My uncle, a retired United States Marine Corps colonel, was buried last month at Arlington Cemetery with full military honors: five white horses pulling a caisson, Marine Corps band, Marines marching with rifles, a twenty-one gun salute, a flag-folding ritual and presentation to the widow - it was so impressive that before we knew what was going on, we wondered whether we had bumped up against another one of the thirty funerals held there each day. But it was all for my uncle.
After the graveside service, we conversed over small plates of food at the Fort Myer Officers' Club, where my cousin, his son, an Assistant U.S. Attorney, talked about how he fought in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam; how he landed a jet on an aircraft carrier over 400 times (138 of those in the dark); how he flew upside down over the treetops, craning his head backwards to watch the earth rush past, purely for the delight of it.
Another cousin, an oncologist and his younger daughter, talked about how he was a medical hero in that he put his life on the line to save his infant son by undergoing a new and risky surgical procedure. The child died, but the procedure would later prove to have paved the way for the very first open heart surgery. In the intimate and personal act of putting himself in danger for the sake of his child, he directly advanced the state of cardiac medicine.
My uncle is a hero to me for yet another reason. After World War II, people of Japanese descent met with prejudice and discrimination. As late as 1958, 96 percent of whites disapproved of interracial marriage, or miscegenation. And while there were no federal anti-miscegenation laws, 30 out of 48 states had their own. Virginia, where my uncle was stationed, had some of the strictest such laws, barring not just blacks but any non-whites from marrying whites.
My uncle, a big white Marine, married my mother's sister, a Japanese American, though they had to leave Virginia to seal the deal. In another intensely simple and personal act - loving the woman who became his wife - he may not have changed any laws, but he took a stand for the right to marry the one he loved and thus willfully threw himself into the unstoppable tide of civil rights progress. Obviously he loved her, but it took courage and a conviction of what was right to marry her.
Virginia would be one of the last states to remove its anti-miscegenation laws from its books with the 1967 Supreme Court decision of Loving v. Virginia. (South Carolina didn't remove their defunct laws until 1998, and Alabama took until 2000.)
Fast forward to the present: a sizable (though steadily decreasing) portion of Americans oppose same-sex marriage. The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), prohibiting the marriage of any same-sex couple, was signed into Federal law during the Clinton (I) Administration. Thirty-six states have enacted their own legislation prohibiting same-sex marriage, and 26 have added such amendments to their state constitutions. Virginia, where I live, has some of the most draconian laws on the books, prohibiting not only marriage, but civil unions, domestic partnerships, and all contracts purporting to provide the same benefits as marriage, between two people of the same sex.
It may take 50 more years or maybe even 100, but eventually same-sex marriage will be as common - and as legal - as interracial marriage is today. I consider my uncle part of the reason for the change in interracial marriage, and I look to him for inspiration to continue the fight for my civil rights.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Free D.C.
No, that's not a protest slogan, it's a descriptive phrase. Today my partner and I had a little time to kill before an afternoon soiree, so we walked across D.C. to the recently re-opened National Portrait Gallery/Museum of American Art, a duo of attached Smithsonian museums that closed for six years while undergoing extensive renovations. We saw "new" acquisitions (works added to the collection over the six years of closure), including a startlingly dramatic full-length portrait of Denyce Graves, the hometown mezzo-soprano now world-renowned for her debut in the lead role in Carmen and her elegant, colorful voice. The brilliant reds in her dress were so bright, you could swear the lights in the painting were actually electrified. I took special interest in the pictures of writers such as Bernard Malamud, Gore Vidal, and John Updike.
Twenty-five portraits of former Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, painted by both professional and amateur artists, hung in one room. Another had recent works of current entertainment celebrities like David Letterman and Whoopi Goldberg. On the other side, new works of American art hung on the walls or from the ceiling or stood on the floors.
Being in the new-again museums renewed my appreciation for the accessibility of some of the greatest collections of art in the country, as well as for the historical artifacts, textiles, and even biological life in all the other Smithsonian museums in Washington - all an easy Metro ride away, at no cost of admission. I may be tired of the traffic congestion, weary of the continued rant over race relations, and jaded from the insane real estate market and shifting demographics of our neighborhood, but some of the best things in life are still in Washington, and they make living here a joy and privilege.
Twenty-five portraits of former Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, painted by both professional and amateur artists, hung in one room. Another had recent works of current entertainment celebrities like David Letterman and Whoopi Goldberg. On the other side, new works of American art hung on the walls or from the ceiling or stood on the floors.
Being in the new-again museums renewed my appreciation for the accessibility of some of the greatest collections of art in the country, as well as for the historical artifacts, textiles, and even biological life in all the other Smithsonian museums in Washington - all an easy Metro ride away, at no cost of admission. I may be tired of the traffic congestion, weary of the continued rant over race relations, and jaded from the insane real estate market and shifting demographics of our neighborhood, but some of the best things in life are still in Washington, and they make living here a joy and privilege.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Senator Larry Craig (R-ID) Chastises Bill Clinton
Ah, what are the dog days of August in Washington, D.C. without a juicy Congressional sex scandal? My first reaction to Senator Craig's bathroom "incident" mess, in which he pleaded guilty to sending clear signals that he wanted sex from an undercover police officer and is now vociferously denying any such behavior, was pure amusement. Here was another high-and-mighty, self-righteous Republican Member of Congress, claiming to have cornered the market on morality (whatever that means) and having worked hard against the gay civil rights movement - caught with his pants down, literally. "I'm not gay," he insisted. "I don't hit on men..." Okay, what do you call looking for sex in a men's room??
Once I finished laughing, I remembered how much I long for the good ol' days, when the biggest problem this nation had was an elected official (the President, I know) getting a little too randy with an intern. I think most people on both sides of the aisle would agree that Senator Craig exercised poor judgment and behaved in an unbecoming manner for the dignified office of United States Senator. But again we are faced with the question of what effect one's private sexual behavior has on one's ability to be of use in public service. Granted, an airport men's room isn't exactly private, but it goes to the larger question. On that count, my reaction is similar to the reaction the Europeans had to Monicagate - basically, "So what?"
But I know the real question is how effective one can continue to be, once people write you off as a pariah, especially those who only yesterday were your comrades. And in that sense, the Senator is probably finished, the same way former Senator George Allen (R-VA) immediately lost all credibility at one sunny picnic, where he called a man of East Indian extraction from the opposing camp a "macaca," or monkey, and later claimed to have made up the word.
When all the blather fades, the elephant sits obstinately in the middle of the room. Homosexuality, while increasingly tolerated in recent years, is still a polarizing issue, and as long as gay men and women fear discrimination, ostracism, and worse, some will continue to hide in the closet, putting on the show everyone expects them to put on and acting out only when they feel anonymous - though sadly enough, those are usually the very situations in which they are not unseen.
From what I've heard, Larry Craig had a conservative upbringing, comes from a conservative state, and has probably wrestled with his sexual orientation all his life, making decisions which advanced his career, earned him respect and admiration from his constituency and peers, and made him privately miserable. He is in his sixties, and after fighting his demons for several decades, obviously does not now -- and probably never will -- feel it is safe to come out.
The Senate Republicans will be fine, as will all Idahoans. What we don't know today is how Larry Craig will deal with his inevitable ouster and whether he will be able to come to terms with his sexuality and many years of loneliness and denial, all brought to a head under public floodlights. Nor do we know what will happen to his family (wife, three adopted children, and nine grandchildren), presumably full of years-old boomeranging questions, confusion, and anger. Yes, Senator Craig is responsible for his own downfall. But a sixty-two-year-old man who still hasn't found a way to accept himself is no laughing matter.
Once I finished laughing, I remembered how much I long for the good ol' days, when the biggest problem this nation had was an elected official (the President, I know) getting a little too randy with an intern. I think most people on both sides of the aisle would agree that Senator Craig exercised poor judgment and behaved in an unbecoming manner for the dignified office of United States Senator. But again we are faced with the question of what effect one's private sexual behavior has on one's ability to be of use in public service. Granted, an airport men's room isn't exactly private, but it goes to the larger question. On that count, my reaction is similar to the reaction the Europeans had to Monicagate - basically, "So what?"
But I know the real question is how effective one can continue to be, once people write you off as a pariah, especially those who only yesterday were your comrades. And in that sense, the Senator is probably finished, the same way former Senator George Allen (R-VA) immediately lost all credibility at one sunny picnic, where he called a man of East Indian extraction from the opposing camp a "macaca," or monkey, and later claimed to have made up the word.
When all the blather fades, the elephant sits obstinately in the middle of the room. Homosexuality, while increasingly tolerated in recent years, is still a polarizing issue, and as long as gay men and women fear discrimination, ostracism, and worse, some will continue to hide in the closet, putting on the show everyone expects them to put on and acting out only when they feel anonymous - though sadly enough, those are usually the very situations in which they are not unseen.
From what I've heard, Larry Craig had a conservative upbringing, comes from a conservative state, and has probably wrestled with his sexual orientation all his life, making decisions which advanced his career, earned him respect and admiration from his constituency and peers, and made him privately miserable. He is in his sixties, and after fighting his demons for several decades, obviously does not now -- and probably never will -- feel it is safe to come out.
The Senate Republicans will be fine, as will all Idahoans. What we don't know today is how Larry Craig will deal with his inevitable ouster and whether he will be able to come to terms with his sexuality and many years of loneliness and denial, all brought to a head under public floodlights. Nor do we know what will happen to his family (wife, three adopted children, and nine grandchildren), presumably full of years-old boomeranging questions, confusion, and anger. Yes, Senator Craig is responsible for his own downfall. But a sixty-two-year-old man who still hasn't found a way to accept himself is no laughing matter.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye
One by one, the faces display on the screen for several silent, unapologetic seconds. We read their ages and hometowns and study their expressions. It is sad. Maddening. Outrageous. Not because of where they were or what they were doing there. Because most of them were under thirty. Because a great many had only been legal for a couple years. Because some were not even old enough to vote for those who would send them off to die in service to their country - when they had hardly even begun to live.
On PBS's News Hour, Jim Lehrer posts the photos of U.S. servicemen and -women "as their deaths become official," pausing in the program to give tribute to these young soldiers, and it is in these soundless minutes that the human cost of war becomes real to me. Those daily statistics that numb my mind take on flesh and blood and remind me of the the decades that will never be lived, the dreams that will never take shape, the tragedy of loss for so many back home.
My nephew graduated from college three years ago. He is in his first apartment. He weathered his first job. He survived his first car breakdown and major repair bill. He is now beginning the next phase in his life. And most of the people whose pictures flash by every few nights are younger than he is now.
So every time another round of photos appears on the screen, my partner and I stop eating dinner or reading the mail, and we honor the latest soldiers to die overseas, far from their families and the country they loved. We take note of those whose hometowns are nearby, and we imagine what their families are going through. And we wait until the last photo fades out, because we have the time.
On PBS's News Hour, Jim Lehrer posts the photos of U.S. servicemen and -women "as their deaths become official," pausing in the program to give tribute to these young soldiers, and it is in these soundless minutes that the human cost of war becomes real to me. Those daily statistics that numb my mind take on flesh and blood and remind me of the the decades that will never be lived, the dreams that will never take shape, the tragedy of loss for so many back home.
My nephew graduated from college three years ago. He is in his first apartment. He weathered his first job. He survived his first car breakdown and major repair bill. He is now beginning the next phase in his life. And most of the people whose pictures flash by every few nights are younger than he is now.
So every time another round of photos appears on the screen, my partner and I stop eating dinner or reading the mail, and we honor the latest soldiers to die overseas, far from their families and the country they loved. We take note of those whose hometowns are nearby, and we imagine what their families are going through. And we wait until the last photo fades out, because we have the time.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Tempus Fugit
Today my partner and a friend and I went hiking in the Shenandoah National Park. After a stretch of several days in the 90s with high humidity and even reaching 103 one day, the cool, clean air up on Skyline Drive was invigorating. (So much so that we had to buy long-sleeved T-shirts in the gift shop.) The trail that we took starts up off Skyline Drive and goes downhill, so when you turn around, you hike uphill to go back to the parking lot.
(This is a waterfall, seen from the trail high above it. If you look closely, you can see a man standing near the edge at right center. The rocks at the bottom of the picture are the edge of a sheer drop-off of at least 100 feet. I almost peed in my pants a couple times, standing there taking pictures.)
On the way back I heard footsteps not far behind us. I detected that the people, a man and woman probably ten years younger than us, would soon want to pass, and it made me feel suddenly old. I always passed other people; they did not pass me. Eventually, though, I could deny it no longer: there were younger people who had more stamina than me. I stepped aside and allowed them to go by. And I watched as they got smaller and smaller up the mountain.
Last month, my partner turned 50. Another decade passed. It had everyone asking, and me thinking, of course, about my own slide towards that number, and how I'll be one click closer in a couple months. It hardly seems possible; I've only recently become used to being in my 40s.
When I look at my friends, though, I see that many - or maybe even most - people don't look or seem to feel their age. Thing is, we are used to thinking of our parents at this age, and - good God! - we can't possibly be that old yet, can we? When actually, this is us now, not our parents, and we're normal people in middle age. So maybe it's not that any given number is "old," whatever that means, and maybe our parents felt exactly the same way at this age, wondering how they could have reached middle age when they didn't FEEL that old yet.
Age is just a construct, anyway, since we don't suddenly get one year older on one particular day each year. We are in a constant state of aging very gradually.
So what else can you do but just try to keep up with the march of time? And taking on a hiking trail of moderate difficulty was a fun way to do that.
And that couple that passed us on the way back up? When they reached the parking lot, we were just five yards behind them.
(This is a waterfall, seen from the trail high above it. If you look closely, you can see a man standing near the edge at right center. The rocks at the bottom of the picture are the edge of a sheer drop-off of at least 100 feet. I almost peed in my pants a couple times, standing there taking pictures.)
On the way back I heard footsteps not far behind us. I detected that the people, a man and woman probably ten years younger than us, would soon want to pass, and it made me feel suddenly old. I always passed other people; they did not pass me. Eventually, though, I could deny it no longer: there were younger people who had more stamina than me. I stepped aside and allowed them to go by. And I watched as they got smaller and smaller up the mountain.
Last month, my partner turned 50. Another decade passed. It had everyone asking, and me thinking, of course, about my own slide towards that number, and how I'll be one click closer in a couple months. It hardly seems possible; I've only recently become used to being in my 40s.
When I look at my friends, though, I see that many - or maybe even most - people don't look or seem to feel their age. Thing is, we are used to thinking of our parents at this age, and - good God! - we can't possibly be that old yet, can we? When actually, this is us now, not our parents, and we're normal people in middle age. So maybe it's not that any given number is "old," whatever that means, and maybe our parents felt exactly the same way at this age, wondering how they could have reached middle age when they didn't FEEL that old yet.
Age is just a construct, anyway, since we don't suddenly get one year older on one particular day each year. We are in a constant state of aging very gradually.
So what else can you do but just try to keep up with the march of time? And taking on a hiking trail of moderate difficulty was a fun way to do that.
And that couple that passed us on the way back up? When they reached the parking lot, we were just five yards behind them.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Bridge of Sighs
Living in Sanford Hall at the University of Minnesota in the early 80's, I used to vacillate on cold winter nights between walking into the heart of campus to catch the warm shuttle across the river to West Bank, knowing I might miss one and have to sit in the bus shelter for ten minutes, and just going the other way and hoofing it across the 10th Avenue bridge, a long, high bridge which exposed me to frigid winds, high-speed traffic, and an endless view of the shiny, black Mississippi. In the fall and spring, the very same walk was a treat, allowing me indulgent views of a verdant riverbank and sparkling river as I made my way to and from classes.
Not much further down, a small railroad bridge also spanned the gap between East and West Banks. I remember debates on the safety of walking across that bridge instead; obviously there were no railings or walkways, but had anyone ever actually seen a train on it? I decided to walk across it at least once before graduating but never did.
Last week, when I heard the 35W bridge had collapsed, I quickly looked it up on the map and couldn't believe it: that was the bridge running parallel to the 10th Avenue bridge I had walked across so many times as a student. I had a flash of yearning, a homing instinct, similar, I imagined, to how New Yorkers travelling in Europe felt on 9/11. I took inventory of my friends in Minnesota, trying to think if any would normally be in that area during rush hour, and started calling.
Some of Shelly's staff used the bridge regularly. Lizanne's daughter, a sophomore at the U, had driven across it earlier that day. Both Mary and Karl drove that route regularly, and Karl, leaving work early that day, had crossed the bridge forty-five minutes before it collapsed. Karen's sister was on it twenty minutes before. Frighteningly close calls, but no tragic news.
All the old cliches come to mind: "Live each day as if it's your last," "You never know when it's your time," "Hug your children/spouse/relative and tell them you love them," "Treat everyone as if it's the last time you'll see them." Sayings that elicit eye-rolling in better times, days that are not so sobering. Sometimes, though, trite rings true.
Not much further down, a small railroad bridge also spanned the gap between East and West Banks. I remember debates on the safety of walking across that bridge instead; obviously there were no railings or walkways, but had anyone ever actually seen a train on it? I decided to walk across it at least once before graduating but never did.
Last week, when I heard the 35W bridge had collapsed, I quickly looked it up on the map and couldn't believe it: that was the bridge running parallel to the 10th Avenue bridge I had walked across so many times as a student. I had a flash of yearning, a homing instinct, similar, I imagined, to how New Yorkers travelling in Europe felt on 9/11. I took inventory of my friends in Minnesota, trying to think if any would normally be in that area during rush hour, and started calling.
Some of Shelly's staff used the bridge regularly. Lizanne's daughter, a sophomore at the U, had driven across it earlier that day. Both Mary and Karl drove that route regularly, and Karl, leaving work early that day, had crossed the bridge forty-five minutes before it collapsed. Karen's sister was on it twenty minutes before. Frighteningly close calls, but no tragic news.
All the old cliches come to mind: "Live each day as if it's your last," "You never know when it's your time," "Hug your children/spouse/relative and tell them you love them," "Treat everyone as if it's the last time you'll see them." Sayings that elicit eye-rolling in better times, days that are not so sobering. Sometimes, though, trite rings true.
Monday, August 6, 2007
A Blog Is Born
I can think of no better seminal event for a new writing venture than a workshop at the University of Iowa's Summer Writing Festival (ISWF). Iowa's MFA program in Creative Writing is the oldest in the country and has long been regarded as the best. The workshop method is, in fact, thought to have started at Iowa. So I had great expectations as I flew over the cornfields at the beginning of my week in Iowa City, the final one of the twenty-first annual ISWF.
I joined eleven other writers, all working on novels, memoirs, or other long manuscripts, in learning techniques to help us survive the arduous and sometimes emotional process of revision. Through daily assignments, class critiques and discussion, and talking over morning coffee or long into the night over a "bambino" gelato or a cocktail, we not only found new ways of seeing our work and making it crackle, but also discovered personal connections that enriched our experience far beyond the catalog description.
After a week of immersion in writing, books, future dreams, and some incredible and fascinating new friends, I left Iowa City, reluctant to return to responsibilities and routine but full of hope and new expectations. This novella, whether it blossoms into a novel or is pruned down to a long short story - or remains a novella, publishing be damned - will get finished.
Oh, and about my blog: the title refers to the three main elements of my identity. "Murasaki" is Japanese for "purple." Now you have it.
I joined eleven other writers, all working on novels, memoirs, or other long manuscripts, in learning techniques to help us survive the arduous and sometimes emotional process of revision. Through daily assignments, class critiques and discussion, and talking over morning coffee or long into the night over a "bambino" gelato or a cocktail, we not only found new ways of seeing our work and making it crackle, but also discovered personal connections that enriched our experience far beyond the catalog description.
After a week of immersion in writing, books, future dreams, and some incredible and fascinating new friends, I left Iowa City, reluctant to return to responsibilities and routine but full of hope and new expectations. This novella, whether it blossoms into a novel or is pruned down to a long short story - or remains a novella, publishing be damned - will get finished.
Oh, and about my blog: the title refers to the three main elements of my identity. "Murasaki" is Japanese for "purple." Now you have it.
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