You’ve Got To Be Carefully Taught

No, folks, I am not writing about South Pacific again. I am borrowing the Rodgers and Hammerstein anthem against prejudice from that show, because the words are so very true:

You’ve got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught
From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught
Before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people
Your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!

I was bitten by a very virulent form of anti-gay bias just the other day. It was from an utterly unexpected quarter and has nearly broken what’s left of my heart.

As that last sentence indicates, I have been ailing this summer and by the time you read these words, I hope that a pacemaker will be helping me to resume my usual activities. All summer long, I have been buoyed by contacts from an opera houseful of friends from all over the States and Europe, who have been enquiring about my health and cheering me up.

Last Tuesday night I received a phone call from a lady I’ll call Susan—my high school girlfriend. We broke up so long ago that my being gay was not even an issue. Susan wound up marrying a good man and has had a reasonably charmed life as wife and mother in the Philadelphia suburbs. After years of separation, we got back in touch with one another in the early 1980s.

Sue and I became good buddies, spending a fair amount of time yakking on the telephone, and we have continued to do so through e-mails. I used to visit her in Philly. Her children were fond of me, and I liked them about as much as Iam capable of liking people under the age of discretion.

It’s been more than 20 years since I told my "ex" that I am a homosexual. At that time she listened sympathetically and gave every indication of accepting the "real" me without qualm, although subsequently the subject was rarely mentioned.

Fast forward to this afternoon. Susan had come to town to see Hairspray (of all things) and wanted to meet me for dinner after the matinee. It had been many, many years since we had seen one another. I found her looking quite lovely and not at all like a grandmother of two. Soon we were happily chatting on our way to Ben’s Kosher Deli. I had visions of matzo balls dancing in my head.

At lunch, as the soup bowls were being removed, and we were moving on to sandwiches, it happened. I forget what remark led up to this, but we were discussing the weddings at the Gay Synagogue, and Susan said, "I don’t see why there have to be gay marriages. It’s not real."

In as much as I am capable of choking on a brisket sandwich, I choked. I reached for my water glass, to clear my throat and also, to chomp back the rage which characteristically flares up at moments like these. I’ll bet you that my companion did not even notice my discomfort. When I could speak again, I reminded Susan that participants in gay marriages love each other very much. She replied, "But it’s a deviation. Why call attention to it and why reward it?"

I guess, Susan likes gays like me, who dress conservatively and don’t appear at straight weddings with dates. My heart was pounding, and not from the cholesterol I had just ingested. The woman I  once had almost loved, a person who has known me for over forty years, who knows full well that I am gay, sat there blithely trashing a huge subset of the population—a population that I belong to as surely as I belong to the same religious/ethnic group to which Susan belongs.

What forces brought these rigorous beliefs to Susan? Her parents were decent and presided over a loving home. I never heard anyone in that household deliver a racial slur. Susan and her husband raised a pair of decent youngsters, both of whom have shown signs of social consciences.

Of course, my friend’s prejudices are as common as they are disgusting. But then, prejudice is like kudzu: You have to be constantly vigilant and be prepared to chop at it and then hack it away whenever and wherever you find it.

From our conversation, it seemed as if Susan didn’t mind if gay marriage was mentioned in the news, but she simply hated it when gay marriage notices made the list of nuptials, or if gay couples were the focus of feature stories.

My face probably turned the color of gefilte fish. A glutton for punishment, I mentioned the Gay Pride Day Parade. "And that’s another thing," growled Susan, "why glorify this deviation?"

I took several deep breaths, and said mildly, "You know, it’s a great, big world, and I believe that there’s room for everybody." This remark passed unanswered. Somehow, the repast moved to its finish. Susan returned to Penn Station and I trudged to my uptown bus, feeling as if I had been hit by a steamroller.

I arrived at my apartment feeling both sadder and angrier than I had in a long, long time. I hate bad blood among friends. I was angry at the two of us. I was angry at Susan for believing and saying these evil things. I was angry at myself for not slapping a twenty dollar bill on the table and storming out, swearing never, ever to have contact with her again.

Did I take the high road? I guess so. I really don’t like ugly scenes in public (or in private). After all, I reproved her gently and in a dignified manner. But, damn it, some transgressions require a forceful reaction—and I’m capable of doing that.

In sum, did I do the right thing? I honestly don’t know. I would never strike anyone in anger, but that evening I could have (SHOULD have?) cheerfully throttled my old friend Sue.

I don’t want to end a forty year friendship, so should I forgive and let grievous insults to the gay community, and to me, go unanswered? Will I ever be able to change Susan’s anti-gay beliefs? I doubt it. After all, I’m the only gay person she really knows well. She likes me very much, and she still feels this way.

The only upside is that I don’t see her very often. Maybe in a year or three I won’t feel this angry. But I should feel angry! And I should swear to myself that the next time I am insulted because I’m gay, I won’t be such a gentleman.

The phone just rang. It was Susan. She wanted to make sure I had gotten home without incident. "Oh yes, sure, thanks," I replied.

The bus ride wasn’t the problem, Sue, dear. It was the freakin’ dinner. We’ve got to be carefully taught.