Time Fries! (25 page)
Authors: Fay Jacobs
I
T
T
OOK THE
E
NTIRE
65 Y
EARS OF
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IFE TO
G
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H
ERE
“You have until 4 o'clock to do a new column. Probably not enough time,” editor Steve Elkins said.
Not enough time to make this deadline after waiting 65 years to be a full citizen of the United States? Watch me.
Today, Wednesday, June 26, at about 10 a.m., DOMA (the ill-conceived Bill Clinton law banning federal recognition of gay marriage in the U.S.) was overturned by a mostly-conservative U.S. Supreme Court. I watched, spell-bound, in my living room as commentator Rachel Maddow, former Congressman Barney Frank and a parade of others described how this (apparently) straight but apparently not narrow (at least five judges, anyway) court struck down DOMA as unconstitutional and granted full marriage rights to same sex couples in states where gay marriage is legal.
I never thought I'd see this in my lifetime. In fact, for the first 45 years of my lifetime I never even conceived of it. In the beginning, the very word “gay” made me sick. Was I one? And if so, based on furtive, whispered comments and society's fear I was certain I'd have an unhappy, miserable life.
I never thought I'd see this day when I was hiding in the closet through high school and college; when homosexual conduct itself was still illegal; when I was guiltily sneaking around bad neighborhoods and seedy bars to meet others like myself; when I was ashamed and terrified to be outed at work.
Could I see this day coming when I sweated bullets about admitting I was gay to my parents? Did I think this possible when Bonnie couldn't use her VA benefit to buy a house because we weren't married? When doctors dismissed me as a mere “friend” when Bonnie was in the hospital? When I had to pay thousands and thousands of dollars extra for my own
catastrophic individual health insurance because I wasn't considered a spouse by Bonnie's employer?
I never pictured this happening when I started writing for the
Washington Blade
(under a pen name so I would not lose my job) in the 1980s; when I marched on Washington in '87, '93, and 2000; when I began writing for
Letters
(under my |own byline) in 1996; as I wrote columns about protecting our relationships with the proper paperwork, railing against discrimination for AIDS patients, attacking conservative politicians as they attacked and denigrated us.
But in the last ten years, as gay marriage became more and more of a possibility in Bright Blue states, I still never dreamed our federal government would recognize me and my wife (married in Canada in 2003) as full married citizens.
I never dreamed this would happen as I went to Dover to support CAMP Rehoboth and Equality Delaware in their successful fight for gay marriage in Delaware; when our amazing Speaker of the House Pete Schwartzkopf led the charge for anti-discrimination and equality; when our legislators did the right and just thing; when Equality Delaware's Lisa Goodman and Mark Purpura engineered the words and spirit behind this momentous action. And when our amazingly supportive Governor Jack Markell instantly signed the bill so “you won't have to wait one minute longer!”
But today? This conservative court striking down DOMA? This is the big one. I am recognized as a full, proud citizen by the U.S. government. The hell with what Justice Scalia, the Family Research Council and millions of ignorant or bigoted people think. Today, in Delaware, as it relates to the federal government, we have achieved marriage equality.
You know, when I was about eight years old, I was flipping through a copy of
The New Yorker
on my parents' coffee table, looking at the cartoons. Most of them I didn't understand. But one drawing wasn't a cartoon really, but an illustration with a story. It showed an African American man, slouched down, driving a horse-drawn wagon. In the second panel of the
drawing, the wagon passed the Mason-Dixon line into the Northern part of the country. The wagon driver was proudly sitting up, head held high.
My mother, with her ever-present progressive and liberal views, explained the drawing to me. I got it.
But I get it so much more today. Damn. It really does get better.
We knew this was the year to be at the New York City Gay Pride Parade. Let's face it, with the DOMA ruling having come down days before, and Edie Windsor set to be parade Grand Marshal, we had lots to celebrate.
As soon as we hit Manhattan we knew it was going to be something special. Rainbow flags flew everywhere, even in the most unlikely places, like corner falafel trucks. Entire buildings had been draped in rainbow colors, as banks, and drugs stores and retailers all celebrated with the LGBT community. Pretty amazing, actually.
After a weekend of wine, women, and song we lined up Sunday morning for the parade at 33rd Street and 5th Avenue, the starting point. Once launched, the parade would wind downtown for hours to the Village and Christopher Street where the night would be capped with celebrations, street gatherings, and ultimately fireworks over the river at 11 p.m. Pretty good public celebration for a community still considered criminal in the 60s. Makes ya think, doesn't it?
We'd gotten there early enough to be in the front, along the police barricades, for a perfect view of our heroine Edie Windsor when she passed by. With the sun beating down and huge crowds jockeying for position, it was hot and a hoot. Spectators seemed made up of equal parts gays, straights, tourists, children, and pets. Vendors sold rainbow flags, rainbow roses, rainbow crap of all kinds.
Does anybody remember Rollerena? In the 70s, this tall, thin drag queen used to roller skate around Manhattan, always making a festive appearance at pride parades. We found ourselves standing next to this disco-era celebrity by the barricades. She may have given up her skates, but she still looked like a million bucks as she and her gaudily dressed friends waited to step into the parade as it passed by.
First we heard motorcycles revvingâah, the dykes on bikes, love them! Gone are the days when they'd lead the parade in pants and vests, breasts flapping in the wind. This posse was fully dressed, cheering us as we cheered them, and heady with celebration.
And then we heard it. Whoops and hollers and cheers spreading toward us like a stadium wave, as the convertible with Edie Windsor came into view. Slowly the car rolled down the block, Ms. Windsor, all in white, draped in a rainbow sash, wide-brimmed hat on her head, smiling, waving, standing up to greet the community. People screamed and waved. Men bowed in reverence, drag queens squealed. And as this victorious plaintiff moved along, thousands of people blew Dinah Shore “mwah!” kisses in her direction. I will never forget the moment.
Next came all kinds of corporate sponsors, their employees marching along, tossing products to the crowd: rainbow lip gloss, packets of sunscreen, key chains, vitamin water, the works. Between the banks, airlines, and phone companies, it was hard to believe it was a gay pride parade, not the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Although make no mistake. We were giving thanks to Edie and the Supremes.
And pretty soon, the LGBT organizations, bars, and businesses, with their fancy floats, disco beats, and scantily clad revelers rolled by, reminding us just what kind of happy parade this was. After about an hour schvitzing in the hot sun, we moved along, walking uptown, and taking in a whole city bathed in gay pride.
We spent the rest of the day uptown, dining with friends and shaking our heads in wonder at the sea of rainbow decorations, festive LGBT folks clogging the streets, and a feeling of victory, freedom, and renewed patriotism as we faced the July 4th weekend.
By evening, we hopped a cab back downtown, as I felt the need to be at the Stonewall Inn on this historic night. Yeah, me and 100,000 other people. The cab got mired in traffic six
blocks away so we bailed and trudged through the masses, getting glitter-bombed en route. Standing on the street in front of the Stonewall had to suffice, as it was packed and hemorrhaging pierced, tattooed, young people, of every ethnicity, and mode of dress. Or undress. Everyone's mood identicalâunfettered joy.
At that point, my previously imbibed Cosmos caught up with me. Crisis. I had to pee. Bonnie and I fought our way through the crush of bodies, almost all of them 30 to omigod 40 years younger than we, and across the street to a Starbucks. Inside, a long bathroom line formed with an employee checking receipts to make certain only customers used the facilities.
I cast no blame. Made perfect sense given the teeming humanity outside. But I hadda pee! Me, to the 18-year old employee: “I swear I will buy an iced coffee after I pee, but this is an old-lady emergency. Please take pity on us.”
He did, and let us pre-pee. We bought iced decaf and headed out through the madness and back uptown. Of course, I never thought I'd see federal recognition of gay marriage in my lifetime; never thought I'd see all of New York City celebrating the rainbow nation; never thought I'd be able to walk from Christopher Street through the throngs to the hotel at 14th Street. But we did, with fireworks exploding in the sky behind us. With every blast we turned to watch, grinning and then walking on air up the street, shedding glitter and glee with every step. We're queer, we're still here, jeez, they got used to it.
T
ESTING
W
HETHER
T
HIS
N
ATION, OR ANY
N
ATION CAN
L
ONG
E
NDURE
If you think summer traffic at the beach is bad, think again. Yes, I know. It often seems you can gestate a baby in the time it takes to creep down Route One to Rehoboth Avenue, but it's nothing compared to my recent Battle of Bull Run on Route 66 in Virginia.
The world will little note, nor long remember what I say here, but oy, it was a mess! I went to visit an ailing friend one day, leaving Rehoboth at 3 p.m. on a Thursday, heading for that cradle of Civil War history, Manassas, VA. It was remarkably clear sailing to the Bay Bridge, then DC, oddly traffic-free through the Nation's Capital, despite it being 5:30 p.m. on a work day.
Then, picture this. Aggravation strikes in a caravan of brake lights at the start of Route 66 in Arlington. With 18 miles to go, I'm now rolling at between two and four mph, timed perfectly to arrive for tomorrow's breakfast. Robert E. Lee's whole Bull Run campaign didn't take this long.
It's agonizingly slow, but even the high occupancy lanes are wretchedly inert. Hah! Many drivers, determined to qualify for the HOV lane, pick up commuting strangers. It's bad enough cursing to myself in the car, but imagine enduring this motionless migration with a stranger making small talk. Torture!
Oh good, the guy behind me thinks honking for thirty seconds over Fairfax helps. Flipping him the bird is counterproductive; we'll be joined at the bumper for the rest of the war.
Now we're inching past the Virginia Firearms Museum. Can I get a gun and shoot myself? Likewise, the Manassas Antique show is touted on a billboard. My late model car will be ready for it when I arrive there. Splat, splat, splat, big floppy raindrops plummet, wipers scratching the windshield like fingernails on a blackboard. Brake lights flash on and off
like some code from aliens. Indeed, there is a close encounter of the fender kind one lane over. As we creep on, I picture Union soldiers with muskets, crawling on their bellies faster than this.
Close to two hours later I arrive at my destination in a sweaty frazzle, only to discover my friend, supposedly home from the hospital, is actually stranded in her daughter's overheating car at one of the Route 66 exits.
“Jump in my car, we'll go rescue them,” says her husband, “I'll take the overheating car to a garage and you can drive her home in this one.”
Back into battle? He's got to be kidding.
Sadly, no. We fight the second Battle of Bull Run, from Manassas back to Fairfax, literally crossing, once again, that winding waterway that ran red during the Civil War. We, meanwhile, see red as traffic still hasn't lessened, taking us another 80 minutes to go 14 miles. I think I saw Stonewall Jackson in the Subaru next to me.
We make it to Chantilly only to swap cars and passengers and reverse course. Even the War Between the States didn't have a third Bull Run battle.
It gets worse. Now I'm trapped in the back seat with a three and five year old who are behaving no better than most of the commuters imprisoned on Route 66. Among this confederacy of dunces, the kids throw shoes at mom and grandmom in the front seat, squeal, spit, hit each other and me, and I wonder if violence like this has broken out between those HOV drivers and their babbling strangers.
An excruciating hour passes, but we finally arrive back at my friend's home for the all-important two-hour visit. Her physical health is improved; my mental health, not so much. To avoid further angst, I choose not to get my kicks on Route 66 come morning but instead, head back to DC that night.
Holy Jefferson Davis, now there's road construction! If anything, the pace is even slower than the misnamed descriptor “rush hour” and more frustrating for its surprise.
Blinding work lights and a parade of traffic cones accompany the misery of retracing my steps along these Civil War battlefields. Margaret Mitchell didn't take this long to write
Gone With The Wind
.
I find a place to stay en route and in the morning calculate my escape to coincide with abated traffic.
Come the morning after, cruising at the speed limit, Bay Bridge bound in the rain, traffic suddenly halts near Annapolis. Too late to be the morning crush and too early for beach traffic, what the Robert E. Lee is this? Then, the rain becomes more of a thundering monsoon. Visibility drops to nothing, the bridge is enveloped in a hundred-year fog and fender benders ensue.
This gives rise to Maryland's take on brother against brother as uncivil war erupts. Drivers swerve on my left flank, cut each other off, jockey to get through Easy Pass and the bridge. Four freakin' miles take over an hour. I should be shot for having had the Starbucks Double-Shot coffee. My bladder is screaming as I search the front and back seats for a potential open container should the need arise. I clench my teeth and everything else. Inching along, I must now cede my position to the battalion behind me as I skulk off road to find a potty. Relief and an Egg McMuffin later, I am back in the crawling caravan.
Talk radio incites me. Music of the 80s makes me gag. Listening to the garbled AM radio announcement from the department of transportation is no help at all. I choose silence with the occasional honk and epithet.
Twelve miles takes two and a half more hours. Auuggghhh!!!!
By the time I get home to Delaware, the South could have risen again, So, too, my blood pressure. The trip back took five and a half hours before I was freed from my automobile. Yes, I emit a “Woo-Hoo!” as my (
here it comes
) emancipation proclamation.
For my trip to Virginia I sat in excruciating traffic for a full
dozen of the twenty-six hours I was gone. It didn't take Abraham Lincoln that long to ride in a horse and buggy from Washington to Gettysburg to deliver his Address.
Is Route One at its worst a piece of cake? You bet your sweet asphalt. This driver staying local is a more perfect union.