IGF CultureWatch

I came out in the 1990s at the tail of the glory days of gay culture. There were gay bookstores then in most major cities, and a mix of gay social clubs, where you could gather to bowl, two step, play cards or organize for LGBT rights.

Most important, there was a gay paper in every city that could sustain one.

At the time, the mainstream media didn't cover gay issues often or well. The New York Times called us homosexuals and didn't cover our unions in their social pages. It was tough to find articles about our rights that didn't have an obligatory quote from a religious conservative explaining that being gay is immoral, wrong and in many places illegal.

Before the internet, the gay press was the only place where you could find reliable, objective information about LGBT issues. It was the only place you could learn about vigils, bars specials, group gatherings, protests.

And now it is disappearing.

The demise this week of the Washington Blade (40 years old), Southern Voice (20 years) and other publications owned by Window Media hit me hard. Like many young gay writers who came out in the 80s and 90s, my first job was at a gay paper. I learned how to interview politicians, how to report on events, how to copy edit and assign stories and crop photos and layout pages. And I gathered deep knowledge about gay and lesbian history, icons, politics, culture.

Gay papers are our community's treasure. The stories there are more local and gay-specific than the mainstream media, more reflective and better reported than what often appears on the internet. Gay reporters who work at gay papers take politicians to task and hold them to their promises. And gay papers themselves - since they are staffed by a small group not by individuals working remotely - pass along knowledge, skills and expertise to the next generation of gay reporters.

Blogs are wonderful, of course. We all read them. They can disseminate a lot of information quickly. But they also get things wrong; and in the constant churn of information, important stories - stories that dominate front pages for a week - can be lost under other, less significant posts.

And don't forget that few blogs actually report news - most only link to and comment on news that has already been reported by other sites.

Newspapers as a class are being killed by many things besides blogs. The rise of free and convenient information and news on the web. The loss of classified advertising to sites like Craigslist. The expense of paper.

And the gay press is further hurt by the rise of gay reporting in the mainstream media.

But don't be fooled. Just like chain bookstores reduced their gay and lesbian section to barely an aisle after forcing local gay and feminist bookstores out of business, the mainstream media reports only on stories about the gay community that are of mainsteam - not LGBT - interest.

Gay papers and gay reporters are important. We need to support and nurture the ones we have. Perhaps, too, we need a new model - something like Pro Publica, the non-profit organization devoted to investigative news gathering. If we were able to gather the best LGBT reporters from around the country and give them the resources to investigate important local stories, we could provide fuel to activists and bloggers everywhere.

I mourn the Washington Blade and all the other gay papers now gone that both built a community and explained it to itself.

But I celebrate the papers we have left. And I admire the reporters who staff them, providing the information to our community we just can't get anywhere else.

It's November, which means bookstores have next year's calendars on display.

When I was a teenager, this annual occurrence unnerved me. The "male interest" calendars"-think "Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model of the Month"-held no appeal for me. Instead, I would nervously reach for a Chippendales calendar, hiding it behind something innocuously themed (race cars, puppies, whatever) so that I could stare admiringly at half-naked men. As soon as I noticed anyone approaching, I would throw both calendars back on the shelf and dart out of the store.

I laugh now at the thought that I could ever find the overly pumped and coiffed 1980's Chippendales dancers appealing. But when I see these calendars on the shelves today, I still feel a residual emotional tug. Like the underwear models in the J.C. Penney catalog (and so many other ordinary features of American life), the calendars were a painful signal: you are not like other boys.

I noticed a calendar display in a bookstore the other day just shortly after receiving an e-mail from a reader complaining that I waste too much time trying to win over straight society's approval. "When are you going to stop seeking other people's acceptance?" he asks.

My answer? I'll stop seeking it once we get it.

The calendars reminded me of why. It's not because I'm still scared that other people will know my "secret." Today, I can walk into a bookstore and look at whatever I want. Indeed, I sometimes make a point of picking up the "female interest" calendars just to remind myself-and anyone else watching-that I can. It's my way of saying: No, I am not like (most) other boys, and I'm okay with that. Honestly, I really don't give a flying fig whether you give me a dirty look when I do it.

But there are plenty of boys and girls growing up who are not there yet. They still get unnerved when they see the calendars, or the catalogs, or countless other possible triggers. They still feel that nauseous shame and isolation. They have yet to learn that the feelings they dread can eventually be a source of great joy, and beauty, and comfort.

Social approval can make a huge difference in the lives of these kids, not to mention those who come after them.

This is one significant way in which LGBT people differ from most other minority groups. Whereas black children generally have black parents, Jewish children generally have Jewish parents, and so on, LGBT people can have any sort of parents-and most often have straight ones. Far from being able to take for granted our parents' understanding of the discrimination we face, we often have to struggle for their acceptance, too.

So while their parents' opinion on homosexuality may not directly matter to me, you can be damn sure it matters to them.

I don't mean that they can't go on to have happy, fulfilling, successful lives even if their parents ultimately reject them. I just mean that doing so will be harder-needlessly, sometimes tragically so.

Moreover, it's not as if I have no stake at all in their parents' opinion. As we've seen over and over, their opinion affects how they vote. And their votes make a difference to our legal rights, whether we like it or not.

Of course it isn't fair. But that doesn't mean it isn't true.

So I'll stop seeking their approval when we get it, and not a moment sooner. Because their approval helps make our political struggle easier. Because it's crucial to the lives of their kids, some of whom are LGBT. And because it's the right thing.

When I was a "fag" on the junior high playground, getting punched hurt even when I saw it coming. So too with Maine this past week.

Like many, I was dispirited but not surprised when we lost. The rights of minorities (gays especially) generally don't do well when put to a popular vote. And the opposition's central message-that gays want to influence schoolchildren-remains as effective as it is sinister.

The message conjures up the image of gays as child molesters-a myth debunked but never fully extinguished.

A slightly less sinister (but still false) version portrays us as anti-family and anti-morality. Still another falsehood is that we're trying to "recruit."

Then there's the underlying truth that sustains the myth as plausible. Yes, of course marriage equality will affect what children are taught in schools, because if same-sex marriage is legal, they will naturally be taught that it's legal. That it's an option for consenting adults who want it. That women sometimes fall in love with women, and men with men, and live happily ever after.

We should not shrink from saying these things, but we do. No doubt, the ugliness of the sinister versions-not to mention our opponents' penchant for quoting us out of context-makes us nervous about discussing the truthful version. And that's surely one lesson of this loss: the closet is still powerful, and our opponents use it to their advantage.

But we will not go back in the closet again.

We will keep telling our stories. We will keep showing our faces. We will keep getting married, even if-for now-Maine doesn't legally recognize our relationships. We will not go back in the closet again.

And though we've lost this particular battle, we will continue to win the war.

On the same day that Maine voters took away marriage equality, Detroit (where I live) elected an openly gay City Council President. This, in a city that's 84% African-American and where churches exert considerable political influence. The rest of the country hardly noticed, but Detroit defied several stereotypes on Tuesday.

His name is Charles Pugh. A popular newscaster before running for City Council, Pugh was actually endorsed by both the Council of Baptist Pastors and the AME Ministerial Alliance. They knew he was gay and they endorsed him anyway.

One could argue that Pugh was endorsed-and won-because of name recognition. Detroit elects all nine council members at-large, and the top vote getter automatically becomes council president. It's a dumb system in several ways, and in the past it has resulted in famous but incompetent council members-Martha Reeves, of Martha and the Vandellas, leaps to mind. (Incidentally, in this year's primary Reeves was voted out, and in the general election voters overwhelming approved a referendum for council-by-district.)

But even if Pugh's landslide can be attributed to sheer popularity, it sends an encouraging message about the way the world is changing. Being openly gay is no longer an absolute bar to getting public support. And even those who regularly oppose us will sometimes let other factors trump whatever makes us scary otherwise.

Meanwhile, the more they know us, the less scary we become.

It's unfair and unfortunate that we need to work harder than our opponents to win. They win by exploiting fear, which is easy to do when you're in the majority. We win by building relationships-by letting voters know who we really are. That takes time.

So our opponents have a soundbite edge, but we have a long-term advantage. The closet is crumbling.

In the wake of the Maine loss, we will catch our breath and press on. We will continue to live our lives; we will keep speaking our truth. We will stand up in the firm conviction that our love is real, and valuable, and worthy of equal treatment under the law.

Because whatever legal roadblocks they may put in our way, we will never go back in the closet again.

Maybe it was the cold weather. Or perhaps it was the rival protest across the park competing for the attention of passerby. Or maybe it was the oddity of seeing Maggie Gallagher, president of the National Organization for Marriage, sitting smugly on a nearby bench, letting loose a sly smile as she watched the anguished faces of those standing before her.

But these features of the hastily arranged rally yesterday in Washington, D.C.'s Dupont Circle - the focus for most of the city's earnest protests - just exacerbated what was already a depressing moment for gay rights this week, when Maine voters chose to repeal the state's same-sex marriage law on Tuesday. There was, predictably, a great deal of anger, including the occasional f bomb. But the assembled Washingtonians were well behaved; certainly to the extent that Gallagher could feel safe sitting quietly by herself to watch the proceedings. So much for her complaints, registered shrilly and frequently in the wake of the success of Proposition 8 last year, that gay rights activists physically "intimidate" her and other opponents of marriage equality. If there was a horde of angry, violent lesbians out for her head, they were nowhere to be found that chilly October evening.

But perhaps the most disheartening, and telling, aspect of Tuesday's loss was the rude awakening offered by President Barack Obama's silence. In December of last year, responding to complaints over his selection of the controversial Pastor Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at his inauguration, Obama pledged to be "a fierce advocate for gay and lesbian Americans." It was a promise he had made repeatedly on the campaign trail, to the extent that he raised more money from gay donors than any other presidential candidate in American history. Yet that much-ballyhooed advocacy was nowhere in sight these past few months, as those hoping to maintain Maine's legislatively enacted law permitting gay marriage fought tooth and nail to keep it on the books.

That silence was shared by Obama's former campaign organization, Organizing for America, since subsumed by the Democratic National Committee. As blogger John Aravosis discovered, OFA did not mention the initiative in any of its literature or e-mails sent out to its supporters in Maine. Never mind the president - as for the White House, it could only bring itself around to issuing a halfhearted statement after The Advocate's indefatigable Kerry Eleveld prodded them into offering some sort of explanation of where they stood. That mealymouthed statement, reiterating the president's logically untenable opposition to both gay marriage and ballot initiatives banning it, did not even mention Maine by name, nor did it include any reference to a similar battle in Washington state, where voters were given the opportunity to vote to uphold or repeal a law giving expanded domestic-partnership benefits to gay couples. That measure fortunately passed - the first time that state-level benefits have been granted to gays by popular vote - no thanks due, however, to the "fierce advocate" in the White House.

But Maine is where marriage was up for consideration, and it was there that the real gay rights battle of the year transpired. Maine is in solid blue New England territory, and given the recent marriage victories in Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Vermont, many predicted - hubristically - that similar fortune would befall them in the Pine Tree State.

That it did not is doubly depressing.

Still, the gloating by the likes of Gallagher will be short-lived. Yesterday, she told The New York Times, "Maine is one of the most secular states in the nation. It's socially liberal. They had a three-year head start to build their organization, and they outspent us two to one. If they can't win there, it really does tell you the majority of Americans are not on board with this gay marriage thing."

Gallagher may be right in her last assertion, but the number of voters opposing gay marriage declines with each successive poll, and all the data shows support for gay marriage trending higher with younger voters. According to census projections, Maine has the third-largest percentage of voters over the age of 65. Not only do these voters represent a critical mass of people who will be inclined to oppose gay marriage, they also will turn out to vote in higher numbers than younger citizens.

Such observations will not offer much consolation to the gay couples in Maine who saw such a basic civil right snatched from them by their fellow citizens. Nor will it provide succor to the nationwide advocates of marriage equality, gay and straight alike, who have banked so much on a state-by-state strategy. In the wake of the Maine defeat, many are beginning to question the wisdom of that approach and are looking with newfound hope to the federal lawsuit filed by superstar lawyers David Boies and Ted Olson challenging the legality of Proposition 8.

Bringing such a case to the Supreme Court is a risky plan that could reap massive dividends if it succeeds or tragic consequences if it fails. And while the local strategy may not have worked this time in Maine, it has worked thus far in several other states, and the results will only get better with time. Rest assured that the day will soon come when Maggie Gallagher won't be sitting quite so contentedly, smiling at the people whose rights she's spent so much effort to strip away.

No one can tell my girlfriend is gay.

An example: About two years ago, Jenny and a gay male friend went to San Francisco in June. They were excited to celebrate Pride.

But first they were hungry, so they approached a short gay guy wearing leather. "Anyplace around here we can get Mexican food?" Jenny asked.

The man looked them up and down and then said with a condescending sigh, "The Mexican neighborhood is a few blocks over. This is the Castro. I just want to let you know that there will be a lot of people here, because there's a thing happening called Gay Pride, so if you really want to stay in the neighborhood, there will be long waits." Jenny and her friend stared at him in disbelief.

"I am a lesbian standing with a gay guy in the Castro," Jenny said to me later. "And even then, no one knows I'm gay."

I think this is funny, because to me Jenny is obviously gay. Sure, she keeps her curly hair long. She wears makeup. But she tends to gesture like a boy, she talks low in her throat and her nails are short. In these post-'L' Word glamour lesbian days, those should be all the cues another gay person needs.

But no.

Not even gay people can tell that Jenny is gay, and it makes her sad.

"How can you be part of a community if no one can see you?" she asks.

Humans are a tribal animal, and if you're gay, the LGBTcommunity is your tribe. We want other gay people to recognize us, because it makes us feel less alone. It makes us feel like part of something.

"Also, being gay is more fun," Jenny says.

Back in the early '90s era of identity politics, recognition was easy. We wore rainbow rings around our necks, pink and black triangles in our ears, shirts with slogans like "No one knows I'm a lesbian" on our torsos.

When we came out, lesbians automatically cut their hair and stopped wearing makeup completely.

But as the movement has gotten older, lesbians - and gay men, too - have stopped conforming to a narrow (if highly recognizable) stereotype and instead have found ways to be both gay and deeply ourselves. We now know that if we like the feeling of long hair against our shoulders, if we like the way our eyes look when rimmed with mascara, if we like the swish of skirts against our knees or the brisk click of heels, then that's OK.

We can be butch all the time, sometimes or never. Whatever we choose to wear, we're still lesbians.

But while society has gradually grown more accustomed to the idea that gay people can be flamboyant or perfectly ordinary, we in the gay community don't always recognize our more subtle brothers and sisters on the street. We assume heterosexuality. Even in our own neighborhoods and our own shops.

Yesterday, Jenny walked into a cafe. "Feminist Salads" was chalked on the menu board. Ani DiFranco growled over the sound system. And the woman behind the counter, pierced and short-haired, was so clearly lesbian she could have been wearing a name-tag.

"I kept joking with her and talking to her, wanting her to know I was gay without actually saying, 'Hey, I'm gay!' or 'Hey, I have a girlfriend at home!'" Jenny told me later.

"I looked at her and felt a sense of connection - and I wanted her to have that sense of connection, too. But of course she didn't."

So Jenny left, feeling more isolated than if the barista had been straight. Because the woman didn't see her.