Illegal

A while back, a relative asked about my upcoming marriage, "Isn't that illegal?"

Aside from revealing some of the foundational differences between her perspective on sexuality and mine, it also made me think about the meaning of "illegal" anyway. Then last week I read an article about immigration and deportation in ColorLines magazine (http://colorlines.com/article.php?ID=618).

The introduction mentions that Obama has begun calling undocumented residents in the US as "illegal." It called up that memory again, of my "illegal" relationship.

What exactly is illegal about undocumented workers and their families in the US? It's not the work they do, that supports daily life for the rest of us. It's not their spending money to meet their needs, which supports the economy. It's not even their physical, human existence in our communities. What's illegal is their existence without the stamp of approval from the administration that acts on behalf of this country. To me, it's the same for LGBT people. It's not our participation in the daily life of this country. It's not our love for each other. What's illegal is that we exist without the stamp of approval from our fellow community members.

Yes, we should work to find ways that all people who live here can be documented - for their protection and access to the benefits of living as part of our society. But the answer is not to withhold approval. That doesn't make anyone go away. It just makes them go underground. Which, let me say, benefits those who do get the stamp of approval. My share of the benefits of living in the US get divided by fewer people because the undocumented people don't get to share them. I get to benefit from their work across the spectrum of employment - from lower prices that result from unfairly (and illegally) low wages and substandard working conditions.

In the same way, straight people (those who participate in socially acceptable relationships) get access to a wide spectrum of images and supports for their relationships, while those of us "illegals" get messages that our relationships aren't "real" or "correct," and that our struggles to experience love and relationships are inherently flawed. The result is that when we experience relationship struggles, it's because we're deviant. When hetero folks experience relationships struggles, it's because they're relationship struggles.

I'm sure there are flaws in the ways I'm comparing undocumented residents and workers in the US with undocumented relationships and sexuality. But I also think there are some important similarities that create common causes for support for each other.

When, Why, and How I Realized I'm Gay and Chose to Accept It

I recently received an email from a relative who asked when, why, how, etc. I became gay. This is my answer, and I wanted to post it because it relates to what I want to write about in my next post.

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"So here's my answer to your question of when, why, how, etc. I realized that I'm gay and chose to accept it:
In college I was exposed to many different perspectives, and to an environment where we could engage with each other about them. This was different from my experience growing up in a place where there was one right perspective and many wrong ones, even if people disagreed on what the right and wrong perspectives were. In college I met people (mostly straight people, and a few gay ones) who articulated perspectives that shared my values but not my rules. I came to see that the way I believed in God as a child (a God who made rules that I could not understand and could not live up to, and who punished and shamed me because I could not meet those impossibly high ideals) was not the God that I experienced every day in my life (a God who affirms my worth as a human being, who takes great pleasure and joy in Creation, and who asks me first to love my neighbor, myself, and the earth - and to understand my life values and ethics from that perspective). In the middle of this, I realized that I was attracted to some men as well as some women. I came to understand that I can engage my desire for love & intimacy (and my desires for creativity, joy, relationships, learning, etc.) by measuring my actions with my values - asking how my choices reflect and increase the love, joy, and grace that are divine gifts given to everyone who chooses to accept them. Like anyone learning and growing into emotional maturity, I had some relationships that met my values, and others that didn't. I had friends and mentors who helped me sift through my choices, actions, and experiences.

These values and life experiences are what led me to commit to a relationship with my partner and accept my sexuality as it is. This relationship continues to provide a foundation for my work in the world, addressing conditions that hurt others, stifle joy, and increase hatred & distrust rather than love - and helping provide an example for others in engaging with deep love, compassion, and joy in existence. Our relationship is a gift that increases love and joy in the world and does not hurt others in the process.
How did you come to engage and accept your desire for love, intimacy, and companionship in your relationship?"

fear ---> moral outrage

So last night we went to see Inglorious Basterds. Aside from being visually stunning quite often, surprisingly funny at times, interestingly written, very precisely timed for suspense and maximum impact, and well-acted by a number of people in it -- I never want to see another Quentin Tarantino movie again. I can't handle it. Not surprising - I don't do well with lots of graphic violence. It also raised some uncomfortable issues about justification and entitlement to revenge. And in this case, quite a parallel process, poetic justice kind of revenge, given the historical context it refers to. Questions I can't answer, which is a great thing.

But therewas a scene closer to the end that triggered something inside me. It was visceral terror - I thought I was going to throw up, I was trembling, and my hands and arms felt tingly. It was very physical, and I'm not entirely sure why. I stayed in my seat until the end (which I'm glad about, because I didn't want that scene to be the last I saw). I left the theater quickly and crossed the street. I intensely did not want to see any of my fellow theater-goers except my partner, and I didn't want to hear anyone making any comments about it. I felt disgusted, horrified, and deeply disturbed. And moved very quickly into moral condemnation. I did not want to know of anyone who found the film entertaining. I did not want to hear anyone say they liked it. I precluded my partner's comments about whether or not he liked it, and consumed our world with my experience of fear and moral condemnation.

This morning, I'm much more settled, but left with better awareness of this move from visceral fear to moral outrage and condemnation. I think it says a lot about human experience and how we've come to understand morality and fear. What triggers and justifies moral tirades - at a deeper level than simple discomfort with what is unfamiliar? When moral outrage spurts up somewhere, maybe now I'm better equipped to look for the bodily fears behind it. I don't have anything more to say about it right now...but there it is.

'reality'

I haven't been writing because I fell down a deep hole called "two part-time jobs with small nonprofit agencies." I will emerge eventually, but probably not for a couple more weeks.

In the meantime, I wanted to write about a person I saw during the part of one of my jobs where I meet with HIV+ people who are eligible for some of the services we offer. I met with a person who was quite religious in conversation and very cautious about personal details. They revealed that they had once been almost dead from 'cancer' and that a very close 'loved one' had died recently. The usually language of partner, lover, boyfriend, AIDS, gay, and all of that was completely absent, except for the times when I referred to my own life & experiences.

As I pondered my pastoral diagnosis (this is not part of my job explicitly, but it's behind many of the things I do), I considered what goals I might identify for this person. Primarily I thought about what it means to 'face reality.' The reality for this (as least partially homosexual) person is that they have HIV and their partner died from it. The reality is that they don't receive certain helpful services because they don't wish at this point to publicly identify with the diagnosis. But that's not the only reality.

It's also a reality that their family (from what I gather) is not particularly accepting of same-sex desire, nor of HIV status. Their religious community isn't either. And perhaps most importantly, this person is not particularly comfortable with the labels I just described. Instead, they have found ways to talk around this cancer, the burden of grief of watching friends and a lover die from it - and knowing that they also have the diagnosis.

I think about the many ways I find to talk around certain things in my life - what things I let slide under assumptions, and what kind of language I use to frame my life, depending on the audience. How important is it to make someone agree with my version of reality?

I guess at this point it seems more important to support their survival. If they refuse to get treatment, for example, or if they seem too isolated and depressed, then I might find ways to help them get access to treatment and social support. But who am I to mess with the structure of their self-understanding? Maybe as I get to know this person (who was delightful & interesting to talk to, and who gave me a hug when I left), my perspective will change. But in the meantime, I'm struck with my own impulse to "make" them describe their reality in terms I would use - rather than let them structure it in ways that work for them.

"those people" who make "those choices"

It's been a few weeks since I sent a letter to my extended family, confirming the rumors that I am gay and that I'm getting married. It was a prelude to sending save-the-date cards, and eventually our wedding invitations. A relative had suggested that it might be better to send a letter before the cards, since I hadn't really talked with most of them directly about my sexuality.

To be honest, I expected mostly silence. That's part of the culture where I come from: controversial or potentially divisive issues are met first with silence (perhaps in the hope that they'll go away or resolve themselves on their own - a reaction that crosses over into physical ailments like cancer, I might add). I had hoped, against my experience growing up, that a few might, like one member of my family, say "I'm glad you're happy" or even "I'm excited to meet your partner." I didn't ask for a response, and I provided my contact information explicitly for dialogue, but not for condemnation.

I have received two responses. One clearly stated that their values do not support my marriage, and the other carefully drew. The common thread among both was a curious distancing of "the issue." Neither mentioned homosexuality, or even sexuality at all. It was like they were discussing not me, but a vague unnamed issue. They spoke of "people who make the decisions you speak of" and "the actions you describe." That was a surprise.

I'm not clear if it was politeness or evasion. Perhaps it was an attempt to frame things differently. We were not talking anymore about my relationship, but about decisions and actions that I take. It's a subtle difference, but it's at the heart of a lot of the religious back-and-forth about sexuality. It's important for opponents of gayness to frame it as a "lifestyle" or a choice. I realized that this enables condemnation of what people "choose to do," while ignoring underlying circumstances. The underlying circumstance for me is that I do not choose who I am attracted to. I adamantly emphasize that I choose to act on those attractions, sometimes, in the framework of a loving relationship with my partner [and I do not condemn those who act on their attractions in other, consensual ways - or who choose not to act on them, based on their values].

It's been interesting to read these letters and consider how personal relationships are impacted by political and religious perspectives and language. I doubt if it is easy for most of my relatives to grapple with values that may seem to be in conflict: a religious perspective that places sexuality itself in a suspect category of desires and bodily pleasure, and a religious perspective that values family and community [and its underlying diversity]. What is the breaking point where a person rejects another person from family and community for their difference? And what does that person choose to ignore or silence rather than reject? And what, among the great, glorious diversity of creation, does that person embrace?

not the problem

Today someone asked me whether or not I thought my parents were to blame for my being gay.

First off: No. My parents did not make me gay (or prevent me from becoming heterosexual).

Second off, the question presumes that being gay is somehow maladjusted. That somehow, they did something "wrong" (were 'absent,' or 'spoiled' their child, for example) and their child ended up with this 'disorder.' The truth is that my sexuality is not disordered, but just a fact of my life, like having brown hair and ten toes. So the premise of the theory is wrong to start with.

Third, the question presumes that because being gay is a problem, someone must be guilty. This is what makes me the most angry. The theory is a recipe for endless tortured guilt on the part of parents. They can't go back and correct anything, and they can't move beyond the terrible thing they might have done to result in this horrible condition (which is, by my reckoning, a loving, committed relationship in which my partner and I are building a household and a family together, and a base from which we do good things in the world). My parents did the best they could raising me and my siblings - they made some mistakes and did a lot of things right - and I dare anyone to say they made me gay, or my siblings heterosexual, by their parenting skills!

Fourth, there are plenty of examples of kids who grew up with absent fathers and/or mothers who babied their sons in which the children turned out to be heterosexual. Just as there are many gay people who had loving, present fathers and mothers who were strict with them. My partner, in fact, was spoiled by his father, and his mother was very strict with him.

Fifth, here's what impact my parents did have on my relationship: They helped (along with an entire community and extended family of people) form my values. They raised me to think independently, to value loving relationships, and not to let myself be hurt by others. They taught me to be generous with others, careful with my money, and to care about those who are vulnerable. They taught me to deeply consider my spirituality and values. They taught me to be practical but fed my imagination, to be strong but to express my emotions. They taught me to cook, to study, and to be committed to my partner. They taught me to be tough, and to endure in difficult times. I am grateful for these things, and if you want to blame them for that, go ahead.

My friend Miak posted this link on his facebook page: Homophobia is Not Just Another Point of View, and it makes an important point. The post is about NYU Law School hiring a visiting faculty member from Singapore, who is an expert on constitutional law, human rights, and the UN convention to end all discrimination against women, but who is publicly and actively homophobic. To her credit, she's pithy, if mistaken, about it: "Diversity is not an excuse for perversity," and comparing anal sex to trying to drink with a straw up your nose. (Let's pretend for the moment that straight people don't also have anal sex, and let's not try to pick through what she's trying to say about the purpose of sex with this metaphor.) I was struck by one student's defense that anti-gay laws are the only point where she "lets her religion cloud her rationality," because she's actually got a lot of good things to say about constitutional law and human rights. The blogger linked above clears through a lot of my kneejerk responses. Of course a wide variety of perspectives should be engaged in law school. Of course a person's anti-homosexual stance shouldn't cloud other gifts and wisdom she has to offer. But can I trust someone who wants to impose her brand of morality on the whole system, while still upholding constitutional law and human rights? Does human rights become a pissing contest for whose moral view trumps the others? It's not okay to discriminate against women even if your religion says so, but it's okay to discriminate against gays because my religion says so.

This blogger cuts through that. Homophobia is not "just another viewpoint among many." It has serious consequences (see, for example, the article the other day on the severe rate of HIV infections among gay men across Africa, tied directly to homophobia and mistreatment.) It also muddies the question about morality in a diverse system. What ties people together in a nation? There are values and perspectives that can do so, or at least the dialogue about them can do so. But when it becomes the values of one God or one moral system that erases all others, that's a problem. And, most importantly, as the blogger points out, everyone is entitled to their beliefs, but with that entitlement comes the right to engage with others about them, especially in disagreement. It's not that this visiting professor shouldn't come to NYU, but that she can't pretend to be a victim because others are questioning her authority and viewpoint, based on her outspoken and emphatic homophobia. If she puts herself out in a particular point of view, she can't insulate herself from those who wish to engage with her about it.

And I take this to heart, considering my own points of view, and when I feel the need to insulate or strike back with a personal insult when someone disagrees with me. I get the urge, but I also think it's important to engage with it rather than run away.