October 11, 2008: The catering is all in line, and the outfits perfectly pressed. The months of planning have trickled down to hours. Andrew and I are holding our Manhattan engagement party, step one in our bicoastal wedding celebration.
October 11, 1995: I watch every word that comes out of my mouth for fear that my less-than-masculine speech patterns will lay bear the truth that is and has always been within my head. It’s unfair to date members of the opposite-sex, both for me and my partners in faux courtship. But what choice do I have? There are no gay people in my high school. Heck, are there gay people in my town? In all of Tennessee? The entire Southeastern region?
October 11, 2008: Andrew, the planner of our duo, has the day mapped out. Shave, manicure, and haircut are all booked into specific slots. I, on the other hand, am taking a fairly laxidasical approach to getting my stuff done. But while our approaches are different, our excitement is the same. We are both excited and shocked that this long overdue journey is finally in motion.
October 11, 1995: I’ll probably marry someday. I don’t feel like I have a choice. You get through school then ya get hitched. And hey, at least when I marry, I will finally prove to everyone that I am straight. I’m sure that in time, I too will believe it. Right?
October 11, 2008: The Connecticut ruling makes three states where we gays can legally marry.
October 11, 1995: It’s not like I can legally marry a dude even if I wanted to.
October 11, 2008: It’s not even noon, and there have already been two phone calls from my mom-in-law-to-be. She just might be the most psyched of all of us! And why shouldn’t she be? Her baby is finally getting married!!
October 11, 1995: Did anyone see me looking at that issue of "Entertainment Weekly"? The one with the cover story on "The Gay 90’s"? And if so, did they suspect anything? ::sigh:: I better go watch the game and talk about "hot" girls.
October 11, 2008: 115 guests will be on hand to send well wishes to the two fiancés. Acceptance or "tolerance" is not even up for debate. We are loved. We are accepted. Non-"controversially."
October 11, 1995: Will I ever feel love? Real love? A genuine, rock you to the core love?
October 11, 2008: Today is National Coming Out Day. And while the booking was purely coincidental, the resonance of the date is not lost on me.
October 11, 1995: I just learned that today is apparently something called "National Coming Out Day." I gotta remember to put my guard up extra high, since people will probably be talking about it. Questions are dangerous. And the "right" answers are hard to find since they really don’t jibe with what I know to be true.
October 11, 2008: I’m happy. Really frickin’ happy. I want to wish a joyous National Coming Out Day to everyone:
October 11, 1995: I’m scared. Really frickin’ scared. Please tell me it gets better than this. Please tell me there is peace to be had. Please tell me I will come out of this darkness.
Some photos Here. I’m so happy for both of them. I wish them all the best. This poor angry world needs so much more of this. So very much more.
If you donate between now and election day online (for any amount), and send me your confirmation email, I will draw, if you wish, an editorial cartoon on the topic of your choice. Or…alternately…a Mark and Josh cartoon on the topic of your choice. Or…if my cartoons don’t do it for you…you can have a signed 11 by 19 print of the image of your choice out of any of my photo galleries.
By All Means, Let Me Know How You Feel. I WANT To Know. Really.
There are many reason why I do not regard myself as a Christian anymore. Probably chief among them is I am no longer convinced that God even exists. But even so, fundamentalism notwithstanding, I think you can still regard yourself as a Christian nonetheless. If you think God worship is all there is to Jesus’ message, then you weren’t listening.
Forgiveness. Here is why I just can’t call myself Christian anymore:
Over at Box Turtle Bulletin, Jim Burroway posts that he received a phone call from a reporter saying that many proposition 102 (the Arizona anti same-sex marriage amendment) yard signs are being damaged.
I got a phone call last night from a reporter from Phoenix’s ABC15, telling me that a spokesperson for the ’Yes” side for Prop 102 says that more than a hundred of their campaign signs were vandalized. Obviously, everyone here at No on Prop 102 condemns such vandalism. While we are happy to engage in a vigorous debate on the issues, vandalism has no place in rational debate.
Oh…good grief. Look…if some people are willing to spread the open sewer that is their conscience out on their lawns for everyone in the world to see, then by all means leave the fucking things alone. Seriously. Leave them alone.
Photograph them. Document it. We are living through a moment in history, however these votes turn out. Document it. Document it. Document it. And later, if the thing passes, should these fine God fearing folks feel the need to pretend that they never supported it (and they will, many of them, never doubt it), remember how you felt seeing those signs waved in your face, remember how it felt to have your ring finger cut off while they praised God, and wave their signs right back in their faces. Yes…yes you did…
If you stick a knife nine inches into my back and pull it out three inches,
that is not progress. Even if you pull it all the way out, that is not progress.
Progress is healing the wound… -Malcolm X
It’s good to know the names on that knife in your heart.
Jesus would say that I have to forgive. I can appreciate how anger can turn into hate. I can appreciate how it can corrode your soul, turn it to rust. There is a reason why we have to forgive. Jesus was right. But there are some things I simply cannot forgive. Just…can’t. Ironically my Baptist grandmother was exactly like me in this regard. Neither one of us could let go of a grudge. It’s a dangerous combination I’ve lived with all my life: dad’s loaded gun temper, grandma’s ability to hold onto a grudge forever. If I didn’t have some small smidgen of mom’s endless capacity for love and sympathy I’d be some kind of absolutely legendary asshole. I have grudges from back in elementary school I still take out and polish every now and then.
Instead of loving your enemies, treat your friends a little better. -Edgar Watson Howe
Forgiveness. Hopefully after November gay couples in California will still have their ring fingers, and those in Arizona and Florida will still have hope. But if not, don’t ask me to forgive. Ever. I’ll laugh in your face.
You could say these are hard times to be gay, let alone have a conscience, and be a Catholic Priest. But then…you could say these are hard times to be gay and be sitting (or standing) in a lot of churches…
A week ago, Father Geoffrey Farrow stood before his Roman Catholic parishioners in Fresno and delivered a sermon that placed him squarely at odds with his church over gay marriage.
With Proposition 8 on the November ballot, and his own bishop urging Central Valley priests to support its definition of traditional marriage, Farrow told congregants he felt obligated to break "a numbing silence" about church prejudice against homosexuals.
"How is marriage protected by intimidating gay and lesbian people into loveless and lonely lives?" he asked parishioners of the St. Paul Newman Center. "I am morally compelled to vote no on Proposition 8."
Then Farrow — who had revealed that he was gay during a television interview immediately before Mass — added a coda to his sermon.
"I know these words of truth will cost me dearly," he said. "But to withhold them . . . I would become an accomplice to a moral evil that strips gay and lesbian people not only of their civil rights but of their human dignity as well."
…after which the parish Bishop had him burned at the stake. Well…not Literally…
Parish leaders concluded two morning Masses on Sunday with an apology to parishioners.
Farrow’s statements, they said, were not in accord with church teachings. Also, the priest did not inform church elders about his plans before delivering his sermon, said Deacon John Supino, who read a letter from Steinbock reaffirming the Catholic Church’s support for Proposition 8.
Quoting Steinbock, Supino said the church teaches that sex is a gift from God to be acted on only by a man and a woman within marriage. But Proposition 8, he insisted, does not represent a condemnation of gays or lesbians.
"The teachings of the church on these matters did not arise with Proposition 8 but have been in place for over 2,000 years," Supino said.
There’s something else that’s been in place for over 2,000 years. They call it antisematism. Or as James Carrol put it at the beginning of his history of antisematism, Constantine’s Sword:
We shall see how defenders of the Church take pains to distinguish between "anti-Judaism" and "antisemitism"; between Christian Jew-hatred as a "necessary but insufficient" cause of the Holocaust; between the "sins of the children" and the sinlessness of the Church as such. These distinctions become meaningless before the core truth of this history: Because the hatred of Jews had been made holy, it became lethal.
Ten years ago yesterday, a five-foot, two, 105 pound gay college kid died after being tortured and beaten by two thugs almost twice his size. He was beaten so badly the hospital staff who received him after the police cut him from the fence he’d been tied to, compared his condition to that of automobile accident victims. But it was no accident. His killer’s knew that while God might hold them accountable for stealing his wallet, He would look the other way while they tied that kid to a fence, beat him to a pulp, put their cigarettes out on his body and left him to die slowly in the cold plains night. In most American churches, today still, the sermon is that Christ’s call to love your neighbor ends at the doorstep of your homosexual neighbor’s house.
Farrow became a priest 23 years ago, working in parishes in Visalia, Merced, Bakersfield and the nearby town of Arvin. A graduate of St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo, he also served as a chaplain in the Air Force Reserve at Edwards Air Force Base near Palmdale in the early 1990s.
Farrow, who said he realized that he was gay in boyhood, revealed his sexual orientation only to close friends and family. He told his parents just four years ago.
"This was the secret I was going to take to my grave," he said.
That changed when he received a June 30 "pastoral letter" from Steinbock’s office in which the bishop condemned the California Supreme Court’s ruling in May that legalized same-sex marriage, and supported the passage of Proposition 8, calling marriage between a man and woman the "foundation blocks for society." He compared the court’s action to efforts by Nazi Germany and the Communist regimes in Russia and China to alter family arrangements.
Only Nazis or communists would want a society that treats homosexuals as the equals of heterosexuals…right? That’s what these righteous men of god are saying there isn’t it. And never mind that this is what the Nazis actually did to homosexuals…
…er…along with something like Nine Million Jews. Which is pretty much what you’d expect after…what…two-thousand years of calling Jews Christ killers and waving Leviticus at homosexuals. And the communists weren’t, and aren’t what’s left of them, any better.
Russia is not the only post-Communist country with a gay problem. In Poland, authorities have recently undertaken an initiative to outlaw all discussion of homosexuality in schools, and a high-level official in charge of children’s rights, Ewa Sowinska, followed in the footsteps of the late Rev. Jerry Falwell by expressing concern about the sexuality of purse-carrying purple Teletubby Tinky Winky and its possible effects on young viewers.
A few days before his personal experience with homophobia in Moscow, Tatchell wrote about the problem of anti-gay bigotry in Eastern Europe on the blog of the British newspaper, The Guardian. "With the demise of communism," Tatchell noted, "religious fundamentalism and ultra-nationalism are filling the void. Homophobia is the hallmark of these reactionary movements."
But this argument is not entirely accurate. Far from being a new phenomenon in the former Soviet bloc, homophobia was also a hallmark of communist regimes. In the Soviet Union, male homosexuality was punishable by up to eight years of imprisonment; while sodomy laws in American states required proof of specific sexual act, a gay man in Soviet Russia could be jailed if his neighbors testified that he had no female company and frequent male visitors who stayed overnight. Castro’s Cuba has been notorious for its persecution of gays.
This isn’t rocket science. The totalitarian state cannot allow you to own your heart. Your heart must belong to the state. Orwell understood the puritanical nature of totalitarian states. In this passage of 1984 he captures it perfectly:
Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the Party’s sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party’s control and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way she put it was:
"When you make love you’re using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don’t give a damn for anything. They can’t bear you to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you’re happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?"
That was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy. For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned it to account.
But this is the essential nature of sexual puritanism as well. The theocrats claim to be merely serving God’s will…but what king didn’t also claim exactly the same thing? What dictator? When the leaders of the Catholic church complain that Nazis and communists were trying to bend the shape of the family to their liking, they are the pot calling the kettle black. Totalitarian states have always sought to dictate the nature of family life. And they have always needed their scapegoats.
Let it be said, the Catholic church isn’t now, and wasn’t then, the only righteous house of god busy campaigning to purge society of its deviants. A lot of fine, upstanding protestants were and are doing exactly the same thing. Proposition 8 isn’t about protecting marriage. It is about protecting the stigma theocrats have placed on gay and lesbian people. That’s it. That’s all that it is about. Because when the day comes that Americans take for granted that the homosexual is a fellow American and neighbor too, then America’s tinpot dictators won’t have any scapegoats left to rouse the passions of the mob toward. We have always been at war with homosexuality…
What kind of America do you want to live in? The one where the dream of liberty and justice for all still lives, or the one where only the dream of theocrats are allowed? Would you rather live in an America where neighbors can look each other in the face as equals, or the America of James Dobson and Karl Rove and Pope Ratzinger, where some are more equal then others?
Do you dream the dream of freedom…of a world where totalitarianism is just a distant, ugly memory? Where everyone is free to follow their hopes and dreams wherever they lead? Do you believe in liberty and justice for all? Do you believe in love? Please help fight the good fight. Donate Here, to No on 8. Or Here, to Arizona Together. Or Here, to Say No On Two.
Donate between now and election day online (for any amount), and send me your confirmation email and I will draw an editorial cartoon on the topic of your choice. Or…alternately…a Mark and Josh cartoon on the topic of your choice.
Or…if my cartoons don’t do it for you…I’ll gladly mail you a signed 11 by 19 print of the image of your choice out of any of my photo galleries.
Sometimes the images just leap out at you as you’re strolling down the street…
This was taken by a Blockbuster Video store that’s downsizing. They used to put current release posters up in the windows on that side of the store. Now they’ve vacated that side and the posters are in tatters.
Another dream I had just now. I want to say it’s another odd one, but to tell the truth this is pretty typical. Not so much because it was unpleasent…most of my dreams are actually quite nice…but because it was so vivid, and yet so damn weird in places. I’ve had dreams like this all my life.
It starts with me mowing the lawn…something I was doing late yesterday because I’d let my tiny back yard go to seed again. So getting it back under control was a lot of work for a back yard so tiny. In this dream, I’m living in some suburb somewhere, in a somewhat larger detached house with a nice lawn all around it. There’s a bug infestation that’s killing my grass, and I go get some lawn and garden pesticide to put down.
The next thing I know is I’m under arrest. They tell me that a cloud of gas rose up from my lawn after I laid down the pesticide, and drifted over to a neighbor’s house and killed him while He was mowing His lawn.
I don’t remember the trial at all. Just…next thing I know I’ve been convicted and given a sentance of death, and I’m being led to the death chamber.
Here’s where the dream takes on a Twilight Zone-ish quality. They sit me down in a comfortable, somewhat overstuffed chair in what looks more like a doctor’s waiting room then an execution chamber. I’m given a single shot of poison. Then I’m free to go. Somehow I know that the way execution works in this particular dream world, is the condemned are given a shot of some sort of slow acting poison that takes something more then a day to kill you, and when it does it happens all at once, not slowly and painfully. You’re then allowed to leave the prison, go settle your affairs, and basically spend your one last day however you wish.
Next thing I know I’m in the parking lot of some large, but not mega-large, Baptist church with mom and a few other people I don’t recognize. This was not how I wanted to spend my last moments on earth, being emotionally suffocated among people who couldn’t care less about me, so much as using my life as their own stepping stone to heaven.
Mom, as always, excepted. She’s the only person there I know. Everyone else is a complete stranger, which is odd in retrospect because the dream could have easily populated that church parking lot with people I knew from my church days, or other family members on mom’s side who go to church…er…religiously. Instead they’re all stereotypical Southern Baptist church droids, and I feel oddly, like a missionary surrounded by cannibals. They’re all giving me, the condemned man, these sickly sweet fundamentalist smiles that barely hide the emotional hunger behind them.
Mom’s the only person there who I know loves me, and I’m distraught at having to put her through all this. That’s the other wierd thing about how executions are done in this dream world. The trials are secret and nobody knows when you’ve been released from prison that you’ve been given The Shot unless you tell them. I figure that’s so you can go on about your last day as close to normal as you might want. Somehow I’ve ended up here in this church parking lot with mom and she’s making another attempt to get me back in church again. She doesn’t seem very upset though. In fact, she’s her usual cheerful self. So I figure, releaved, that she doesn’t know I’ve just been executed. But she’s the only one there who doesn’t know. All the church droids know, and they’re all giving me that concern troll look I came to know and despise when I was a kid.
Like everyone else there except me, mom’s in her Sunday best. I’m dressed as I always am, in blue jeans and sneakers and a light short sleeved shirt. And as is typical in my dreams whenever I’m self-aware I seem to be, at various points during the dream, the age I am now and a teenager again. When I tell her I’m not interested in going inside the church she smiles and says that’s okay, and gives me a little hug. Once I got old enough to make my own decisions, she never tried to force me into going to church. She walks inside, leaving me out in the parking lot. The church droids follow her in. Irritatingly though, not all of them.
One church droid stays behind with me…some middle age man I’ve never met before, wearing a dazzlingly tacky polyester suit, is looking at me with that expression I know all too well as a prelude, not to making a pass at me, but worse, to a proselytize. Incoming…!
I sit down and lean up against a car in the parking lot. I have my laptop with me and I open it up and decide to blog. Somehow when I open up the laptop I have an internet connection and I can post to my blog. Maybe there’s a wireless portal somewhere nearby…I don’t know. But I can sign into my blog. I want to write one last post. I want to apologize for killing someone…whoever that someone was. I want to write some last essay about how I found life to be, now that I know how it ends. But I can’t write. This is a dream and deciphering written words has always been a major struggle for me in dreams. It’s like the part of my brain that decodes words on a page just isn’t online when I’m asleep.
So instead I decide to draw something. Somehow, my blog software has a Photoshop plug-in and I can start drawing right into the blog. And here the dream gets a tad science-fictioney. My laptop all of a sudden has a drawer in it that I can pull out, and in it I have my drawing tools…the traditional one’s I’ve always used: technical pencil, ink pens, kneeded rubber eraser, charcoal sticks… I don’t need the Wacom tablet…a thing I’ve never really mastered the knack of drawing with anyway…I can draw with all my traditional art tools right on the screen of my laptop, and it all just goes into Photoshop as though I was doing it on art paper.
(Can I get a patent on this idea? Probably not…)
So I start drawing something. I start drawing a landscape. It’s the field behind one of the apartment complexes I grew up in. There was a place there where I used to watch the sunsets when I was a kid. That’s what I start drawing. The church droid starts asking me the usual leading questions about what I’m drawing. I say nothing to him. After a while, he just shuts up. Good! Leave me alone!
I really start getting into my drawing. It feels good…real good…because I haven’t been able to draw now for so long in real life. I’ve been so heartached I can’t even go near my drawing table. Now here, in the dream, I can draw again. It feels wonderful. The drawing trance is so much better then the coding trance, when I can get it.
I’ve almost got my drawing finished when suddenly I start feeling the poison begin to work. My hands and the rest of my body start going numb. I loose fine control of my fingers and it’s hard to manipulate the keyboard. It feels like a really severe fevor is sweeping through my veins. I realize I don’t have much longer and I need to tell everyone this is the last message. I try to find a clear spot on the artwork where I can write something out but I can’t. The view is magnified and I can’t scale it back. All I can do is drag the viewport around and try to find some open spot on the artwork where I can enter some text. But it’s all varying textures of charcoal and ink everywhere I look. For a moment I’m afraid I won’t be able to get my last words out there. But then I find a spot, and…somehow…I manage to enter a few brief final words to…well…to everybody:
I am about to be executed. This is my last post. Goodbye.
I hit "Publish" and close the laptop. Then I get up and start walking out of the parking lot. I’m feeling feverish, very feverish. Suddenly I’m not in the parking lot of the church, but of Congressional Plaza…a large strip shopping center near where I grew up way back when. It’s odd…once again I’m a teenager, yet I’m carrying my silver Mac PowerBook and I’m walking to a spot behind the little Hot Shoppes Cafateria that stood by itself in the front of the Plaza parking lot. And I’m going there because I know that’s where I’ve parked my car. The Mercedes. Yet in my dream I’m a kid again and I sure didn’t have the kind of money back then for the laptop, let alone the Mercedes. But when I get to the Hot Shoppes, I decide instead of getting into my car I would go sit by the small green dumpster out back and die there. Somehow I find that fitting.
As I walk back to the corner where the dumpster is, I meet a homeless man heading for the same place. He grins at me and asks me if I’m looking for a place to rest for the night too, and I tell him he might not want to spend it with me because I’ve been given The Shot and I’m about to die. Well don’t die in front of me, he tells me, but not unkindly; more like he’s sharing a friendly joke with me. But he knows I’m serious. He’s a middle age black man, with a touch of grey in his hair and beard. But for a homeless man he’s dressed pretty well…casually, clean slacks…pressed no less…sneakers and a sport shirt. His hair is neatly trimmed and he looks clean as a whistle. Yet, somehow, I know he’s homeless. I notice then that he’s with a young teenaged white girl, who looks more the part of a homeless person. Her clothes are worn and dirty and she looks like she’s slept for the past several days in them. She has long stringy blond hair and looks like she hasn’t bathed in weeks. They don’t seem to be companions though…more like two people who just happened to be in the same place at the same time with me, looking for a spot to spend the night. The man seems decent and very friendly. The girl lonely, tired and very sad.
The three of us walk together toward the dumpster, looking for a place to rest. They for the night. Me for…well…for forever.
The two of them sit down on one side of the dumpster and I go around to the other side and rest with my back to it. I am miserable, and I want to be alone. The sun is getting low in the sky now, but it’s not near twilight yet. It’s still bright out, but the angle of light is low and the shadows are getting long. My body is getting really, really numb now. I start bawling. I’m really, really sorry I killed that guy…whoever he was. I just start crying my heart out over it…
…and then, I wake up.
As always when I wake up from a crying dream, I’m a bit surprised to find my face is perfectly dry. But I’m not fully awake either. It’s still early in the night and I can tell I haven’t had a good deep sleep yet because of the way my body feels. Whenever I wake up before I’ve had a deep sleep my body feels a tad like it’s in a fever. So I just lay there for a while and think about trying to get back to sleep.
The dream is lingering oddly…I can still hear the other two people by the dumpster talking softly, distantly. I can’t make out the words. Then I distinctly hear the sound of the dumpster’s hinged lid being opened. Then I hear something, like a sigh. I’m still half asleep in this lingering dream and I know what I just heard was the sound of my last breath. I just died.
I lay in bed turning it all over. I think I’ve died about a zillion times in my dreams over the course of my life. But now I feel like the fates have given me a gift of some sort. You never know when your last breath is, it just happens and you’re dead so you never know that was the last one. But I heard it. I heard my last breath.
I’ve said it before. Over and over. The shit doesn’t really start hitting the fan, until the republicans start loosing power…
LA CROSSE, Wis. (AP) — Some of the anger is getting raw at Republican rallies and John McCain is mostly letting it flare. A sense of grievance spilling into rage has gripped some GOP events as McCain supporters see his presidential campaign lag against Barack Obama. They’re making it personal, against the Democrat. Shouts of “traitor,” “terrorist,” “treason,” “liar,” and even “off with his head” have rung from the crowd at McCain and Sarah Palin rallies, and gone unchallenged by them.
Everyone is starting to notice now, the frenzy of hate the republicans are whipping themselves into. From Sullivan:
To some, a president Obama is simply unimaginable. From a McCain supporter in Wisconsin yesterday:
"We’re all wondering why Obama is where he’s at. How he got here. Everybody in this room is stunned we’re in this position."
There was always going to be a point of revolt and panic for a core group of Americans who believe that Obama simply cannot be president – because he’s black or liberal or young or relatively new. This is that point. As the polls suggest a strong victory, the Hannity-Limbaugh-Steyn-O’Reilly base are going into shock and extreme rage. McCain and Palin have decided to stoke this rage, to foment it, to encourage paranoid notions that somehow Obama is a "secret" terrorist or Islamist or foreigner. These are base emotions in both sense of the word.
But they are also very very dangerous. This is a moment of maximal physical danger for the young Democratic nominee. And McCain is playing with fire. If he really wants to put country first, he will attack Obama on his policies – not on these inflammatory, personal, creepy grounds. This is getting close to the atmosphere stoked by the Israeli far right before the assassination of Rabin.
For God’s sake, McCain, stop it. For once in this campaign, put your country first.
But Garrison Keillor was right…they’re republicans first, and Americans second. And they have a history of this, which goes right back to Kennedy. When King was assassinated in Memphis, they were calling him a traitor too…
And really the unsayable. But I’ve been thinking about this McCain-Palin Obama "palling around with terrorist" idea more lately. The saddest thing about many Republicans isn’t just that they disagree with liberals on race–it’s they are largely ignorant on race. When the McCain campaign cast the spell of diabolical jingoism, they have no idea of the forces they are toying with. We remember Martin Luther King’s murder as a sad and tragic event. Less remembered is the fact that ground-work for King’s murder was seeded, not simply by rank white supremacy, but by people who slandered King as a communist.
This was not some notion bandied about by conspiracy theorist, but an accusation proffered by men who were the pillars of the modern Republican Party:
As late as 1964, Falwell was attacking the 1964 Civil Rights Act as "civil wrongs" legislation. He questioned "the sincerity and intentions of some civil rights leaders such as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., James Farmer, and others, who are known to have left-wing associations." Falwell charged, "It is very obvious that the Communists, as they do in all parts of the world, are taking advantage of a tense situation in our land, and are exploiting every incident to bring about violence and bloodshed."
Falwell was not alone. These men didn’t kill Martin Luther King, but they contributed to an atmosphere of nationalism, white supremacy and cheap unreflective patriotism that ultimately got a lot of people killed. Confronted with Aparthied South Africa, men like Helms and Falwell used the same "communist" defense. While Mandella wasted away in prison, they dismissed the whole thing as a communist plot.
Let me be clear–This is the ghost that McCain Campaign is summoning. This is the Ring Of Power that they want to wield. The Muslim charge, the "Hussein" thing is nothing more than today’s red-baiting, and it is what it was then–a cover for racists. You may say I’m overreacting, and I really hope you’re right. 999,000 out 1 million times we’ll go on like normal and proceed to Election Day. But if some shit pops off, the thug and thug-mongers will not be able to throw up their hands and say "How could I have known?" Ignorance will not save them. Their stupidity is a scourge on us all.
Let me smack the subtext here out into the open: they’re trying to get him killed. As recently as a few days ago I was content to believe they just wanted to lay the groundwork for the scorched earth campaign against President Obama and a democratic congress. But that’s naive and anyone of my generation should know better…really…
I still remember vividly the day president Kennedy was assassinated. I was home from school, very very sick with a flu and a high fever. I was drifting in and out of sleep with the bed stand radio on, playing soft music. I woke up, to the sound of a man’s voice saying over and over again, "The president has been shot…The president has been shot…The president has been shot…"..
Two days before President Kennedy’s trip to Dallas, right-wingers began circulating around the city some 5,000 anti-Kennedy handbills. Entitled “Wanted for Treason,” these leaflets were designed to look like a police “wanted” poster, with front and profile photographs of Kennedy’s head.
The handbills shrieked:
“This man is wanted for treasonous activities against the United States:
1. Betraying the Constitution (which he is sworn to uphold):
He is turning the sovereignty of the U.S. over to the communist controlled United Nations.
He is betraying our friends (Cuba, Katanga, Portugal) and befriending our enemies (Russia, Yugoslavia, Poland).
2. He has been WRONG on innumerable issues affecting the security of the U.S. (United Nations-Berlin wall-Missile removal-Cuba-Wheat deals-Test Ban Treaty, etc.).
3. He has been lax in enforcing Communist Registration laws.
4. He has given support and encouragement to the Communist inspired racial riots.
5. He has illegally invaded a sovereign State with federal troops.
6. He has consistently appointed Anti-Christians to Federal office:
Upholds the Supreme Court in its Anti-Christian rulings.
Aliens and known Communists abound in Federal offices.
7. He has been caught in fantastic LIES to the American people (including personal ones like his previous marriage and divorce).”
On the very day JFK visited Dallas and died, the local newspaper, The Dallas Morning News, featured a full page, black-bordered anti-Kennedy advertisement prepared and paid for by persons affiliated with the John Birch Society, one of the most infamous right-wing extremist organizations of the 1960’s. The ad claimed to be the work of “The American Fact-Finding Committee,” in reality a nonexistent organization. Bernard Weissman, listed on the ad as the chairman of the Committee, however, did exist; he was the person who actually placed the ad. Weissman later testified before the Warren Commission. He was one of the few witnesses before that body who deemed it prudent to appear accompanied by an attorney.
The ad began with a sarcastic “Welcome Mr. Kennedy to Dallas,” a city which had been the victim of “a recent Liberal smear attempt” and which had prospered “despite efforts by you and your administration to penalize it for non-conformity to ‘New Frontierism’.” The ad then posed a series of belligerent, insulting loaded questions, including:
“Why has Gus Hall, head of the U.S. Communist Party, praised almost every one of your policies and announced that his party will endorse and support your re-election bid?”
“Why have you ordered or permitted your brother Bobby, the Attorney General, to go soft on Communists, fellow-travelers, and ultra-leftists in America, while permitting him to persecute loyal Americans who criticize you, your administration, and your leadership?”
“Why have you scrapped the Monroe Doctrine in favor of the ‘Spirit of Moscow’?”
Later that morning there were disparaging protests by right-wingers against JFK along the route of the presidential motorcade as it traveled from the airport to downtown Dallas. As the motorcade drove through the suburbs, with President Kennedy only minutes from death, an unfriendly-looking man in a business suit stood on a sidewalk in an aggressive posture holding a protest sign which screamed: “Because of high regard for the presidency I hold you JFK and your blind socialism in complete contempt.” (A photograph of this right-wing protester with his sign, taken by Dallas newspaper photographer Tom Dillard, is reproduced on p. 438 of Richard B. Trask’s Pictures of the Pain: Photography and the Assassination of President Kennedy (1994).)
In Dealey Plaza, at the time of the actual assassination, there was at least one right-winger present publicly expressing his scorn for the president. On the sidewalk near the Stemmons Freeway traffic sign, only a few feet from the slow-moving presidential limousine during the very moments rifle bullets were slamming into JFK’s body, a mysterious man stood wearing a suit and, unlike anyone else there, holding up an open, black umbrella on this warm, sunshiny day. (The “Umbrella Man,” as this enigmatic character soon was dubbed, is visible in the Zapruder film. He also can be seen in a famous still color photograph of the assassination taken by amateur photographer Phil Willis. The Willis photo is reproduced on p. 190 of Robert J. Groden’s The Killing of a President (1993).)
The identity of the Umbrella Man remained a secret for 15 years. Then, in September 1978, a man named Louie Steven Witt appeared before the U.S. House of Representatives Select Committee on Assassinations and admitted that he was the Umbrella Man. He told the Committee that he been there in Dealey Plaza to heckle JFK, and that he displayed the umbrella because he was under the impression that brandishing an umbrella would irritate JFK. He testified: “I was going to use this umbrella to heckle the President’s motorcade. … Being a conservative-type fellow, I sort of placed him [JFK] in the liberal camp, and I was just sort of going to kind of do a little heckling. … I just knew it was a sore spot with the Kennedys. … I was carrying that stupid umbrella, intent [on] heckling the President.” Witt denied that the umbrella he had in Dealey Plaza symbolized the appeasement practices of English Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain (who often sported a black umbrella), or that the umbrella was intended to suggest that JFK was appeasing Communism the way Chamberlain had appeased Hitler. This denial is not credible. Among right-wingers, it was an article of faith that JFK’s supposedly soft, weak-kneed policies against the threat of Communism were the equivalent of Chamberlain’s futile attempts to appease Adolf Hitler.
Not even Kennedy’s death at 1 p.m. at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas stopped right-wingers from publicly displaying their loathing of JFK. As William Manchester notes in his classic The Death of a President (1967): “At 3:05 p.m., when 80 percent of the American People were in deep grief, an NBC camera panned toward a group of spectators outside Parkland’s emergency entrance and picked up a young man with a placard that read, ‘Yankee, Go Home.’” (In a wealthy Dallas suburb, Manchester reminds us, “pupils of a fourth-grade class, told that the President of the United States had been murdered in their city, burst into spontaneous applause.”) -JFK Blown Away-Hooray! – D. Wilkes, University of Georgia
If you think the McCain campaign is playing with fire you are sadly mistaken. They Are of the fire. America, and the American Dream, lives or dies depending on how many of us are left, who still believe in it, and will defend it against the mob. Democracies don’t die at the hands of foreign enemies. They die when the mob overwhelms the dream of freedom and liberty and justice for all. The gutter cannot tolerate and will not willingly endure a world, where they have to witness what free men and women are capable of when the chains are cast off, and their dreams take wing. They will burn it all down if they have to, so they don’t have to know what humanity is capable of, that they might have been…
Well after all, California isn’t the only state fighting an anti-gay same sex marriage amendment. Florida and Arizona are also fighting. So in the spirit of we’re all in this together, if you donate to the fight in any one of those states too (any amount), and email me the acknowledgment of your contribution (sans any personal info like SSN or credit card numbers…of course) I will honor the offer I made below to No On 8 in California.
…or photograph. To repeat from the previous post…here’s the deal:
Donate Here to the fight against Proposition 8…the California referendum that would take away the right of same sex couples to marry. You must be a U.S. citizen to contribute. If you donate between now and election day to No On 8 online (for any amount), send me your confirmation email, and I will draw an editorial cartoon on the topic of your choice. Or…alternately…a Mark and Josh cartoon on the topic of your choice.
Or…if my cartoons don’t do it for you…I’ll gladly mail you a signed 11 by 19 print of the image of your choice out of any of my photo galleries.
In a world that can’t seem to hate enough, please do what you can to help same sex couples keep their marriages secure. This poor angry world needs a lot more of this…
Here’s a handy database form you can query to see who is donating to the fight over California proposition 8 (for and against). It’s probably incomplete though, as it says it was updated on the 7th and my donation of $500 dollars (to the folks fighting against of course) doesn’t show up…
You can donate Here to the fight against Prop 8. You must be a U.S. citizen to contribute. Between now and election day, anyone who donates to No On 8 online (any amount) and sends me their confirmation email, can commission from me an editorial cartoon on the topic of their choice. Or…alternately…a Mark and Josh cartoon on the topic of your choice.
Or…if my cartoons don’t do it for you…I’ll gladly mail you a signed 11 by 19 print of the image of your choice out of any of my photo galleries.
Insulting The Owners Of Other Car Brands Is An Iffy Sales Plan
Via Benz Insider… Yes. I know. Mercedes sedans are owned by senile old rich guys. With trophy wives no less…
I’m really not sure who Audi is trying to sell their cars to here, but I’m guessing it’s people who don’t already own a BMW, Mercedes or Lexus. I have to say though…the two girls in the back of that Lexus SUV do the best Wednesday Adams since Christina Ricci in the Adams Family movie. That Lexus family should get its own show. The Adams Family, only instead of everyone being disturbed the same way, everyone is disturbed in their own special way.
As for the old guy in the Mercedes…look…I’ll gladly endure senility, if the ‘S’ class, the mansion, a hot young guy and a good cigar go with it. Was all that supposed to be a disincentive?
I can tell how unsettled my head is, by how odd my dreams get.
Last night I was in a large vacation home with other random friends from various parts of my life. We’d all gathered there for some reason I couldn’t remember. You were there too, but in an upstairs room all by yourself. Of course after yesterday I had to be having a dream about you last night. I didn’t want to disturb you.
My friends are all stringing Christmas lights around the door frames to their rooms…it seems like some sort of project we’d all gotten ourselves into…everyone is decorating their doors with Christmas trimmings. I am trying to untangle a favorite set of Christmas lights from my school days to put it up around the door to my room. But the others all keep telling me to just grab a new set from the stack of unopened ones in the corner. I am wasting time trying to untangle mine they all say, and they probably don’t even work. But I know my old set still works because it is lit up…even though it isn’t plugged in yet. Which is strange but sometimes you just accept strange things in your dreams as though they’re perfectly normal. And the new lights are that style I just hate…all transparent wiring and no colors. My old set has all the colors in it. But try as I might I can’t get it untangled from the knot it’s in.
Then I notice my old collection of 45rpm records was scattered all over the place and I start gathering them up off the tables and chairs and off the floor and putting them back in their carrying case. A friend walks over and asks me if I want to take them back home with me now and I tell him not yet, because you hadn’t heard them yet. I tell the friend they can listen to my 45s too…all they wanted…but they needed to take a little better care of them because they could get scratched up and broken laying around like this. That earns me a shrug.
Then I start hearing footsteps from the floor above us. Another one of my friends tells me that it’s probably one of my co-workers at the Institute getting up for a meeting later. My co-workers are here at the house too…some of them…and we all have a conference to go to later that day. I can hear them walking around upstairs now, getting ready to go.
Suddenly I’m worried you’ve left the house and I didn’t see you go. I walk upstairs and I’m relieved to see the door to your room is still closed, which means you’re still here. But I don’t knock. I don’t want to disturb you. I just want to see you before you go. I’m waiting for you to walk out of your room, so I can talk to you before you leave. You’re still here, but the door is still closed. I notice there are no Christmas lights strung around your door.
I see some more of my friends milling around in another room and more of my 45 collection scattered all over the place. So I start gathering it back up and stacking them neatly. A friend walks over and asks why I’m doing that and I tell him they need to be more careful with my records. Then I notice some of them laying by a window in the sunlight and I move them away and tell my friend not to do that because they’ll warp if they’re left laying in the sunlight. I’m starting to get a little pissed off at the careless way my friends are treating my 45s.
And then…I wake up…
Sometimes, you just have to figure a dream is your mind’s way of sorting out the clutter of your day. Of course you were there…after yesterday’s conversation you pretty much had to be…and I get the closed door and the fear that you were already gone, and the relief that you weren’t…yet. I think I get the Christmas lights. But laying in bed this morning I couldn’t figure out where my 45rpm colleciton fit into it.
I look at my record collection from back then…mostly the 45rpm singles I bought in my middle teen years because back then I wouldn’t spend the price of a whole album unless it was a band I really liked a lot, and I see almost nothing but love songs among them. Granted, that’s mostly what rock has always been. But there was a lot of it back then about life and politics, the war and the struggles our generation was going through. Songs I loved like For What It’s Worth, and Incense and Peppermint…and interestingly enough in retrospect, Hold Your Head Up.
And if it’s bad
Don’t let it get you down, you can take it
And if it hurts
Don’t let them see you cry, you can take it
Hold your head up, hold your head up
Hold your head up, hold your head high
And if they stare
Just let them burn their eyes on you moving
And if they shout
Don’t let them change a thing what you’re doing
Hold your head up, hold your head up
Hold your head up, hold your head high
I don’t think I need to analyze very much why I liked that one. But the songs I turned to again and again alone in my bedroom were the love songs, and what is amazing to me about that in retrospect is that at that age I really didn’t care much for all that gushy love stuff. I was going through my stacks of 45 rpms the other day and it just floored me how much of it was surgery sweet love songs. As I remember that part of my life, I didn’t have much interest in all that love stuff. But then, nobody told me I could fall in love with a guy either.
I wasn’t paying much attention to the lyrics in those songs, but something in the music itself spoke to me, in a way that the lyrics, speaking only to the straight boys in the audience, never could. I would connect with it instantly when I heard it on the radio, and like a flash I was down to the record store to by the single. It would be years before I would find myself listening to the lyrics. I had to grow into myself as a gay man first, and then learn the trick a lot of gay guys have to learn in this world, of mentally changing a pronoun as I listen…
You know that it would be untrue
You know that I would be a liar
If I was to say to you
[Girl], we couldn’t get much higher
Come on baby, light my fire
Come on baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
I never really paid much attention to those lyrics at first. Just the music, and the sultry sound of Morrison’s voice.
You are all the [woman] I need, and baby you know it,
You can make this beggar a king, a clown or a poet.
I’ll give you all that I own.
You got me standing in line
Out in the cold,
pay me some mind.
Bend me, shape me
Anyway you want me,
Long as you love me, it’s all right
Bend me, shape me
Anyway you want me,
You got the power to turn on the light.
Something in the music spoke to me, in a way the lyrics just didn’t. My record collection is full of these kinds of songs. Bubblegum pop mostly, as they called it back then. In another world, there would have been some that spoke directly to gay guys, or at least was gender neutral enough that I could have taken the lyrics to heart as much as I did the music. But even back then, well before I came out to myself as a gay man, I had a soul for sweet love songs. Perhaps…a tad too sweet.
Okay…now the 45s make sense. Especially the part about my friends (the ones that were there in the house anyway…they weren’t all there…), treating them so carelessly. That was my heart they were treating so carelessly. And of course, what I was trying to save for you.
You said over and over to me yesterday that a relationship between us would happen someday. "It’ll happen", you said. "It’ll happen." Over and over you said that. But "now isn’t a good time". It was more then I’d ever expected to hear from you in my wildest dreams. Okay. Fine. I can wait, if that’s what you want. Whenever you are ready, I’ll be here. But I think something else needs to happen too. You need to love yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you. There was never anything wrong with you. "Maybe after we’re retired", you said. Waiting for age to take desires you’ve always hated having away isn’t a plan.
Okay…I had a crush once upon a time. Okay…I guess I still do. Back then you knew how to push my buttons. And you did. And I loved it. Even if I didn’t have the words to say so back then. Life was sweet…so very very sweet. But we went our separate ways, time passes, the universe expands, and now our lives are what they are. I understand this. I don’t want to complicate the life you have now and I’m not a home wrecker. But I guess coming back into your life has complicated it after all and I’m sorry. I just had to find you.
All I wanted now after all these years was to just be friends, at a distance, since you have your life where you are and I have mine here in Baltimore and nothing can change now without causing a lot of problems for both of us and the last thing on earth I’d ever want is to cause you hurt in any way. But I figured maybe I could come see you and chat over lunch or dinner or something every now and then. But you’re afraid of what might happen. And I was afraid that might be the case. But…as it turns out…you’re not afraid of what I might do, so much as what you might do. Let me guess…you don’t want to turn a friendship into something dirty. Where have I heard that before?
I’m a grown man now and so are you and we both understand the risks here. That’s why I’ve never suggested anything more happens then we just remain friends at a distance. There are perfectly good reasons for me to stay away. I know this. I accept it. But there is nothing wrong with you. Or me. There are plenty of very good reasons why I should keep my distance now, and maybe even forever…but that isn’t one of them.
I should note this day for posterity on my calendars from now on. It’s been the bitterest day of my life, for a reason I won’t go into here. I mean…I’d actually Love to go into it…the blog has been a kind of therapy for me ever since I started it, since I live alone here in Baltimore and don’t have a companion I can actually…you know…talk to. But there are certain someones out there I just don’t want to let see that particular small corner of my heart anymore. I feel abused. So I can’t really talk about what happened today, even here. Much as I’d like to really get it out. I’ve been wandering around in an all too familiar daze all day since it happened.
It’s almost exactly like it was back in the late 1980s, when I fled every creative outlet I had because I just didn’t want to look to closely into my heart anymore, and I started plinking around with computers because I could be creative writing code and I discovered that code could be beautiful and elegant and crafting these beautiful and elegant algorithms didn’t involve my heart but only my brain. All afternoon I was just completely zoned out and yet I was coding like mad. Like the only existence I had was in the code. The code was a safe place. I didn’t have to have a life there, didn’t need a heart, just a brain capable of parsing structured syntax and thinking logically, and some problems to solve.
No I didn’t get laid off…although I’m always expecting that will happen eventually. With the coming post-Bush budget woes NASA certainly will be facing heavy cutbacks, probably of the sort it felt in the 1970s and 80s after Apollo ended. I have no idea what I might do with myself after Space Telescope, when and if that ever happens. But for now I’ll be slightly amazed if I even survive the coming winter.
The wind never seems to stop here on the plains. It is October in Wyoming, and the wind carries with it a chill now. The first tentative breath of winter dances restlessly over rolling hills of sage. The days have grown short, the nights cold. And long. Very long. And quiet, save only for the sound of the wind.
Take a walk tonight across the rolling hills of Wyoming sage. Leave the town lights twinkling in the distance behind you. Walk toward the mountains in the darkness ahead. There is only you here tonight. You, and the wind, and the stars in the sky, so far away. So very far away. Around you are only rolling hills of grass and sage, fading into the night. There are remnants of what looks like a small wooden fence here, that was torn down some time ago.
Listen to the wind. Listen carefully. There are ghosts here on the plains. Hear them talk tonight among themselves…
No one knows why Matthew was determined to go to the Fireside that night, or why he left with Aaron and Russell. It was karaoke night, which would not ordinarily have interested him. There was some speculation that he was buying drugs from Aaron and Russell, but his friends find that implausible. A close friend thinks that depression may have weakened his judgment, and wonders if he had taken a heavy dose of Klonopin before he went to the bar. "When he was depressed," she says, "he would just grab a handful." Romaine Patterson remembers how in the coffee shop where she worked Matthew "would just talk to anyone-people no one else would talk to, like this weird old man…. He had no discrimination in his person." -Vanity Fair
Shortly after midnight on October 7, 1998, 20-year-old Shepard met McKinney and Henderson in a bar. McKinney and Henderson offered Shepard a ride in their car. Subsequently, Shepard was robbed, pistol whipped, tortured, tied to a fence in a remote, rural area, and left to die. McKinney and Henderson also found out his address and intended to rob his home. Still tied to the fence, Shepard was discovered eighteen hours later by a cyclist, who at first thought that Shepard was a scarecrow. At the time of discovery, Shepard was still alive, but in a coma. -Wikipedia
Aaron Kreifels first met Matthew Shepard in a dream last Thursday night, the night after he discovered his fellow University of Wyoming student badly beaten, barely alive and tied up to a fence outside of Laramie.
Although Shepard was in Fort Collins by then, kept alive by an array of life-support machines in Poudre Valley Hospital’s intensive-care unit, Kreifels said the gay student, who was beaten beyond recognition, allegedly by two young Laramie roofers, perhaps because he was gay, came to visit his rescuer in a dream that night. Kreifels doesn’t remember much of the dream, but he said Wednesday that he awoke the next morning comforted by the vague sensation of having met the person he found in such bad shape two days before.
Although early reports indicated that two mountain bikers had discovered Shepard on the crude fence on an old, double-rutted road, Kreifels was alone that evening, struggling on his mountain bike through deep sand and for some reason ignoring a desire to turn back and find another, easier way back to town. Before he knew it, he had fallen. He was on the ground, his front wheel broken beyond repair. He was unhurt, but what he saw as he got up struck him cold.
"I got up and noticed something out of the corner of my eye,” he said from his room in a freshman dorm at the University of Wyoming on Wednesday. "At first I thought it was a scarecrow, so I didn’t think much of it. Then I went around and noticed it was a real person. I checked to see if he was conscious or not, and when I found out he wasn’t, I ran and got help as fast as I could.”
As the former high school crosscountry runner traversed the quarter- to half-mile of scrub prairie between him and the nearest house in the nearby Sherman Hills subdivision, his thoughts froze before quickly accelerating.
"It was distressing. I was panicked for a couple minutes, because I wanted to make sure I could do all I could do to help save him,” he said. -The Denver Post
Officer Reggie Fluty: When I got there, the first – at first the only thing I could see was partially somebody’s feet and I got out of my vehicle and raced over – I seen what appeared to be a young man, thirteen, fourteen years old, because he was so tiny, laying on his back and he was tied to the bottome of the end of a pole.
I did the best I could. The gentleman that was laying on the ground, Matthew Shepard, he was covered in dry blood all over his head. There was dry blood underneath him and he was barely breathing…he was doing the best he could.
I was going to breath for him and I couldn’t get his mouth open – his mouth wouldn’t open for me.
He was covered in, like I said, partially dry blood and blood all over his head – the only place that he did not have any blood on him, on his face, was what appeared to be where he had been crying down his face. -The Laramie Project
Shepard suffered a fracture from the back of his head to the front of his right ear. He had severe brain stem damage, which affected his body’s ability to regulate heart rate, body temperature and other vital signs. There were also about a dozen small lacerations around his head, face and neck. His injuries were deemed too severe for doctors to operate. -Wikipedia
At the Poudre Valley Hospital in Fort Collins, Colorado, Matthew lay in bed down the hall from Aaron McKinney. Matthew was comatose; his brain stem which controls heartbeat, breathing, temperature, and other involuntary functions – was severely damaged. He also was suffering from hypothermia and had a red welt on his back, a red mark on his left arm, bruised knees, cuts on his head, neck, and face, and bruising in his groin. -Vanity Fair
Dr. Cantway: I was working the emergency room the night Matthew Shepard was brought in. I don’t think, that any of us, ah, can remember seeing a patient in that condition for a long time – those of us who’ve worked in big city hospitals have seen this. Ah, but it’s not something you expect here.
Ah, you expect it, you expect this kind of injuries to come from a car going down a hill at eighty miles an hour. You expect to see gross injuries from something like that – this horrendous, terrible thing. Ah, but you don’t expect to see that from someone doing this to another person.
The ambulance report said it was a beating so we knew. -The Laramie Project
Exactly a week after his tragic discovery, Kreifels, 18, an architectural engineering major from Grand Island, Neb., said he tries not to think about the condition in which he found the classmate he had never seen before. Authorities say Shepard’s assailants repeatedly beat him with the butt of a .357 Magnum, fracturing his skull. Kreifels doesn’t talk about it.
"I don’t really want to go into details about that,” he said.
-The Denver Post
Aaron Kreifels: I keep seeing that picture in my head when I found him…and it’s not pleasant whatsoever. I don’t want it to be there. I wanna like get it out. That’s the biggest part for me is seeing that picture in my head. And it’s kind of unbelievable to me, you know, that – I happened to be the person who found him – because the big question with me, like with my religion, is like, Why did God want ME to find him? -The Laramie Project
”They were inseparable, they lived together for half a century, effectively like husband and wife. There were repeated allegations during [Newman’s] lifetime about his circle of homosexual friends. It is uncertain whether their relationship involved sex. It is quite likely that both men had a gay orientation but chose to abstain from sexual relations. But abstinence does not alter a person’s sexual orientation.”
Peter Tatchell, a British gay rights activist, remarking on the life of the late Cardinal John Henry Newman, an influential Catholic thinker, who may be granted full Sainthood by the Catholic Church despite the probability of a homo-relational life spent with his male companion, Ambrose Saint John.
At his own request, Newman was buried in the same grave as Ambrose St John. He had stated on three occasions his desire to be buried with his friend, including shortly before his death in 1890: "I wish, with all my heart, to be buried in Fr Ambrose St John’s grave – and I give this as my last, my imperative will", he wrote, later adding: "This I confirm and insist on."
–Wikipedia Entry on John Henry Newman
The long-running battle between gay rights activists and the Vatican has moved into the realm of the dead. With 19th century Anglican convert Cardinal John Henry Newman, arguably the greatest Catholic thinker from the English-speaking world, moving ever closer to sainthood, trouble is brewing over where his final resting place should be. The London-born historian and theologian died in 1890 and, following the instructions in his will, was buried beside his lifelong friend and fellow convert Ambrose St. John, who had died 15 years earlier. Newman’s deep expressions of grief after St. John’s death, along with other writings, have led some historians to ask whether the two men, who lived together for many years, lived much like common-law spouses.
Newman, whose ideas on conscience and faith have influenced Christian theology ever since, is expected to be beatified next year following the Vatican’s recent certification of a Newman miracle — when a Boston man’s cure from a crippling spinal disease could not be explained medically. The final step of canonization — full Sainthood — will require proof of an additional miracle achieved through the intercession of Newman’s spirit. The Vatican announced plans this month to move Newman’s remains from a small gravesite in the central English town of Rednal to a specially built sarcophagus in the Oratory Church of Birmingham, where, officials say, they will be more accessible for venerating faithful.
-Time Magazine
Although the passionate love between them was entirely chaste, the campaigners were seeking to claim — extravagantly — that Newman’s was a "same-sex relationship" which the Catholic Church was trying to suppress, an accusation Rome felt the need to scotch. But even those who did not believe Newman was a "closet homosexual" were still concerned that Newman’s body was going to be dismembered to extract relics. For such an English saint — the first non-martyr since the Reformation to be raised to the altars – it all seemed a little, well, Mediterranean.
(It has also been a running joke for religious correspondents, who have been proposing a "graveside webcam" to cover the disinternment, and speculating at the embarrassment that would follow from the discovery that the body of St John, not Newman’s, had been preserved.)
The grave of the 19th Century Cardinal John Henry Newman did not contain his body, the Catholic Church has revealed.
The plot, at the Oratory House, Rednal, near Birmingham, was excavated on Thursday at the Vatican’s instruction.
His remains were to have been moved to the Birmingham Oratory, in preparation for Newman’s anticipated beatification.
Newman’s body may have decomposed, as his coffin was not lead-lined. Its absence will not affect the progress of his cause in Rome, a spokesman said.
In a statement released on Saturday, Peter Jennings from the Fathers of the Birmingham Oratory, said: "Brass, wooden and cloth artefacts from Cardinal Newman’s coffin were found.
Newman was actually laid to rest, per his wishes, in St. John’s tomb. That’s what makes the joke Ivereigh mentions of particular interest. Regardless of whether their relationship ever became a physical one, Newman clearly and deeply loved St. John. That’s why his body had to be removed from St. John’s tomb before he could be canonized. The dehumanization of homosexual people proceeds not from a denial that sex between same sex lovers is natural, but from a denial that we love. Homosexuals don’t love, they just have sex. It isn’t the suggestion that Newman ever had sex with the man he loved that outrages the likes of Ratzinger. It’s the fact that he loved another man, and was loved by him, and that their love was vital to both of them. That is what simply cannot be. Not that they had sex, but that they loved each other. That is why Newman’s body had to be dug up, and separated from St. John’s. In his jihad on gay people, Pope Ratzinger isn’t one to let mere death prevent him from separating same sex lovers.
But when the tomb was opened they found no remains. Both men were gone. No Newman, No St. John. The tomb was empty.
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