You say 'tomato'. Now what the hell do I say?

Leaving Sydney

It's been 6 months now since I upped-sticks and moved here to San Francisco.

Acclimatising to a new domestic set-up, a new city, and a new country has presented some pretty significant challenges: job, visa, and moving-in with my partner amongst them. But there has also been a raft of low-key obstacles that clutter the day - small daily decisions that only become conscious when the tried & tested options are no-longer there.  My first trip to the supermarket is a bewildering set of choices -  I spend 10-minutes hypnotized in the Personal Care aisle, having to consciously think about the brand of deodorant I should choose, for the first time in years. And there are hundreds of these choices involved in setting-up a completely new day-to-day existence: Which bank to choose? Where is the best place for a no-fuss Saturday brunch? Where to get a haircut? How do you get the doors of the bus to open when it's your stop? How do you KNOW when it's your stop...?

And then, depressingly and predictably, there's the stuff that just doesn't seem to work anywhere, regardless of how much time & effort you invest. Getting a driving licence (or, I should say, a 'driver license') has been a royal pain in the arse. Three office visits and an hour-and-a-half on hold....and counting.

But - hey - a few bits of frustrating paper-chase, and the occasional missed bus stop. A heavy price to pay for being able to respond (and I still have a little mental fist-pump when I say it), when people ask where I live  - "I live in San Francisco".

It always was a special relationship

Having got beyond the first 'getting-to-know-you' hurdles - the new city equivalent of finding-out how many siblings San Francisco has, his favorite movie and what he studied in college - I'm now starting to find-out the tell-tale signs that show that San Francisco and I are going steady.

I know all the MUNI stops on my commute in to work, so can actually relax (AKA bury my face in my iPhone) like all the normal commuters, without having to verify at each stop that it isn't my stop.

I have a Giants baseball cap - but more significantly - I have an unnatural fascination with Brian Wilson's beard. (But did you know it has its own Facebook page and Twitter profile?)


Don't ask why


But these little 'badges of belonging' are all for naught when I open my mouth. I'm betrayed by a vowel.

It seems that many of the locals that I meet are already somewhat challenged by my accent. I've had as many guesses for Australia and New Zealand, as I have had for the UK. But it's clear that the accent does set me apart, for better or worse.

Now I could go into another entire post about the connotations of what being British is about (OK, so the Queen, "snaggle teeth" and warm beer are frequent mentions)....but it's obvious that a British accent itself creates a certain impression. I quickly got used to people telling me how it would be the key to getting a foot-in-the-door with a potential employer. And I'm frequently counselled to keep from losing it. So, what's the deal?

As the mellifluous Stephen Fry (who credits his own cut-glass accent to having vocal cords made of tweed) puts it, "I sometimes wonder if Americans aren't fooled by our accent into detecting a brilliance that may not really be there". Now, I myself (unlike Mr Fry), would never assume that the Americans I meet attribute my brilliance to just my accent....

....but I've yet to experience any of the reported benefits of having such a (supposedly charming) speaking voice (nope, no jumping the line at hard-to-get-into restaurants or being able to sweet-talk traffic cops into tearing-up speeding tickets, as reported in this great summary from (natch!) the BBC)

I have to accept, the number of times that my accent is commented upon and referred to in favourable terms would suggest that losing it would mean losing something that paints me in a good light, and sets me somewhat apart from others in my field.

So, why is it that recently I've been catching myself making the most ridiculous vocal contortions that have no relation to my 'normal' accent, and barely any to the native accent of my new home?

I'm conscious that there are certainly some times when I can sense myself flattening-out those vowels and reining-back on the apologetic, bumbling Hugh-Grant caricature of a British man. Like squeezing my way onto a bus in The Mission or buying a beer in SoMa. Times when I just wanna get on with things without drawing attention to myself. Slip under the radar.

Other times I find myself adapting my vocabulary to make it easier to get the message across. Every Brit has expeditiously translated 'loo' to 'restroom', and potentially 'rubbish bin' to 'trash can'. I've been walking on the 'sidewalk' (rather than 'pavement') for a while...

But have I crossed the rubicon my recent verbal confusion? It's confession time: I'm have been having some impure thoughts and unclean vocalizations. I have allowed "process" to pass my lips with a short 'o' (as in 'hot') rather than a long one (as in 'gold'). And, during the dark night of the soul, I may have had a similar slip with the word 'progress'.

SO, thank goodness for this article in the Economist, to give me a map to chart my descent. I'd better 'sKedule' a 'CONtroversy' when I start talking drinking 'waaaderr' rather than 'waughteh'...

But, if it's not about covertly slipping my Britishness under the radar, or even just being better understood, what's going on? It might just be that I'd quite like to belong... Just please don't let me sound like Madonna.

The aches & growing pains of homosexual softball

I'd forgotten this feeling. It's been a while since I played a softball tournament. But after 7 games in two days, a few too many celebratory beers at the end of the competition, and a v-e-r-y early start to get to the airport... I'm absolutely knackered. The legs are like lead, I've a nice knee-scrape from a kamikaze slide into third base, and that suspect achilles tendon has flared-up, so I'm hobbling around like a lame donkey.


Cheesy, I know, but the physical bumps and aches are easily forgotten when thinking back on the high-points of the weekend. We took a bunch of people, most of whom had never played together, and ended-up as a team. A proper bloody team that won quite a few games. It fits the template for every Hollywood sports movie ever made. And I'm a total sucker for it. We didn't quite manage to close-out the 'triumph over adversity' denouement by coming from behind with some last-ditch heroics in the last gasp of the final - but we did manage a respectable 4 knock-out rounds, and had some of our own cinematic moments on the way (chief amongst these was our plucky 5'2" shortstop managing to out-fox the captain of the biggest beariest team with an inspired bait & switch: a shout of "he's going home!!", a fake throw and a lightning turn to tag him out as he left the bag. Even his own team were yelling with glee: "SHE GOT YOU!! SHE GOT YOU!!" and we're all whooping and hollering.

Not only were we a scratch-team made-good. But we really were a rag-tag bunch too. A men's team with three women; we were black, white, latino, asian; aged from 20s to 50s, people raised in Taiwan, Mexico, Nicaragua, El Salvador, as well as Denver, Florida, California, and Wales. Another way that the team pushed my Hollywood buttons...I'm a sucker for Team Rainbow :-)

It also reminded my that - as a community - we can let the rainbow get a little monochrome sometimes. 

What makes a gay softball tournament a gay softball tournament? There's little on the surface to make it obvious. You have to keep an eye-open for the occasional over-zealous bedazzler action on uniforms, the slightly higher-pitched squeal of delight at a masterfully-turned double-play, or the team who are suspiciously coordinated: the exact same beer-belly, bushy beard, and baseball pants all-round. But for 90% of the participants, I'm sure it's the no-judgement atmosphere and the ability to hang-out with "like-minded individuals" that makes these gay softball tournaments so popular. 

So, what happens when we're so successful with our fun, non-judgemental, but still competitive softball tournaments that the straights want to join in? 

Do we start excluding them, on the basis of our own sense of exclusion from the straight world? Our retained sense of High School stigma? Did we create our 'safe spaces' to be safe? Or inclusive? 

In the States, this issue has come to its natural conclusion: quotas on straight players in gay teams. 

This article in the NY Times explores the issue: Three Straights and You're Out in Gay Softball League.

So sad. Gay softball isn't 'Homosexual Softball'. It's value lies not in the strict definition of the sexual practices of the participants ("Don't like cock, Mr? You're OUT!") and more in the cultural definition of what 'being gay' is all about. And surely that's about playing softball with people who don't judge. 

My take is that a safe space for softball is all about playing a sport we love, with people who don't judge us for our behaviour on or off the field. And there are plenty of straight "allies" who are EXACTLY the kind of people who I want to have on my team. And plenty of gay people who I'd rather weren't. So - for me - this isn't "gay softball" - it's friendly softball. And anyone who gets-off on that kinda action plays on MY team!

A paean to my Raiders family

When I lived in London, a large part of my social-life was built-around my softball club: The London Raiders.

Being a Brit, and never having played the game during my school years, the decision to take-up softball might be considered a strange one. After all, I had a modicum of ability and experience with other sports that are more traditionally 'British' - and enjoy much higher levels of participation and better  facilities than softball.

Over the years, I talked to lots of new Raiders, and heard lots of stories as to how they ended-up joining the club. My story has elements in common with many others. 

I had already been in London for a couple of years, having moved from Oxford to be closer to my boyfriend, and to fulfill the expectation - that so many young gay guys have - that they'll spend some time living in the Big Smoke.

However, after a couple of years, the gloss of London had worn thin - I was getting weary of the partying and over 'the scene'. And I was yearning to find some friends of my own, and to forge a social life that didn't revolve around the friends that my boyfriend and I had in common. 

And that's where softball - and the Raiders came in.

In my first few sessions, it became clear that softball in the Raiders was about two things. And softball was a clear second. "The Raiders are a drinking club with a softball problem" was an oft-quoted mantra.

But that wasn't really the nub of it. The thing that really drew me in - and stopped softball from befalling the fate of so many other of my 'flavours of the month' - was that it was genuinely, and shockingly, friendly. And to a jaded, and ever-so-slightly cynical me - that was revelatory. People who would say hi. People who take an interest in who you are. People who would give you the time to practice your swing or your throw or patiently explain the infield fly rule, and when you should and when you shouldn't take a few steps off the base... 

And, of course, it quickly became more than that. The Raiders become not only my sunny Sunday afternoons, but quickly my Tuesday night practice, my Friday night boozing and bitching session, my Saturday morning early start to stumble to the station and get to the tournament...

...and with spending so much time with this bunch of people, I started to make friendships that were founded on a game, but ended-up being so much more than that. 

So, on a recent trip back to London, it was an absolute treat to be able to spend the day with a bunch of Raiders at the Diamond 3 tournament, catch-up on old friends, and get to play a couple of games - to prove that I still had it in me!

Now one of my oldest and greatest friends from the Raiders, recently (and very eloquently) took me to task about the post I wrote about Gay Pride here in San Francisco... and contrasted my experience of Pride here, with his day with the Raiders at London Pride. It made me sit-up and take note that I was, indeed, being a little churlish. So, as a counterpoint to my pessimistic tone about Pride, here are some of the the things to L-O-V-E about the Raiders and about the possibilities of real community in the Gay Community.


Open to all
Nobody has to be invited into the club. You don't have to 'make the grade'. There are no entry criteria, no judgements on your ability (or lack of it) and no implicit standards around how you need to look or act to fit in. Being genuinely and transparently 'open to all' is so rare. For me - like many - the experience of team sports is so coloured by memories of highschool PE lessons, where the sports-field was a trial of popularity and physical prowess.  In the Raiders, there are clearly differences between ability - but there is no pecking order. Sway in the club not dictated by play on the field.

Sport for all

This isn't to say that it's not about The Game. That's what binds the club together. You have to love softball. But what allows everyone to feel an equal 'ownership' of the game (and the club) is that equal importance given to delivering a meaningful softball experience to everyone. The club is not in existence to support the first team. Or, indeed, to cater just for the needs of the beginners in the development squad. The club tries (and to the most part delivers - although in this area one can most feel the seams of the rainbow straining) to give a highly competitive offer for those that want it - and a more recreational softball experience for others. And the two can (and should) support and feed each other.

Competitive and Recreational

And for me, that strength in depth of competitive and recreational softball is a key pillar of the club. I loved doing both. It's great to play at the highest level, slug it out with the competitive teams, focus on performing. And it's great to play beerball, have a laugh, play with a bunch of new people, have fun. Cheer each other on. Delight in each other's success. Having the biggest back-up group. EVER.

LGBT (the mindset, not the label)

Most people (I think) come to the Raiders not just because it's a friendly place to play softball. But it's a friendly place to play softball with other LGBT people. (This is definitely going to form the basis of another post around what makes Raiders an LGBT club - and what that means for the composition of the club)...but in the wider community in London I love the fact that the Raiders are carrying that rainbow flag. Years ago, it was all a bit of a joke (cue sniggers and the occasional snide remark from the straight teams that we played in the GLMSL). But over the years, our strength in numbers added to our impact in the softball community, have meant that the Raiders are an important and valued component of softball in the UK. People tend to snigger less. And they're more used to getting beaten by an LGBT team. The fact that - as the largest LGBT softball club in Europe - the Raiders walk in the London Pride march and play in the Gay Games /  Out Games is important. Our size and history give us an important role in being visible within the wider sporting world. Some of the stories from the early founding of the club are fascinating, but the history of the club is a microcosm of the history of the gay community in London. Many don't know that the 80s pop icon (and gay liberation campaigner) Jimmy Sommerville played a crucial role in the founding of the club!

The club that plays together stays together

Providing all those opportunities to play softball is one thing. But the thing that really makes The Raiders special is what happens off the field. For me, The Raiders were a ready-made softballing, socialising, LGBT London family. I LOVED how it was so easy to fit-in, become a part of the gang, and gain a sense of belonging. I think there's a melancholy in many LGBT people - we set ourselves apart as young adults, so keenly feeling our difference from the mainstream. So, the allure of really being part of a gang is so strong. 

Strength from diversity

Having grown-up in small communities (I only lived in small villages until I went away to University aged 18) I'm very conscious that the bigger population, the more people fracture into smaller sub-groups. So, for a gay guy in San Francisco, there are so many sub-cultures that I actually don't encounter at all. Never have I lived anywhere where my social circle is comprised of people who LOOK so much like me. Kinda frightening. Whereas, as a kid, I grew-up in schools where (with 40 people in your year group) you HAD to at least rub-along with everyone. It was just too small for sub-groups to function. And that made me realise how interesting it can be when you can't choose your friends. They're just the people that you have to hang-out with. The Raiders are a little like that. It's a melting pot of gay men and women, new gays/old gays, rich/poor, fat/thin, hirsuite/hairless, young/old, parents/childless.....and I think that makes the club stronger. I mean, I don't know how else I would have become friends with Malaysian [correction: Singaporean] lesbian doctors with babies, canadian social-psycologist drag-queens, Kiwi lady PE teachers.....you get the idea. 

So, as I start the new Fall season here in San Francisco....London Raiders, I salute you! 

My sauna quandary

I love saunas. Always have. The way the heat works its way into your bones, how it compels you to relax, the feel of "sweating it out". It's a treat to allow myself that time to just sit and let the sauna work on me. I guess it's a similar to the way that some people love to soak in the bath.

I think I inherited my love of super-high-temperatures from my Dad. During my childhood, we'd occasionally get to stay in a 'posh hotel', often as a result of my Dad's work schedule - and we'd all gleefully avail ourselves of the leisure facilities - much to the po-faced disgust of the fare-paying regulars, dismayed at the sight of a young family invading their sanctuary. After goofing around in the pool, we'd always try the sauna, and my Dad would outlast us all, emerging victorious with a grin and a rosy glow.

All fine and good and wholesome. But saunas have always had that 'nudge, nudge, wink, wink' suggestion of something that's not quite 'proper'. How can saunas be above-board and respectable when there's all that exposed flesh?!

But when you overlap 'sauna' with 'gay', there's a whole new dynamic. Benny Hill becomes sexual bacchanalia.

Now, I for one, am not going to get prudish about the jubilant expression of same-sex desire.

After all, most of us (of that persuasion) have had to endure long adolescences (and more!) where the options for expressing those desires were few and far between. No wonder we want to go a little crazy, reveling in the freedom to Get. On. Down when the constraints are lifted. We're the proverbial kids in the candy store.

I guess, in times of yore, when the gays weren't Gays, they were just Men Who Have Sex With Men. And MSMs tended to find other MSMs hanging-out in single-sex environments, where clothes were less constricting....hence the role that cottages / tea-rooms / beats / bathhouses / saunas / swimming ponds played in the early expression of same-sex desire, and the nascent development of a cultural identity around 'the love that dared not speak its name'.

But for those of us lucky enough to live in the isolated havens of gay liberation (like San Francisco, London or Sydney) however, things have moved-on. The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name is now grown confident enough to be The Love That Shouts About It From The Rooftops. And many are the opportunities for exuberant expression of our same-sex desire.

Hallelulah and gaymen to all that. It's progress. And what we fought for.

So. Here's the rub. I enjoy going to the gym at a (predominantly) gay gym in San Francisco. I prefer it. There's none of the testosterone fuelled-swagger that you get from the guys in most straight gyms. Of course, there is a clear 'pecking-order' from the hottest, buffest gym god down to the lowliest skinniest (or chubbiest) wheezing whimps. But, there's a cameraderie and lack of bravado that I like.

But.

I can't use the sauna. Well, I *CAN*. But to feel comfortable, I have to do it outside the peak hours of 4-7pm. Why? Well, it's a gay space. And at those times, a critical mass of horniness is reached. And suddenly we're back to bacchanalia. You know those gays. They're Up For It 24-7. Can't get enough of it. Can't help it. Untrammeled Martini homo-sex.

And so I can't just sit and sweat - because there's more than relaxation on the minds of most of the sauna users.

Now. My first reaction was a Hugh Grant-esque British bumbling apology. "Ah! Sorry! You want to, erm...jerk-off! Yes. Of course. Excuse me, didn't mean to - erm - intrude. Carry-on! I'll just, erm, I'll just erm. Leave. Sorry". I didn't want to spoil their fun by being a kill-joy, not wanting to participate and not wanting to 'rain on their parade', so I just - ahem - withdrew.

But, now I'm getting peeved. I pay good money to use a gym, and all of the facilities that it provides. There are PLENTY of places to get off in San Francisco - I mean, the town is chock

full of backrooms, pick-up joints, porn theatres and other venues that are explicitly designed for sex-on-the-premises. And it's not like we don't have a multitude of online possibilities. (I have no problem with people cruising Grindr in the changing rooms, which I see quite frequently...) As for people who like to smoke...please use the smoking section. For those who like to play, please use the designated 'play areas'.

Questions:

1. Am I being a prude?

2. Am I being unfair? They were there first...shouldn't they be allowed to carry on?

3. Does being gay mean that free-wheeling sexual expression is the norm?

4. If I go to a gay gym, is that just 'par for the course'?

In Pride we trust?

It's a very grey, rainy Tuesday morning here in San Francisco. In fact, the downpour hasn't slowed in the past three hours. The cloud is low - and from up here in Twin Peaks, all I can see of the skyscrapers in downtown San Francisco are a few shrouded silhouettes, lost in the mist.

It's a world away from the sun and rainbows and warmth of this weekend's festivities: the 41st annual San Francisco Pride Celebration & Parade.

Now I'm a veteran of more than a handful of Gay Pride celebrations: my Pride cherry was popped back in London in 1993. At the time, Pride in London was still a relatively youthful and vocal 21 year old, whilst I was 19; wide-eyed and impressionable. And I loved that experience. I was awestruck by our sheer numbers, and made giddy by the feeling of strength that came from that. I loved the sense of camaraderie and shared celebration. It was something that I'd never experienced before - and I just lapped it up.

And since then I've done bite-sized and bucolic (Oxford), brassy and boozy (Manchester), slick and staged (Sydney) - and so I was looking forward to experiencing the daddy of gay prides here in San Francisco... which (along with New York) has been around the longest of all.

And, you know what? Rather than enjoying the confidence and maturity of the best years of your life, this 41 year old is having a bit of a mid-life crisis. Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want out of life?

And watching someone deal with their midlife crisis is never a pretty sight...

The Parade itself was a muddle of competing and contradictory niche causes: the Pink Pistols (a gay gun shooters group) armed with sex-toys, under a banner of "Rubber toys don't stop bad boys" (What the fuck?) followed by

pacifist lesbian vegetarians, gay christians walking in a march with gay humanists, our stridently independent Dykes on Bikes leading a parade that behind them includes women in bridles and

reins, pulling their men behind them in carts, whilst being swatted with riding crops. I can feel the most tenuous of rainbow threads between these groups straining to hold things together.

I mean, planning the parade order must have been like seating the most bitchy of dinner party guests: "Oooh, we can't have Planned Parenthood sitting next to the gay Catholics - they might not live-up to their name of 'Dignity San Francisco'...!"

Where was the consistent theme? Apparently, it was "In Pride we Trust". But what on Earth does that actually mean? What about Pride do we actually trust? Since my first euphoric, Damascene conversion to the cause of Gay Pride in London in 1993, I've lost my way. I'm not sure I believe in the power of these congregations anymore. So, rather than "In Pride We Trust", I'd paraphrase as "We hope that we can wring another couple of years out of this train-wreck before it all goes bust".

But, (and I'll get my trusty soapbox at the ready), wasn't this an opportunity to take-up a current cause? To make a statement? To shout, and demand and clamour? We had the massive victory for marriage equality in New York the day before. Where were the demands to achieve those same rights here in California? (We were waiting for someone to sing to the tune of New York, New York: "If I can (boom, boom) MARRY there, I'll marry (boom, boom) ANYWHERE...")

And it was just too damn long. We didn't manage to last-out the entire parade, having stood around on Market Street from 10.30am, it's hard to maintain interest when there are 10-minute gaps between floats, and so at 1.30pm (after three hours of standing around), we decided to call it a day. Never mind the quality, feel the LENGTH!

What the hell was with all the religious groups? And all the bloody politicians? Do we all have some form of rainbow-induced amnesia? But doesn't anyone remember the fact that the church (or, more accurately, organised religion) and the State have been happy to crimininalise and demonise us for years (look at this link, you can see that in the US, gay sex only became legal for a MAJORITY of the US population around 1985...). Now, I'm MORE than happy to have representatives of both friendly religious sects and supportive political parties...but why are they spending their time filling our Pride Parades, showing us what liberal, gay-friendly people they are, when they could be spending time with their colleagues in their churches and mosques and house and senates and halls, sharing their gay pride THERE, persuading their colleagues about how much things should be changing. I mean. If you REALLY wanted to help, why are you spending so much time preaching to the converted.

And whilst I'm at it, why was there so much enthusiasm for the brands appearing in the parade? I know that lots of people enjoy using Facebook and Google - but reserving the biggest cheers for these groups seemed kinda empty. Maybe I'm just a softie, but the volunteers from the health promotion and human rights charities had fewer representatives, and less impressive banners and balloons. But they are doing something for the community beyond

simply selling us stuff. Judging from the brands in attendance, gay customers are most profitable for banks (Wells Fargo, Bank of America and Chase all had large - and very sparkly - floats), Airlines (Virgin America's float was WAY better than United's....but where were Jet Blue and SouthWest?), Health Insurers and internet brands. And didn't brands used to sponsor a charity, support a cause to get their bit of publicity? We've now got so used to them to commandeering OUR space, that we let them advertise away, without any requirement to DO anything for us.

OK, OK. I know it's a cliche. But Pride marches' stock in trade are hot guys in speedos and hot chicks waving their bare-breasts about. How come we had plenty of the latter, and not much of the former? The closest we got was the Bare Chest Calendar guys...but, as my boyfriend said "they weren't so hot...I couldn't even be bothered to take a photo". So, sorry bare-chest guys, but we have been given such high expectations! I may contradict myself on the point about commercial brands in the parade, but of all those underwear brands (2Xist, Aussiebum, Calvin Klein, even Nasty Pig) not one could find time in their schedules to reward some of their dedicated customers with some tottie-on-a-truck...?

And I guess the fact that I'm lamenting the lack of my kinda eye candy begs the question: who IS the target audience for Gay Pride? Is it 'By Us, For Us'? Or is it about providing a shop-front for what the gay community has to offer the wider world? My experience is that it falls down on both of those. It's too niche-gay for the wider community, but too dumbed-down, too diluted and commercial to be an authentic celebration of what WE have to be celebrate about about being gay.

So. It seems sad to say it, but at 41 years old, I think it's time that SF Gay Pride hung-up it's rainbow and retired to the 'burbs.

Milk, Riots, Doves and Hawks

As a newcomer to San Francisco (and also someone who has a protestant work ethic when it comes to being a tourist), a visit to the GLBT Museum in the Castro was on my To Do list.

And the timing seemed perfect. That Sunday was Harvey Milk Day, a state-sanctioned holiday to mark the birthday of Harvey Milk, the first openly-gay elected politician in California, who was assassinated in November 1978. Although I knew of him, like many, I only really understood his role in the politics of gay liberation through the 2008 film, starring Sean Penn.

Harvey Milk is inextricably linked with the Castro - a place where he lived and worked, his political powerbase (so much so, they called him The Mayor of Castro) and his legacy. Like many gay men in their 30s, I don’t have any recollection of the historic context for the life of Harvey Milk. The gay rights movements flowered in cities like New York, London and San Francisco in the 70s, but I grew-up in the 80s - a child of the AIDS generation - when being gay was more linked to tombstones and Clause 28 than free love and liberation. So, I have a fascination with what it must have like - the fact that the social mores and behavioural norms were so different; the palpable sense of change that (I imagine) must have been in the air.

I'm also intrigued by the sense of community and drive, the optimism and possibility that seems intoxicating in these jaded and cynical times of ours. It was clear that significant number of people within this 'movement' were giving-up the prospect of a ‘normal life’ to fight for their cause. There was a sense of life & death importance around the issues that they were dealing with - people were harassed, in danger of losing their livelihoods, subjected to widespread verbal and physical abuse, often estranged from their families...

To me, in my comfortable 21st Century gay life, it often feels like the war is over. I guess like many of the ‘struggles’ for equality, we’ve reached a glass ceiling. We’ve reached a comfortable plateau.

That’s why it was interesting to learn of another anniversary: last Saturday was the 32nd anniversary of the White Night Riots. Lots of people know about the seminal influence of the Stonewall Riots - 10 years earlier - that signified the start of a concerted gay rights movement. But I had not heard about the White Night Riots, where thousands protested the verdict on Harvey Milk’s killer (voluntary manslaughter - the most lenient conviction possible)

One thing that I find so interesting about these events is that they were unplanned and sponteous - and resulted from a flash of anger, an explosion of outrage. What made this seem so powerful was that it was such an awakening. A rising anger amongst a community that had fought and won their first victory, they had seen the power in their hands.

And then had it taken from them. Their democratically elected leader had been assassinated. And the establishment had seemingly closed ranks and allowed his killer to get away with murder.

And so there was a riot. It started as a peaceful demonstration, but the frustration and rage couldn’t be contained, and ended in damage to property and injuries to both protesters and police.

Here’s the rub. When the media interviewed leaders in the gay community over the following hours and days, they couldn’t find a single one - not one - who would apologize for what had happened. Now, by no means am I condoning violence as a tool for political campaigning. My starting point and credo about conflict resolution is always that non-violence should be the way. I guess that’s why I’m so intrigued by this instance of the gay community benefitting from an unapologetic outpouring of violence and aggression. And that seems so, well, "un-gay".

In the history of gay politics the White Night Riots were a turning point. To quote Wikipedia again: “This led to increased political power in the gay community, which culminated in the election of Mayor Dianne Feinstein to a full term, the following November. In response to a campaign promise, Feinstein appointed a pro-gay Chief of Police, which increased recruitment of gays in the police force and eased tensions.”

So, I’m kinda forced to admit - maybe I should take a leaf out of the American history book, put away my dovish tendencies, and get both angry and get recruiting?

Link to post on: So, what gets me angry these days?

In the Land of the Free, shouldn't we campaigning to promote our way of life in other countries? If America can use interventionist policies to protect its national interests abroad,

shouldn't the United States of Gays do the same? Why shouldn't we be using our hard-earned Pink Pounds (for the Brits) or (even more cheesy) our Dorothy Dollars to secure rights for our brethren in other territories? Look at the way the Mormons intervened in the Prop 8 argument in California. And US evangelicals are exporting anti-gay rhetoric to Africa. Well, shouldn't the gay rights lobby be doing the same?

Is it time for the Gay Hawk?

Angry, middle-aged and gay

So, what gets me angry these days?

Well, for one, our “I’m alright, Jack” mentality. It means that we don’t look outside our own day-to-day lives, that we forget that “there but for the grace of god, go I” and it makes me mad. Living here in gay nirvana in San Francisco, it’s so easy to get trapped in that bubble - but we have a responsibility to see beyond the end of our own - erm - noses, and have a view on what's happening beyond The Castro or further afield than Old Compton Street.

I mean, you just have to take a cursory glance at the online news feeds to know that being GLBT in many parts of the former communist bloc (look at what's happening in Russia or Poland) or almost anywhere in Africa (such as recent developments in Cameroon or Uganda, where governments are actively and aggressively persecuting gays) or countries with governments based on fundamentalist religion (sharia law, anyone? Iran shows us the way!)..... and yet how much pressure are we GAYS putting on these countries to protect these minorities?

And, then I guess, the second thing that really gets my goat is the sense of complacency that goes hand-in-hand with those geographic blinkers.

We still need to fight
Looking into our own backyards, and it's clear that the battle has not yet been won. And the rights that we have fought for CAN be taken away. There are people in power in the US who want to take away the rights that LGBT people have fought for decades to secure. Just a couple of examples:

1. The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) aims to enshrine discrimination against same-sex couples by actively excluding them from federal benefits that ‘traditional marriage’ allows. The Obama administration has announced it's dropping its defense of the discriminatory Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) in court. Republicans have moved to defend the anti-gay act.
2. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell when repealed last year - a historic end to the discrimination against gays serving in the military. (The first legal challenge was in 1975, by Leonard Matlovich, who’s tombstone is marked not with his name, but with the words: “When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one”) But there are attempts to delay implementation of the repeal, and to reverse this decision

Things can go backwards

And then further afield there are salutary lessons for us in what can happen - look at Kabul in Afghanistan. Last year, Liam Fox (UK Defence Sec) got into hot water for calling Afghanistan a “broken, 13th century country”.

But, it wasn’t always like that. Afghanistan was developing into a modern and cosmopolitan state in the 1960s. It was the first Asian country to have women in parliament, and had already dropped laws requiring women to wear the burka. Afghan women pursued careers in medicine; men and women mingled casually at movie theatres and university campuses in Kabul. In the 60s and early 70s, Kabul was famed as an exotic stop-off point on the hippy trail between Europe and India. It even had M&S! The first Marks & Spencer store in Central Asia was built in the mid-60s in Kabul. But those rights (including, obviously, the right to M&S knickers) were rolled-back following the Saur Revolution and subsequent Russian invasion. And now we’re back to burkas, segregation, male-only education, sharia law, stonings...

Some things are getting worse not getting better.

Kids who are growing-up gay are experiencing an increasingly aggressive anti-gay environment in school. Increasing levels of visibility, means that we’re bringing homophobes out of the woodwork.

So, what’s a thinking gay to do?

Make the personal political

• Join a campaigning group like HRC or Stonewall
• Write a letter
• Get out on the streets

Make the political personal

• Stand-up and be counted. As Andrew Sullivan says, the power of our lobby is that we are everywhere. In every country, in every family. Being ‘out’ is a radical step
• Challenge bigots to re-think. (I just love the excuse to repost this - but it works)
• BE ANGRY. And talk about it!