M(i)LK

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

On Sunday, Susie and I drove across town to the one movie theatre within probably 150 miles that will show “controversial” films.   We had made the trek back when Brokeback Mountain was in theatres and would have done so for Religulous, but apparently the latter was too much even for the Green Hills Regal.   This time we went to see Milk, and I was impressed enough to actually blog my first movie review.

This is the story of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man elected to political office in the United States.  He was assassinated while serving on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors in 1978.

I had written a paper when I was in college on the gay rights movement for my persuasion theory class.  It just so happened that an entire section of my paper was about Harvey Milk, and so most of the details in the movie were familiar to me.  I knew to expect his failed runs for office and his ultimate success after the redistricting of the Castro.  I knew to expect his death, as well as the death of Mayor George Moscone who was killed by the same gunman.  I knew that the gunman was Dan White, a fellow San Francisco Board of Supervisors member.  (Dan White, by the way, served a total of only five years for the double murder after his attornies claimed the famous “Twinkie Defense” which essentially stated that he was on such a sugar high from a junk food obsession that it affected his behavior and decision-making abilities.  No.  I’m not kidding.)  I even expected the candle light vigil attended by over 30,000 people who marched through San Francisco in Milk’s honor.

What I didn’t expect was what makes this movie a must-see.  I did not expect to see the well known hyper-sexual culture of the Castro District in the 1970s portrayed so honestly and yet, by the magnificent direction of Gus Van Sant, not hampering empathy for the main character in any way.  I did not expect to be so completely overwhelmed by the brilliance of Sean Penn in the title role.  For two hours I didn’t think of Sean Penn once.  He WAS Harvey Milk.  And, most importantly, I did not expect to cry.

Harvey Milk was a civil rights activist of immense importance in our nation’s history.  He accomplished remarkable things, and he did so honestly, openly, . . . yes, even flamboyantly.   One of the things Milk spoke about often in speeches was hope, and I couldn’t help but think about how pertinent that message still is for a nation so hungry for hope that we elected a President to try to get some back.  Harvey Milk was a man ahead of his time, and those kinds often have to pay for being out of step.  He knew what he was doing might get him killed, but he did it anyway to prove “You are not sick.  You are not wrong.”

The fact that Harvey Milk is not remembered as vividly as other slain civil rights leaders says a lot about our country.  Perhaps we’re ready now to give him at least a portion of the credit he deserved 30 years ago.

Just Throwing Another Yule Log on the Fire

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

I feel like Nostradamus.  As if on cue after my most recent blog “Happy Yule” (below) a Merry Christmas e-mail debate broke out among the faculty of the college where I teach.   This yuletide uproar began with the benign announcement of the annual “Holiday Luncheon.”  The first e-mail response was offered with a scowl and a growl.  (Hint:  If you are scowling when you write an e-mail, astute readers will know this.)  The writer was offended that he couldn’t go to a “Christmas” luncheon and opened the door for his opposition by adding, “What other holiday would we be celebrating?  Fourth of July?  Memorial Day?  Martin Luther King Day?”

I’m proud to say that several faculty members returned fire by a) reminding him of what other holidays we could be celebrating, and b) offering reasons why their choices for December observances were every bit as valid as his.

I was discussing this at work tonight in the company of another faculty member and, as chance would have it, the chief of security.  I had just offered my own response to the online debate and was anxious to show it to my colleague.

“Oh, so you’re getting into the Great Holiday Luncheon Debate of 2008,”  Chief said.  And then he added, “You know, this whole thing started because they had to use the word ‘holiday’ since we’re a state school.”

“No, Chief,” I replied.  “This whole thing started when someone who believes he should own the holiday season decided to raise a stink about someone trying to be sensitive and inclusive.”

My friend, Priscilla, (props to Priscilla) offered a wonderful argument that I think I shall adapt for my own, with her permission.  I hope I don’t misrepresent her position, but the way I got it was this:  When the Christians agree to give back every “Christmas” symbol stolen from other traditions, then I’ll agree to give them December 25th.  Lock, stock, and barrel.  (Actually, to be technical, they would also have to give back December 25th since that was stolen from other traditions as well, but I shant quibble in that regard.)

ATTENTION ALL JESUS-FOLLOWERS:  When someone says “Happy Holidays” to you, they aren’t trying to offend you, ignore you, or even de-Christianize you.  What they are trying to do is NOT offend or ignore or inadvertantly Christianize you if you happen to not be a Christian.  When you respond defensively to Happy Holidays, you are, in essence, offended by the fact that other people aren’t getting offended.  How very WWJD of you.

Just be sweet.  Spread love and joy.  If you’ll leave your religious superiority out of the holiday season, I won’t point out that pagan mistletoe you have hanging above your door.

Happy Yule!

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments

Last year about this time I was sitting in the dentist’s chair getting my teeth cleaned.   Or perhaps it should more appropriately be called the dental hygienist’s chair.  I only see my dentist for two minutes every six months when he pops in after my cleaning to ask if I’m having any problems with my teeth.  He’s a jovial kind of guy, a quick hello, a short joke, a few jibs and jabs about current events, and then he’s off to the next cubicle.  I’m not even sure he’s a dentist.  I think he may just network really well and run a teeth-cleaning business.  He’s like a dental pimp with a stable of cute girls with sharp, metal instruments.

Anyhoo, at this particular visit a year ago, something interesting happened.  As Dr. Rodney Dangerfield was finishing his obligatory glance at my pearlies, he stood up to leave the room and gave a cheerful, “Merry Christmas!”  It was so cheerful, in fact, that I think there actually was at least one “Ho” thrown in for good measure.

I smiled back and said with an equal amount of holiday cheer, “Thank you!  Happy Hanukkah!”

The continuous advertisement of his own perfect masticators ended abruptly.  He literally frowned, a playful frown, but a frown nonetheless.   “Uh, . . . well, I’m not Jewish.”

I hesitated not even a second.  “That’s okay.  I’m not Christian, but I took no offense.”

He mumbled something about a root canal and scooted out of the room.

And here we are again, a year later, and here comes the great Merry Christmas debate one more time.   I’ve seen some ugly scenes over the last few years regarding this issue.  A woman at the post office two years ago responded to a “Happy Holidays!” with a venomous “WE say Merry Christmas!”  It was the angriest Merry Christmas I’ve ever heard, and it almost ruined the season for me.  I don’t begrudge anybody their Merry Christmas; I just like to be inclusive.

I have my personal feelings about the religiousness of the holiday season, and I’m savvy enough to recognize that so does everyone else.  Debating the “reason for the season” is rather pointless.  For you, it might be the birth of a baby 2,000 years ago (whom most theologians agree was probably born sometime in August).  For another it might be a Festival of Lights.  For some, it might be the winter solstice and the return of the sun.

Whatever your personal reason, I say offer the greeting of your choice, as long as you do so with joy in your voice, love in your heart, . . . and no point to prove.

Feliz Navidad!

The Last Age of Innocence

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

In 1973 I was nine years old.  It was a time of banana-seat bicycles, The Brady Bunch, and that bad, bad Leroy Brown.  I remember the latter especially because Tracy Shapow and I would play the song over and over again on her portable record player in her garage and take turns “singing” the lead.  Tracy Shapow lived just across the street from me.  We would ride our bikes half a mile up Studor Drive and cross a very busy two-lane highway to get to the Seven-Eleven and buy candy.  And our mothers didn’t even worry.

I would play outside on summer evenings until dusk would tip-toe up on me from behind and suddenly throw a blanket of darkness over my head.  An acceptable answer for a mother inquiring about the whereabouts of her child in 1973 was, “Oh, somewhere around the neighborhood.”

To the best of my knowledge there was no fence around the playground at Thomas White Elementary School.  At recess we would scatter to corners of the school yard that seemed quite a distance away and certainly not meant to be a part of the official playing area.  There was the pavilion where my sister married Henry Ozeritis in the sixth grade (much could be accomplished during recess).  We were well out of the teacher radar range there, but somehow we always managed to know exactly when to head back to school in order to beat the bell.

In one isolated spot on the playground, there was a large round cement section like builders use for underground sewers, or so I assume.  It was about six feet long and tall enough for a nine-year-old to walk through.  If you crawled up on top, there was a metal pipe that had been somehow inserted into some sort of hole and was bent just right and just long enough for a fourth grader to leap out and grab and swing from.   Some days this was more popular than walking across the top of the monkey bars.  Other days it was deserted.  As it was on that day.

On that day, I leaped and swung, leaped and swung, and then just before leaping again realized that I was completely alone.  The closest person was well outside of hearing range.  I hesitated, looked all around me in a complete circle to make sure no one was there, and then I said it, almost as a whisper.   “Fuck.”  And then louder, with more authority, and for the second time in my life.  “Fuck.”

And leaped and swung, and leaped and swung, and leaped and swung.