Thursday, July 24, 2008

Not Tonight

Was going to write but irritable all day today--just about everything--work, home, news reports--has pissed me off. Maybe tomorrow.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Larry King And The "Limits of Tolerance"

Just re-read that Newsweek cover report about the murder of 15 year old Larry King by 14 year old Brandon McInernery. It's all so heartbreaking, infuriating.

Both these kids were failed utterly by the adults that surrounded them--parents, teachers, school officials--and one boy is dead and another facing the possibility of a lengthy prison term, because of that failure. In the face of his death, the teachers who spoke to the press insist that they tried to support the complicated, boundary-pushing Larry, but I wonder for how many that is really true. He was different and now he is dead. I'm sure there's quite a bit of damage control going on right now, personally and officially, as everyone tries to put the best face on their own involvement (or lack thereof) in this tragedy.

No doubt the only thing everyone can agree on right now is that what happened should not have happened, that things should never have reached this point. But, beyond either ignoring Larry King or getting angry at him for behavior they didn't understand and didn't know how best to respond to, where were all these grown-ups as things slowly unraveled for Larry and Brandon? Were they standing out in a field somewhere, watching cloud formations?

Put aside for the moment the McInerney boy and his issues (and ease of access to a loaded gun)--where were the adults when kids started mistreating and ostracizing King when he began coming out at age 10? It wasn't just Larry King that needed help navigating the rough seas of puberty and sexual and social identity. All those classmates who taunted him--the girl who started the "Burn Book" to punish King, the boys who "pushed him around" in the locker rooms--were obviously coping, badly, with their own identity questions, anxieties and fears. Larry King could not have been the only gay, or eccentric, or defiantly flamboyant, or troubled, kid in the various schools he attended--what happened to those kids? What's happening to them now?

King is said to have been a "bully" and to have bullied the boy who would be his executioner. Where was the outrage--the acknowledgement--of the bullying King experienced?

How Brandon McInerney chose finally to resolve the problem of Larry's allegedly determined and unwanted attentions was horrifyingly inappropriate--to say the absolute least--and he should, he must, face the consequences for his actions. That said, it's impossible, reading the Newsweek piece, not to feel some sympathy for him as well, and anger at all the adults around him who apparently didn't take seriously enough his rising embarrasment and distress and intervene in a way that might have defused what was becoming an explosive situation. If McInerney is tried and sentenced as an adult, the harassment he experienced from a lovestruck classmate will be nothing compared to what eventually he may be forced to confront in a prison setting.

And what of the school's lesbian (former) assistant principal, Joy Epstein, who counseled and befriended King? According to the Newsweek story she was not out to the students, but she was to fellow staffers (Epstein kept a photograph of her life partner in full view on her desk), not all of whom were accepting, and it seems she is now being looked upon with great suspicion--indeed, if it's not King himself being blamed for his death, it is Epstein, with both parents (including Larry King's father, Greg, who was accused by his son of abuse, leading to Larry's temporary removal to a group home) and disapproving faculty accusing her of having had an "agenda."

Ah, yes--the fabled "gay agenda." Apparently any gay teacher or adult with access to kids who is supportive of gay kids particularly, counseling them on their rights, is obviously attempting... what? World domination?

Seriously, what's it supposed to "mean" when teachers are proudly and openly gay and positively acknowledge queer and questioning kids who come to them for support and advice? What would they be doing that is supposedly so inappropriate, so suspect? Are out gay teachers and counselors truly expected to counsel gay kids not to be? Not to be what? Not to be out and proud? Not to be gay? And what exactly is the "agenda"? I've yet to hear (or read) an answer to any of these questions from any such accusers that I have not found convoluted, irrational, and downright hysterical.

Poor Larry King. For all the turbulence of his young life, he seemed to me a bright, imaginative, and incredibly ballsy teenager who just might--with a lot more sympathetic support, guidance and protection and a lot less over-reactive judgement--one day have had the fabulous life he dreamed of.

As it is, now he--and we--will never know.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

From Matthew to Lawrence

Oh, God, no--it's Matthew Shepard all over again.

It isn't, actually, but that was my immediate, visceral reaction to the cover of this week's (July 18th) Newsweek. The cover story is about the murder of gay middle-schooler Lawrence King and the deeper you get into the reporting the queasier and angrier you feel--among other reasons you're left with the distinct impression that King, the victim, portrayed for the most part in the article as a pathetic troublemaker, is essentially to blame for what happened to him.

He was shot dead in a computer lab by classmate Brandon McInerney who, after aiming directly at King's head and firing (twice), calmly tossed the gun to the floor and walked out of the room, to be apprehended minutes later by police.

I feel so distressed--so unsettled and depressed and pissed off--that I can't pull my thoughts together right now. I need to learn more about this awful story; I need to think about what's being said here.

More later.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Letter to an X-Friend

So how long has it been now?

Six years? Seven? I know I was still at The Lite when the friendship came crashing down around us—was it in June that we, that everything, stopped? I could be misremembering the timeline, but I think it was June. (I’m really coming to dislike the month of June.)

Brendan Lemon’s closeted ballplayer boyfriend. That’s what touched it off, the Out Magazine editor letter. He wrote about the difficulties of being openly gay and trying to maintain a relationship with someone who was not, especially someone with a public profile. The letter caused a sensation in the gay press, was picked up by the mainstream press, and as the guessing game of the ballplayer’s identity commenced, op-ed pieces started appearing in publications that seldom if ever bothered to report or comment upon queer issues of any kind.

You and I seemed to draw different lessons from the controversy, unable to agree even on whether or not Lemon should ever have brought up the matter publicly, though I think we were slowly becoming aware, long before then, that we seemed not to be on the same page about many things to do with gay.

The e-mails between us got stronger, angrier (typically, mine got lengthier). That was our mistake, I realized even then. Instead of tabling the debate about Lemon, his mystery man and whatever and whoever else was getting dragged into the squabble (Jackie Robinson, Rock Hudson, the Brady dad Robert Reed) until we could see one another and talk more calmly over coffee, or dinner, or a bookstore browse, we kept slugging it out electronically, each of accusing the other of not seeing it, both of us more emotionally invested in our viewpoints than we were willing or able to admit.

I know I was. I was absolutely convinced I was right and you were a pigheaded idiot who couldn’t admit when he was wrong. Though I couldn’t actually see you, I could feel your back stiffening with each hit of the send key, until finally you accused me of laughing at you—I realized later you meant “mocking” you—and said we couldn’t be friends anymore.

I’d rolled my eyes at this, exasperated. Not friends anymore? Come on, what was he talking about? Alright, so I’d gone a bit—maybe more than a bit—overboard in my determination to mow down his resistance. So maybe he was right in his accusation that this wasn’t a spirited exchange of ideas any longer (if it ever was) and I had let myself get too gleeful about winning what had turned into a fight. He was still being a drama queen—a melodrama queen—with this relations between us are at an end stuff; he doesn’t mean it. Not really.

But you did.

Even with my semi-conciliatory reply—recognizing at last that I had gone too far, in the execution of my argument at least, if not its substance—you refused to budge. Me too. I waited, not too bothered that the days were turning to weeks, thinking after all that we both needed the cooling off period, and sure that at the end of it you would at last reply, or that one of us would pick up the phone, that we would pick up and stagger forward, the connection between us frayed but not broken, our friendship ultimately stronger having been tested. Like... like... Mary and Rhoda. (Fine. Then you think of somebody.)

It didn’t happen. You didn’t write and we didn’t call and the silence between us grew heavier, lengthened. We didn’t speak; we never saw each other again. And it has been—six years now? Seven? Longer than that?

I didn’t expect that outcome, did you? I knew we could both be stubborn; as I realized the weeks were becoming months I grew uneasy, complaining to Connie about what a baby you were being, and how I should not have to plead for the restoration of our old camaraderie, no matter how much I missed it. Eventually I reached for my sharpest, finest pen to write you longhand; I sat down at my computer, searching for just the right font. I picked up my phone and made ready to dial, determined to end the stalemate. Each time I backed away, uncertain of my welcome, and feeling vaguely…idiotic.

It’s never a good thing when, instead of getting wiser as you get older, you realize you’re only finding new ways to disappoint yourself (and others).

Maybe you feel that too?

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Pure Poppycock

Last March, the Today show featured a segment on the phenomenon--I'm pretty sure we can just go ahead and call this a phenomenon--of something called Purity Balls, in which fathers take their daughters on a date. No, really. In the course of the festivities and a ceremony involving—I swear I am not making this up—roses, swords and a large white cross, the girls promise to remain “pure”, that is, to not have sex until they get married, and even signing “pledges” to that effect. This thing must really be taking off, because there it is again in the July 28th issue of Time magazine, an article titled "The Pursuit of Purity" by Nancy Gibbs.

I don’t know what these people—I'd assumed them to be Bible Belt conservatives but possibly not—are thinking. Maybe they aren’t thinking. Surely if the mothers and fathers who endorse the concept of purity pledges considered more carefully the full ramifications they’d not let their children—daughters only, is it?—anywhere near it. I mean, it’s disturbing on the face of it.

And creepy. Are these parents so freaked by modern culture, and so uncomfortable with adolescent—especially female—sexuality that the best, the only, way they know how to respond is by psychologically handcuffing their girls to unfair and ultimately unrealistic promises of chastity? (And am I right to be skeptical that the sexuality of sons is not considered nearly so problematic? The Nancy Gibb piece hints at more pledges to come, this time involving boys.)

When I read about teenage sexual behaviors the statistical data suggests that assertions that kids are having sex at younger ages is simply not true, yet the promos for the “Today” show piece inferred the opposite. So what’s going on? Are worried parents misreading or reading too much into their youngster's fascination with the flagrant trampiness of Paris and her acolytes? But even if the concern is entirely justified, the notion that parents can protect their daughters by extracting promises of sexual purity from them seems to me somehow deluded, wrongheaded.

The girls will sign of course, the majority of them no doubt happily, eagerly. Kids love their parents after all, trust that their moms and dads know best and have their best interests at heart, and they want to please them and make them proud. But how long will it be before these daughters are sorry, even resentful, that they went along with such an agreement? What, in real-life terms, will it mean to a young girl to promise to wait until marriage for the experience of physical intimacy?

The dads interviewed for the Time article, including co-inventor of the purity pledge balls, Randy Wilson, insisted that the pledges are not just about sex, and that focusing solely on that aspect misses the point. They spoke of the need to commit more fully as fathers to their children, to protect their girls and be better role models for their families and communities. Well, yes--who could argue with that? I read those words and thought how commendable, how absolutely admirable, how right.

Then I kept reading, noting that one of the daughters attending the purity ball with her daddy was only 4 years old; also in attendance was a 10 year old who shyly admitted she had no idea what the purity pledge meant beyond promising her dad "to be a virgin until you are married and not have a lot of boyfriends." And according to that Today show segment, 11 year olds are being asked to sign these pledges.

That figures. I remember—more vividly than I would have expected from this distance—being an 11 year old. Though I developed crushes left and right, at least one of them quite erotic, the mechanics of sex, the actual doing of the deed, was a remote and vaguely icky mystery I was in no particular hurry to solve. Few girls so young would object to agreeing to a purity restriction, especially when it's her favorite boyfriend—every little girls first crush—asking it of her and doing so at an emotional, elaborate, Cinderella-type party at that. (Had my dad cared enough to stick around and escort me to such a lavish event I would have swooned, agreeing to absolutely anything he requested, up to and including always calling my stepmother “Mom”.)

A few pertinent questions, though: What happens when a naive, starry-eyed 11 year old playing dress-up turns 15, turns 16, 18, 20—will she still want to keep such a promise? Will she feel able to? Will she feel she should even have to?

Will these pledges really make the young girls who sign on to them stronger, more confident and wiser in their choices—or will they remain perennial adolescents incapable of making choices of their own? Is it understood that as of a certain magic age—which would be what, by the way, and decided by whom?—these daughters are released from the pledges they signed, expected finally to decide their personal lives for themselves? How do they do that, though, when up to that point their most intimate decisions were in the hands of someone else, someone who with the passage of time may no longer seem so heroic and infallible?

And what sort of women will these pledges create?

What happens to the “bad daughters” who rebel and decide to have sex? They promised after all; on an evening unlike any other they pledged to their devoted daddies (or daddy substitutes) "not to" until marriage. What if they can’t keep that promise? Will they sneak around, riven with guilt and shame? And will they delude themselves that if they don’t take any birth control or other precautions they’ve got wiggle room to characterize their sexual encounters as “accidental” and their purity thus “technically” intact? What about the resultant risk of STDs, HIV, AIDS? And how many unplanned pregnancies will be the result of such a strategy, and who raises those daughters?

And what are the options for the “good girls”? Will they ease their consciences by feeling compelled to marry the first guy they fuck, regardless of whether or not either partner truly wants to marry? What if they’re both too young? What if daddy doesn’t consider the groom-to-be acceptable husband material? Does the good daughter elope, hoping for the best? Or does she marry the man daddy signs off on immaterial of his appeal for her? Just what kind of “personal” life can such a young woman hope to have when that life is essentially chosen for her?

Purity fathers may be convinced that they are really only doing their duties and looking after their little girls, but don’t these virginity pledges ultimately translate into an exercise in the power of male prerogative, and an insistence on a certain kind of cultural conformity? Aren’t they really an attempt to return American society to a supposedly more morally upright time--such as when men literally owned their wives and children?

At purity balls the fathers also take a pledge, to protect their girls—but who protects the girls from the fathers? What happens to the “pure” daughters of men who are sexual predators? or wife beaters? or self-loathing closet cases? or lying philanderers?

Is it possible that purity pledges really represent not just reliable parental squeamishness about pubescent sexuality in general, but also a new wrinkle in the same old determined resistance to issues of gender identity and alternative sexual preferences in particular?

Aren’t the purity daughters (and presumably, in the near future, sons) being asked—required, actually—to be not merely chaste but conventional? predictable? traditional? heterosexual??

Just asking...

Friday, July 18, 2008

Movie Night

So much I wanted to post tonight but it will have to wait--TCM is showing 1960's The Fugitive Kind starring a coiled, mascara-ed Marlon Brando as The Drifter, and Joanne Woodward and Anna Magnani as The Women In His Life, with able support from Maureen Stapleton, Victor Jory and R.G. Armstrong. Brando is still potent, still Brando. Love Joanne Woodward in anything, even bad things. And Magnani--I never see enough of her; love that lived-in face, the best this side of Jeanne Moreau.

Sidney Lumet directed, the great Tennessee Williams adapted the screenplay from his play. Small town, Deep South, all in gothic, glorious black and white. (I mean the film stock. Don't overreach.)

Anyway, this needs my full attention and I happen to have popcorn in the house.

More later, y'all.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Mass Media Madness and Other Things

I guess I have my nerve needling Bill M. about the time gap between posts. What's today? Thursday? Is it still Thursday? Is it still July?

It's just... ever have one of those periods when there's so much on your mind that you can't untangle and sort it out to get it down on "paper" in a coherent way? Or something swirls around in your head that you'd really like to set down, but in the moment you're just not able to write? You're traveling. You're elbow-deep in work. You're literally in the middle of a conversation. Your nose is in a book--a good one--and something in the text triggers a thought that starts nagging at you; now you're torn: do you close the book and grab notebook and pen to scribble your thoughts or stay with the story?

Here's one thing that's on my mind: I'm still pissed off about that New Yorker "radical/Muslim" Obama cover. The minute I saw it my jaw dropped--and I'm sitting here still feeling blindsided by its nasty cluelessness. All's fair in the historically down and dirty game of national politics I guess, this kind of thing is not new, I know, but nevertheless what the hell? This is THE NEW YORKER we're talking about--the folks who supposedly like Obama, the ones who are on our side. This came from so out of left field (or maybe more accurately "right field".) What were they thinking? Should they have run it?

Well...I'm uncomfortable with censorship, with saying things can't be said or shown. And the NY editorial management has defended its July 21st cover insisting it was meant to satirize Republican demonization of the Obamas. But how many people looking at that cover can we trust to understand that? Images, whether photographic or illustrated, are powerful, more powerful even than any words used to explain or justify them. (Just ask the Danish) I don't remember at the moment what the reported percentage is, but a significant number of American voters actually believe Barack Obama is a Muslim. Which shouldn't matter. But, especially in these post-9/11 times, and in an election cycle, it does.

Oh, and there's also the matter of that Orange County, Florida billboard, the one with the image of the burning, crumbling WTC towers and the words "Please Don't Vote For a Democrat" on it--I know I shouldn't be, regardless I'm dumbstruck, speechless.

Except to ask: how low? How much fucking lower can anyone go? That billboard was reportedly commisioned by a St. Cloud businessman-musician named Mike Meehan, who also advertises on his website a CD--yours for only $5--called "The Republican Song" which includes the chorus "Don't vote for a Democrat". I understand a video is also available. Well, of course. And do you suppose either bothers to acknowledge, even peripherally, that the WTC tragedy happened on the watch of a REPUBLICAN administration?

I'll go out on what is probably a very short limb here and say no.