Why This is My Fight (Winter 1999)
A straight speech therapist explains her affinity for lesbians and gay men
By Connie Dugan
"Connie, you're straight, your kids are straight. Why is this your fight?"

I get upset when I am questioned about my involvement in gay rights. Short answer: Because I love fairness? Have common sense? Am self-interested? Essentially, those are my reasons.

That doesn't quite explain, though.

Let me try again: Homophobia is stupid. Tolerance is lame. Acceptance is patronizing. Support can be condescending if you're not careful. Phooey on the former. Let's celebrate.

Is that better? The question is "Why?" Is this a polite question?

Maybe I was just born this way? My dear friend, Dr. Dave, who is, need I specify, a gay psychologist and my mentor in the counseling thing, has officially tested me. (It was a pencil and paper test.) He "diagnosed" me as heterosexual at the extreme end of the continuum and with excellent taste in friends and passionate loyalties. (Thank you Dr. Dave for that little summary. You are so scientific.)

Maybe a spiritual thing? I've just been lucky to know many identified lesbigay people who have influenced me. And young people keep showing up in my life. I swear I'm not looking. (Psycho-Dave says I can't randomly pick a new dry cleaner without finding a gay stutterer behind the counter.) I am beginning to believe the Universe puts us into each other's space. Blessings upon me.

My parents are partly to blame. My mother told me about two really cute, charming guys she had gone to college with. One committed suicide. She couldn't understand why a cheerful, talented young man would do such a thing. She figured out later that the tragedy had to do with the two men being in love. It made her very sad and she hated the waste.

My father told me that he ran away from home as a teen (Iowa to California). Trying to get home, he was stranded in the Kansas City bus depot, hungry and without money for a phone call home. A middle-aged man took him in. The man fed him, gave him a place to sleep, got in touch with his folks, gave him some money, and sent him on his way. He realized later that the man was (in those days) homosexual. My dad (infected with the typical beliefs of the era) was struck by the fact that his host hadn't "taken advantage" of a desperate youth, but had instead treated him with exceptional kindness. My dad was always vigilant about his own prejudices and tried to recognize them for what they were. His experience in Kansas City was the reason, he told me, he didn't find stereotypical "faggot-pervert" jokes funny and didn't laugh at them.

Maybe it's because I get so scared. When I was in high school, a classmate friend tried to commit suicide. She was in love with another girl. So what? Both girls smart and lovely: lovable. This is misery? It was a close one. What if she'd succeeded?

Maybe it's because I'm stumped. My favorite teacher lost custody of her beloved son. Rumor on the street: she was a lesbian, ergo unfit. The teacher was the brightest, most nurturing woman I had known. She wouldn't make a good mother? I don't understand.

Maybe because I've been hurt too much. See, I had this friend, Beautiful Jim, with the blond-blond hair and the delicate pink skin and the puffy mustache and the outrageous naughty sense of humor. What a wonderful nurse he was! I ate lunch with him every day and he teased me about my pregnant hugeness and my naiveté and told me about his latest columns in the gay paper. My pal. One morning he came to work wearing sunglasses which could not begin to cover all the black and blue and purple gashes on his beautiful face. (You can't imagine what fine skin he had.) "What happened to you?" I cried. He shrugged and mumbled and cut me off. My friend cut me right off. He could not tell me until much, much, much later that he had been bashed. The shame, pain, humiliation, hurt and outrage were too deep. That, to me, was much uglier than his bruises. It was a wedge between us. A wide, deep, poisonous wedge was not what was needed. What was needed was a hug and a cry, just for starts. I didn't get the chance to act like a friend because of the secret. I cannot think about this without tears, 17 years later.

Plus maybe it's because I am a mother. (Those who know me know that the adoption line never closes, no age requirement.) Right now, my biological sons are lucky. They feel pretty free to be friends with kids who "might be...." They are quick to point out bullying and stupid titters about sexual orientation. Their school has a support group for gay and lesbian kids. A couple of cars in the faculty lot display rainbow decals. Their favorite teacher brings his dear companion to school events when spouses come. It's the norm for them. But I know their school is exceptional. I'm worried about their going into a wider world.

So do I have adequate justification for my "concern." Did I start this off with some pomposity about "a love of fairness"? That's just hot air. And I said "common sense." Well, it is common sense. But it boils down to self-interest, just plain old selfishness. I want everything to be nice and safe and happy so I can feel fine. That's why I care about gay rights.
 

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