saturday, and the world didn't end, the Macon Telegraph reports:

"When Martin, 18, and his boyfriend Richard Goodman, also 18, stepped onto a makeshift 'red carpet' and their names were announced, a few parents whispered but many in the crowd gave him a loud cheer. No one yelled out in protest. 'I wonder if they realize what they’ve done,' said Arturro Beeche, a San Francisco professor who flew into Georgia on Friday and drove Martin and Goodman to the prom. 'Once it happens in small-town America, it will inspire so many,' he said."

You may recall that Martin's parents kicked him out of the house after news broke that he was taking a gay date to his prom.

Beeche, a college professor from San Francisco, became interested in Martin's story after reading about it in the news and struck up a friendship with Martin on Facebook. Beeche (pictured below) is married to his husband Dave for nearly six years and has an adopted son who is 13.

Beeche sent us these photos and a personal account of the night:

"When first coming in contact with the story of Derrick Martin, I felt compelled to get involved. As someone who wishes his boyfriend had asked him to prom nearly three decades ago, Derrick’s decision hit a spot close to my heart. Through Facebook, Derrick and I became friends and I experienced with Derrick his many frustrations and fears leading up to the event, not small among these was the Martins throwing their son out of the family home because he persisted on his quest. It was then that I had a choice – be a bystander or rise to the occasion."

With Derrick's blessing, Beeche became Derrick and his boyfriend's chaperone to the prom. Beeche continues:

"I flew into the maelstrom from my placid suburban existence in the Berkeley Hills. We did not know what to expect, but Derrick figured that it would somehow all work out. The previous day we had driven to fetch Richard Goodman, Derrick’s quietly intense boyfriend. Together, we went to fetch their tuxedos in Macon... The next day we did some last minute shopping and in the later part of the afternoon, and as the boys were dressing, Richard’s parents (pictured) joined us. Once readied, and after taking some photos, we drove to a plantation house that now serves as a delicious Southern food restaurant. More photos were taken on the grounds, after which we drove back into Cochran and headed to Derrick’s high school. There was high law enforcement presence. The sheriff had told me a few days earlier that he was planning on having about 20 officers to prevent any silliness from marring the event. As we drove up to the school drop off point, anxiety and stress were rampant inside our car. Derrick had received some rather unsavory threats that ran the gamut from a gun loaded with a bullet that had his name on it, to being targeted with paint balls guns. Seconds before they exited the car, I told [them], “close your eyes, take a deep breath and raise your chin with pride. Ignore anyone who yells stupid things; you are here and victory is in your hands.” The boys closed their eyes, took a deep breath and Derrick got out first. With his left hand he pulled Richard out of the car and both turned to face the crowd. It was then, amid screams of support and sonorous clapping accompanied by people yelling Derrick’s name, that I knew it would all be OK!

Beeche's photos of Derrick and Richard can also be found on the Facebook page set up with the help of PFLAG. Beeche is presently helping set up a trust to contribute to Derrick and Richard's college expenses.

 Goodman said he plans to take Martin to his prom on May 8.

Derrick Martin and Richard Goodman are wonderful young men. 

Goodman's parents are the proud couple beaming on either side of him.

And Martin's parents are complete failures.  They kicked him out of the house because news got out that he was gay. 

They'd raised an outstanding, fine, decent citizen, and they cast him out. 

"Jesus wept" . . . and no wonder. So much for "loving the sinner/hating the sin." Love is love, and hate is hate.

Merced - "Nexus of All that is Strange"

This is a reply to a series of items that were prompted by my posting a piece about "Ben Weber - Matman and Joker" to the Yahoo Gay-Thinkers group.  

Doug had asked a question. I went on for a bit, as I sometimes do. 

When I'm not terse, I'm verbose.


Sit down and make yourself comfortable, as you will need knife, fork, and plate to get through the can of worms you've opened with the question: "Is the Central Valley one of those Republican parts of California?" As I am in a silly mood, I shall answer in good humor - and at length.

Unfortunately, Merced is an odd place indeed. I often describe it as "the nexus of all that is strange," and, indeed, it is.

Merced is a smallish city of 80,000, the county seat, set in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley. It's almost the very center point of the state, the "navel."

When I moved down to Orange County, I used to say that I was from "the Valley." People down there thought I meant the San Fernando or San Gabriel valley, and would twit me about ValSpeak: "Like, you know, gross me out, gag me with a spoon," and other phrases popularized by Moon Unit Zappa in the immortal song. I'd explain, "No, I mean, the San Joaquin. You know, the middle third of the state. The Big Valley - they made a TV series about it."

Merced is the "Gateway to Yosemite." I was born at Castle Air Force Base (six miles away, abutting Atwarer) and grew up literally next to a set of railroad tracks on "U" Street and later a block from John Muir school (with the other set of tracks a block or so away).

When we were transferred to South Dakota it was a shock to the system - as it was when we were shunted next to Missouri and then back to Merced.

My parents bought their first house (located between two sets of railroad tracks, at a place where the 99 and 140 highways met, underneath the Castle AFB flight path). I learned to sleep through anything.

However, all was not as I remembered it during those halcyon days of kindergarten.

I was suddenly, in mid-sixth grade, the "new kid," a target for bullies and a favorite when playing their homespun version of dodge ball: "smear the queer."

Like most California schools, Merced's were academically a year behind the rest of the U.S. Although I remarked on this, I was occupied avoiding my primary tormentors, so the school didn't take much notice of me until mandatory testing (which I'd been given in first and fourth grades in South Dakota and Missouri) was once more administered. I was discovered (yet again) to be a mentally gifted minor, and blessedly placed in MGM classes.

I moved away after high school, where I'd been thwarted in trying to take college classes while a junior in HS and labeled a plagiarist for having written an essay in an attempt to skip junior Comp/American Lit in which I'd used the word"save" in the sense of "except:"

Of all Shakespeare's villains, none (save perhaps Richard III) has been so unjustly maligned as Shylock, the tragic Jew in "The Merchant of Venice."

I'd thought it a clear opening sentence, and it set up a nice five paragraph essay (the standard form that Comp was meant to teach me). The head of the English Department was a "dread cow" (I'm quoting a friend who'd had her that year) who I wanted no part of, and who had now maligned me unjustly (without checking my records, to boot).

The situation was resolved when I wrote an impromptu five-paragraph essay for the senior Brit Lit/Brit Lit teacher, explained that I was a voracious reader currently plowing my way through the full version of "Oliver Twist" (again), had no desire to sit through a year reading the American Lit curriculum I'd already digested, and thought the Freudian analysis of "Turn of the Screw" (taught by the Comp/American Lit cow) was nonsensical (as James had written it prior to Freud's examination of phallic symbolism). The blessed Sharon Gray (Brit Lit) read over my essay and remarked, "Yes, I can see the Dickens and James influences. You have a predilection for the long, clunky, perfectly-punctuated sentence."

While I was away, Merced received the second-largest settlement of Hmong refugees, adding another flavor to its stew of Air Force Base and Bay Area retirees, farmers, ranchers, migrant labor, and Steinbeck-era immigrants. I moved back from Long Beach to discover that Merced had much the same demographic profile: not a melting-pot, but a mixed salad.

Merced's unique quality seems to arise from it having been founded after the charter of the original Merced Falls (now Snelling) was misappropriated by the town's founders for use in setting up a breakaway community next to the new rail tracks.

Some say that's why the place is odd - or even "cursed."

While it has some lovely Victorian homes, it also sits on a confluence of ley lines that form a pentagram. It's been the scene of the Steven and Carey Stayner cases, and is a mere sixteen miles from Chowchilla, site of the school bus kidnapping case.

It does have the tenth UC campus (whose first graduating class had Michelle Obama as its speaker, and is still paying off the million-dollar debt incurred by local police and other agencies), hopes to get a Wal-Mart distribution center to help alleviate its 22% unemployment rate, and is in the bidding to be a Google Ultra-High-Speed internet text site, as well as contending to be a transportation hub on the high-speed rail line, for which it was recently designated a definite stop.

It's an hour from Fresno, 45 minutes from Modesto, an hour from Mariposa and Yosemite up in the Sierra foothills, an hour-and-a-half from Stockton, San Jose, and Monterey via various passes, and two hours from San Francisco. You can get almost anywhere from here, but there's little "here" here. Perhaps that's why the locals call it "Mer-dead."

"There's nothing to do in Merced," has become a tired catchphrase, and an inaccurate one.

Our downtown is beginning to come alive after a decade of struggle. Our two-stage theater and cineplex bring crowds to restaurants and coffee houses; the Multi-Cultural Arts Center hosts plays, exhibitions, and provides space for every kind of arts instruction; the Merced Symphony plays in the old Merced Theater (being renovated to its 1930s glory); Merced ShakesspeareFest is now in its ninth year. The massive "Town and Gown" celebration for UC and Merced College graduates and community members brings people together in six downtown blocks that offer music, goods and produce of all varieties, and information from local government agencies, service organizations, schools, churches, and businesses.

The Christmas, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Veterans' Day parades throng with appreciative onlookers - and PFLAG members step along the route proudly with the rest.

Although we do have a PFLAG chapter, in which I'm active, queer night life is an hour away at best - and bar patrons are often targets for bashers and muggers.

Merced is not for the faint of heart.

Until last year, it led the area in meth lab busts. Most of the drugs coming down from Canada or flowing up from Mexico also come through Merced.

Our grey winters begin in late October, when the Valley's famed tule fogs (containing ice crystals) and clouds obscure the sun until late February, with winds and pelting rain, followed by a slow procession of leaden grey days again. Seasonal Affective Disorder abounds. 

Currently, it's dropped from fourth to seventh in the national rankings of foreclosures (with or without associated bankruptcies), although its real estate values (inflated by developer greed and over-building prior to the bond market collapse) make it a prime target for out-of-town investors and other absentee landlords, who've contributed to its quaint blend of Old World elegance, redneck gentility, and utter squalor.

Worse yet, it stolidly votes Republican, although its congressional rep is a Democrat ("blue dog" variety).

It truly is the nexus of all that is strange, but I'm proud to call it "that little garden spot in Hell that I call my hometown."

I shall now go, for I am parched, and need to hydrate well before our storied 100+ degree summer begins to approach. Perhaps I'll sip a beverage in the open air, laden as it is with particulate matter on these still spring days, in between occasional downpours that bring the tang of freshly-fertilized fields to the lounging idlers in the soon-to-be-closed homeless camps.

Bienvenidos!

RB

Ben Weber: Matman and Joker

Shawn Jansen of the Merced Sun-Star wrote this profile of Ben Weber, a young man who wrestles for the Golden Valley High School team here in Merced. The piece stuck in my mind, among the other bric-a-brac. A friend's recent Facebook post about a group of extraordinary young people who took action against lunatic hater Fred Phelps's Westboro Baptist "Church" group, brought Ben back to the forefront of my consciousness.

Weber is an outstanding example of what's right with teenagers today. He is his own person, secure in his abilities as a athlete, and utterly refreshing in his attitude about any perceptions others may have as to his sexuality.

So here, pried free from that clutter over near the far corner of my mind, dusted off and neatly festooned with croutons, is "Ben Weber: Matman and Joker."

http://www.mercedsunstar.com/2010/02/19/1318523/shawn-jansen-matman-and-joker.html?storylink=addthis

I'll be launching an expedition to find the Fred Phelps resistance piece later. It's difficult to find stalwart Sherpas to navigate the rat's maze that is my memory, so the process of fund-raising bake sales, raffles, and judicious high-yield kidnappings usually takes longer than my gnat-like attention span can spend focusing on a task.

Meanwhile, I'm beginning to feel those pesky stirrings of hope about the next generation. 

Note to self: must be careful about that, as it could lead to progress and change (or thinking about "hopey-changey things like that" ) - and a place on paranoid raver Glenn Beck's "social justice commie pinko totalitarian fascist queers" list.

However, having checked out the list thoroughly, I think I'd be honored to be included in such distinguished company.

"GLBT" - but what about the "IQ?"

This is taken from one of my first posts to AARP's "Spectrum" GLBT online community group.

[Writer's note:  AARP's 'automatic' censor had blacked out some words, most of which I comment on at the end.  But "penis?"  I fail to understand . . . what if this had been a post to a men's health group discussion?  Would the word "penis" still have been censored, while "testes" was allowed?]

I had asked the serious question "GLBT (Gay Lesbian Bisexual and Transgendered), but what about the 'IQ?' "  Someone commented that s/he didn't understand the term "Intersex" and asked if I was talking about hermaphrodites.

They also thought "Q" was for Queer.

I responded by explaining that "intersexed people are born with ambiguous genitals (and thank God surgeons aren't routinely and arbitrarily 'assigning sex' at birth by amputating **** and testes or sewing up a vaginal opening" as they used to)."

The spectrum of sexuality isn't just Kinsey's scale of 1-6 distinct types, as he would be the first to explain. There's a gradient line that cuts across all six sections . . . reflecting that each person is unique.

And the "Q?"

My reply, in full:

"Q" is for "questioning" -- those young (or later-life) people who are questioning their sexual identity in the process of discovering "who they really are."

I personally used to dislike the word "queer," even when it began being used by Queer Nation (and others) as an attempt to "take back the slur and use it ourselves, re-empowering the community."

That fell flat with me.  However, the late Christoper Isherwood (who I still venerate) said, "I call myself 'musical,' or 'so,' or 'queer."  He also once said "I like the word 'f****t.'  It has a crisp karate-chop sound to it."

I adore Isherwood's writings, and once got to meet him.  He graciously autographed all eleven of the books I brought to a signing of his "October," written with his other half, artist Don Bachardy.  I'd called to ask permission to lug all the books with me -- he was listed in the phone book.

In my own experience, both "queer" and "f****t" have unpleasant associations - especially "f****t.".  I've rarely heard it used by gay friends, but it was screamed at me both times I was gay-bashed as a young man.

Various names have evolved with the gay rights movement.  The problem seems to be the same as with the evolution of terms evidenced in the Civil Rights movement:  the NAACP ("colored people") through the United Negro College Fund, the Afro-Americans of the Black Power era (giving way to the People of Color, and the current African-Americans.  The time taken up getting to know the "right" terminology could be better spent, some feel, but each term reflects an era and a mind-set.

I usually use the word "gay" because (just as the above examples show), I'm a product of my era.

And I use "GLBT" or "GLBTIQ" because, as with the various rainbow flags, it covers the spectrum -- and may include either "Questioning" or "Queer."

"Queer," however, is easier -- and it has a tinge of radical subversion about it that I enjoy.  It savors of Queer Nation (and other queer notions).

Currently, most use "LGBT" (at least, in print).  I have no idea how the Lesbians moved to the front of the line.  I once asked, and was told "ladies first," which seems to me to be the kind of patronizing, sexist attitude that I'd thought the women's movement wanted to eradicate.

My own suspicion is that as gay men bore the brunt of the early AIDS crisis, dying in droves, the lesbians who supported the men's efforts simply co-opted their place in the chain (through having survived) and continued with outreach and education.  They've earned their place, regardless of who gets top billing.  

It was the Gay Rights movement first, Lesbians came into the battle a bit later (although "Dykes on Bikes" tends to be the first group in most Pride parades), and then the Bisexuals and Transgendered were acknowledged and welcomed into the fold.

"GLBTIQ," for me, sums up the history and evolution of the on-going struggle to attain equal rights for the "other/queer/odd."

Reed 13

P.S.  In writing this, I had to re-edit, because I used the full word "faggot" which was censored, coming out merely as six asterisks.  

The word "Dykes," however, was allowed.  

Interesting double standard.

Outing Bayard Rustin - Part Two

The day dawned cold and grey, with yet more rain predicted.  I donned hat, black leather car coat, gloves, and packed along a camera, pens, small tablet, and a little expanding umbrella in the coat's many pockets.  The local PFLAG president and her husband were unable to join us, as he is undergoing a second cataract surgery on Wednesday (didn't want to chance anything, marching in the cold and rain), but Mother and I picked up the banner and materials I'd already prepped from them.

We arrived at ten minutes to 11 at the Merced Amtrak station - only to find the block around it blocked by police (parade control). 

And we we in back of a group of horse riders.  So, Mother took a left, a right, went down two blocks to the next barricade, and I got out, toting banner, sections of poles, and bag with placards in neat plasticine envelopes. 

I looked around, and there was Tania, watching as the gap between the last group of marchers and grew wider.  A friend, Al, was introduced as we threaded the banner onto the poles and quick-marched double-time to catch up to the crowd.  The march had started - 10 minutes early.

And we marched - in the rain - keeping up a good pace, bringing up the rear of the groups, while the horse-riders behind us kept a sensible distance.

I'd mapquested the route:  1.1 miles to the Merced County Fairgrounds (900 MLK Jr. Way).

As we marched, I entertained Tanya with my account of marching on Sacramento 30-some years ago.  She, Al and I also passed the time by swapping accounts of our Native American roots.  Tanya has Aztec bloodlines, Al's Yacqui, and I'm one-eighth Cherokee, which I explained almost everyone seems to be.
 

Being "Cherokee" is a bit like having the name Smith. 

When our soggy little contingent arrived with all the other groups, I spotted Mother's car parked close to the exhibition hall where the speakers and celebration group counters were located. 

We took a moment to snap some photos of Al and Tanya, me and Al, and me and Tanya holding the banner - then disassembled and packed it all up. 

I don't know why PFLAG didn't have an informational counter inside.  I think it was a lack of planning, though I fear that it may have been apathy.  I'd like to think that it wasn't fear.

I found Mother inside, chatting with a friend from AARP and her writing group.  Tanya and I joined them.

After a nice large coffee with too much cream and sugar (prompting the merry African-American woman at the counter to comment: "Oh, you're just like me.  You like a little coffee in with your cream and sugar."), we took our seats and listened as the MC calmly and repeatedly said, "Please take your seats" (about eight times) until the crowd noise muted down.  Finally, he began by asking for a moment of silence in memory of Helen Nixon, who died last month.  As the hushed crowd (with only a crying baby or two) listened intently, he listed some of her many, many accomplishments over the last half-century and the first deacde of this new one.  My Mother, hearing Mrs. Nixon's name, said, "Oh, good.  I'm glad somebody remembered"  She and Helen had been pals in one of her writing classes.

We stood with the others for the Pledge of Allegiance.  A woman in front of me removed her hat for it, and a quick glance around showed me that almost everyone over the age of 10 was standing, hands over hearts, waiting as the Pledge began.  I have a voice that can, literally, be heard a block-and-a-quarter away, over traffic (classical voice training is a wonderful thing).  I'm afraid I may have alarmed a couple of folks in the row ahead of us by punching the last words:  "with liberty and justice for ALL!"  

The National Anthem was sung by the grand-daughter of the woman who had been listed as the soloist.  Grandma handed the microphone over after introducing Grand-daughter, who did us all proud.

One of the problems with our National Anthem is that most singers start off too high.  Unless one is a high tenor or soprano, the top notes have one screeching on "rockets' red glare." Mother sings alto, and I'm a bass.  Fortunately, the young woman began nice and low - the perfect register for all to be able to join in - which we did.  The second problem I've found with the anthem lies not in its tune, but in its performers, who all too often "Whitney Houston-ize" it - wild riffs and obligattos that show the singer is more interested in his/her own performance than in conveying the message.'  Our song leader once again proved to be top-flight.  Her voice, strong and sure; her diction impeccable. 

For me, the greatest fun came as we remained standing (after an invocation) to sing "Lift Every Voice and Sing", sometimes called "the Black national anthem" (words by James Weldon Johnson).  Mother and I had sung it the day before in church, as it was one of that Sunday's hymns at the "traditional" service.

I love the song, and cherish my memory of attending the Black Police Officers and Employees meeting in Long Beach some years ago with my boss:  one of the very few white AME (African Methodist Episcopal) ministers.  When we stood up for the singing, some of the folks at the tables near us looked somewhat askance at this unlikely pair.  And when we belted out the song, full-voice, strongly and vigorously, the quizzical looks turned to delighted smiles. 

This MLK Day, I thought the soloist had made a mistake with "Lift Every Voice."  Her pace was strong, slow, and deliberate.  I wondered how long it would take to get through all three verses and choruses printed on the back of the programs.  I discovered that, by taking it slow, singers have a chance to breathe so as to be able to make give every word and note their full value.  She sang only the first verse and chorus.  It was "sufficient unto the day."