Being Wrong, By Being Right

Some years ago I was in a stationary store with a lesbian friend and my then boyfriend. When the Middle-Eastern proprietor said something homophobic to us (I don't remember what) I said something defiant to him (I don't remember that either) and stormed out.

Seething on the sidewalk, I vowed to never again patronize the establishment owned by an old-world bigot. I comforted myself in the knowledge that I was in the right ... but not just right ... right and superior.

Meanwhile, inside the store, my far-less-quick-tempered friend was having this conversation with the man....

“They are sinning against God,” the man said.

“My God just wants us to love each other.”

“I like your God.”

My boycott of a single ball-point pen would not have brought his business crumbling down with the man crawling on his knees begging for forgiveness. Had it been the end of the encounter, my self-righteousness would certainly only have hardened the man’s position. So proud I was of my words at the time, yet how telling I cannot recall them now?

I have a deep and powerful need to be right, about nearly everything. While this attitude does allow me to conduct myself with a certain amount of confidence, make no mistake, it is a serious character flaw. Left unmoderated this need makes a person arrogant, rude, annoying, boorish and repellent.

My friend’s humility and cheerful nature opened the door to a shift in attitude ... a door I smugly slammed shut. When she told me of their conversation I didn’t tell her I was ashamed of myself in light of her far superior example.

So I try to set aside the ego of being right. It's not easy for me.

The fabulous Wildfire Retreat I attended this weekend was at a boy scout camp. I didn’t know this until I arrived and since I refuse to support organizations with anti-gay policies it made me angry. But I tried to let it go.

At the retreat’s first town hall meeting a pleasant and gregarious man stood on a table and announced he was from the Boy Scouts and 300 artists cheered. I seethed. “Really? Not one single objection? Artists should know better,” I thought and felt betrayed. I fantasized about the defiant protest I hadn’t made.

“You’re a scout? I’m an Eagle Scout,” I’d have said.

“Wonderful,” he’d reply.

“Too bad you bunch of homophobes would have kicked me out if you’d known I was gay in my teens.”

I imagined shame for him, moral victory for me and the cheers of artists who’d suddenly remember their political correctness.

Yeah, right.

My only achievement would have been to show myself to be a giant jackass. Fortunately I held my tongue, although I claim no credit for this restraint.

Toward the end of the retreat a quiet moment presented itself and I got to chat with the scout master who also turned out to be the camp chaplain. He is a warm and sensitive man. When I told him I’m an Eagle Scout he beamed with pride as he told me that brought the count to 12 for the event.

I told him how grateful I am that the crises management skills the scouts gave me have allowed me to help others need over the years. I told him about the man at the card game who needed my help and how my first aid training comes in handy every few years. And then I said, ever so gently, “I worry about what would have happened to all those people who needed help in a crisis if the scouts had kicked me out for being gay.”

He was genuinely distressed at this and after a thoughtful pause he said, “Nothing like that would happen here. Everyone is welcome here. You are welcome here.”

We went on to discuss how a New England scout camp is a very different place and that the homophobia of the scouts emanates from Texas. (The Mormons who sponsor more U.S. scout troops than anyone else have a lot to do with it too.)

I told the chaplain how I’d received an invitation from the scouts to join their new Eagle Scouts Club but how I could never do so while the policy remained.

“Nothing can take from me the achievement of being an Eagle Scout, but the badge itself, which came from the organization and sits in a box under my bed is tarnished. It saddens me. If the policy was changed, the tarnish would be lifted and maybe then I might take it out and frame it. I wish I could be proud of it again.”

The chaplain was saddened by this and also hopeful. He thanked me for sharing my story with him and said that after every event he’s required to report to his superiors. He said he tell them my story.

The chaplain showed me the prayer flags in his chapel of which he is so proud. He gave me a great, big, strong hug in his great, big, strong arms and I had my first positive feelings about the scouts in twenty years.

By setting aside my need to be right, I was given the opportunity to add one more little seed of change to the garden of progress in which so many have toiled for so long.

The Gray Lady Takes Questions From Us Little People

The New York Times is taking questions about it's editorial policy. [GASP!] Since, apparently, it only deigns to do this once every 12 years, make yours a good one. Email: askthetimes@nytimes.com

Here is mine....

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Dear Mr. Rosenthal,

I am curious how The New York Times decides what points of view merit consideration.

Despite being controversial topics of their day, slavery and voting rights are no longer debated. We, as a society, have decided that these issues are "settled". Gay marriage is widely debated with "both sides" given consideration.

Somewhere between inviting opponents to comment on gay marriage ("balanced coverage") and inviting the Grand Dragon of the KKK to comment on our new President (unthinkable) there exists a line. Does The Times consciously consider where this line is? And if so, what criteria does it use to decide when, in the course of social progress, a particular opinion is no longer worthy of receiving a public platform?

Yours Sincerely,

Dale Sorenson
New York City

Politics is Personal

You may recall I used to be a big activist. I fought for Democrats, for gay rights and for women's rights. When I moved to New York City I got out of politics. It's not that I don't care. The problem is I care too much. I cannot be casually involved. Politics is all consuming for me.

Unlike many of my friends I'm not following the day to day developments of the presidential election. I didn't watch the debates. I don't read the polls. I just want it to be over.

Don't get me wrong. I care deeply. I want Obama to win just as much as I wanted Clinton to win when I was a delegate to the Democratic National Convention in 1992. But this time my expectations are a bit more realistic. Obama will be good for the country and good for the world. But I don't expect him to be the political messiah I thought Bill Clinton to be and was predictably disappointed when he wasn't.

So I wait, somewhat detached from it all, with simultaneous cautious optimism and creeping dread.

I'm actually much more invested in the anti-gay marriage proposition on the ballot in California. If it passes, thousands of gay families will suffer devastating loss when their marriages are actually canceled. For example, children of gay parents will lose access to health care. Mark my words, if Proposition 8 passes children of poor gay families will die.

The bigots are actually resorting to extortion to raise funds. As usual they're offering lies, lies, lies & fear, lies and more lies about us. The evil Mormon empire has entered the fray and its members have contributed millions.

I have given money to Equality California and encourage you to do the same ... $5, $10, $100, $1000, anything. If you don't want to end up on their mailing list, you may make a "one-time contribution". Do it for me. Do it for the gay citizens of California. Or do it to save the (mostly) straight children of gay families from this campaign of hate.

Where it all began

Here's where it all began, 1990, City Hall, Salt Lake City. On these steps at a gay-rights rally is where I first spoke to a crowd with a mic in my hand. I remember the feeling of power was incredible.