LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Evolution of an Activist |
by Fay Jacobs |
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. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 07, June 14, 2002. |