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Two weeks ago, Steve Elkins
and I did our annual round of sensitivity training. This year, not only were
we invited back to do a session for the Rehoboth summer police, but we got
an invitation for the same kind of thing for the seasonal park patrol
members at Cape Henlopen State Park.
I’m
proud to say that I really have nothing funny or irritating to report, since
both classes went wonderfully and the phrase “we’ve come a long way
baby” pops to mind.
Also
this week, I heard that frequent Rehoboth visitor, Eric Peterson, my adopted
son-the-actor, won a diversity award from his corporation for his volunteer
work with PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays).
As
I congratulated him on both the award and his generous donation of time
working for diversity, I thought of my own evolution in working for change.
When I read Steve Schilly’s wonderful account of his public coming out in
the last issue of Letters, I thought some more.
I
was a seriously late bloomer. It wasn’t until my 40s that I developed the
nerve and the passion for speaking out publicly. Sure, it was a very
different time, with very different issues, twenty-something years ago when
I was Eric’s age. But as I look back, I’m sorry I took so long to grow
up and I’m so proud of Eric for what he’s doing today.
I
wasn’t even an activist in the 60s, when everybody and their dog was
smoking dope and distrusting anyone over 30. Oh sure, I wore tie-dye and
love beads, marching to protest the Kent State shootings (I did not, however
wear a flag on my ass)...but I’m reasonably sure I just didn’t want to
be left back in the dorm. As a theatre major, the hippie clothes and
Birkenstocks were more costume than commitment.
I’m
ashamed to confess that while my friends lobbied for a woman’s right to
choose, animal welfare and the ERA, I memorized Broadway musicals and hung
out at Bloomingdale’s. I cared, but was never motivated enough to put down
my charge card and defend a damn thing.
I
wasn’t even vocal about gay rights. I was divorced and 30 when I finally
came out as a lesbian. Family and friends, so relieved to see me happy for
once, adjusted without missing a beat. As far as I could tell, the early
l980s and Reaganism was an era of good feeling between America and gays. I
was truly delusional. I heard my friends’ horror stories about the past
and thanked my lucky stars it was l982.
Then
it was l984 and AIDS hysteria hit. Amid the press barrage and tabloid trash
I watched homophobia rear its head and bellow-it seemed-at me. Friends
who’d grown up with bigotry and fought for Gay Pride were prepared for the
ugliness. They fought back; they handled it. Not me. I just got depressed.
Finally,
Bonnie told me to get angry and get even. I started reading gay history and
devouring every word about gays in the press. I’d clip stories and
highlight quotes I liked and those I didn’t. From the very back of the
closet, and under a ridiculous pen name, I fired off letters to editors
complaining about biased coverage, unwarranted sensationalism and false
stereotypes. Venting my anger by mail felt great. Reading my published words
in places like People magazine and The Baltimore Sun to balance the
bigots’ letters felt even better.
Although
I never invented boyfriends at the office, I stayed very private-until l986,
when I heard one faggot joke too many and my mouth took on a life of its
own. I realized that my nose was peeking out from the closet and I’d
traded my lesbian invisibility to make the point.
Teetering
on the brink of full disclosure, I was outed at an early 90’s office staff
meeting. My boss and five other department heads-all married-sat discussing
whose spouses would attend an upcoming conference reception.
“Hey,
what about you, Fay. You and Bonnie never have to go to these things,”
said one of my cohorts.
“Yeah,”
said another, “how come you two don’t have to go?”
Before
I could stutter an answer, my boss piped up. “That’s true, we’ll see
you both Friday, as well, right?”
It
took me a minute to process the fact that not only weren’t they shocked by
my alternative marital status, they were truly pissed that I’d had a free
pass from the odious meetings because of it. Fortunately, Bonnie was a good
sport about going to office crap from then on.
I
began to discuss my weekends and my life, in light generalities, with
selected colleagues. And my real name replaced the pen name on letters and
essays to local publications. That is, other than my own publication. As
editor of a community newspaper, I lived a weird schizophrenic existence,
writing out and proud letters and essays for the Washington Blade and other
publications, while staying nauseatingly closeted on my own pages. Not only
was it dishonest, but it was hell on my writing. Just try and tell a first
person story like I do in this column without referring to the person who
accompanies you on all your adventures. It made for constipated copy.
When
I started weekending in Rehoboth and got the chance to write for Letters, it
was like being struck by lightning. Or was it fairy dust? Everything’s
honest. You say what you mean.
You
mean what you say. Oh.
When
I left my job to move to Rehoboth, the only thing I knew about my future was
that my personal life and work life would be inseparable. I would never
again be in the closet for a job, and never stop being honest about my life.
It’s
going pretty well. I enjoy my job and my work with CAMP Rehoboth and I love
the freedom that comes from being honest with myself and others. I realize
that everyone’s circumstances are different, and that what worked for me
might be disappointing, detrimental or even dangerous to people in other
situations. But there’s hope.
As
Steve and I talked with the summer police this year, we stressed the
importance of treating everyone equally. If gay people need help, be there
for them; if gay people are doing something against the rules, take whatever
action you are supposed to take.
At
one point, we asked the question, “Do any of you have a family member or
friend who’s gay?” A very large percentage of the class raised their
hands.
Ten
years ago that wouldn’t have happened. No, despite what bigots say about
our “recruiting,” there are no more of us around now than there were a
decade ago. Only now, more of us are visible and interacting openly with our
straight colleagues, friends and family members.
We
also asked our summer police, “Imagine that you were gay. How would
Rehoboth look to you?”
The
young people answered seriously and with candor. The answers included “a
safe place,” “a place to meet people just like myself,” and, my
favorite, “just like Dewey looks to the straight people.”
Exactly.
And
it’s a privilege to be able to say it out loud and in print to whoever
wants to know.
Fay Jacobs can be reached at CampoutReho@aol.com.
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