Memory Lane: Arrests at Yale University Conference

After barely graduating in 1985 with a degree in Writing and Computer Science from MIT due to my activism there, I hightailed it back to the San Francisco Bay Area where I was hired at Sun Microsystems as a technical writer. The guy who hired me was an anarchist and one of the reasons I got hired was because of my nonviolent anarchist philosophy and activism.

I led a dual life as a well-compensated corporate worker and as an activist for a variety of causes. After the release of a computer called the SPARCstation 1, for which I had worked outrageous hours producing a new set of manuals that made it possible for non-technical users to use the machine, management rewarded me by proposing a paid leave of absence so I could relax and recuperate. When they mentioned the possibility to me, I was overjoyed and requested a year’s sabbatical to travel around the world. When I told my manager this, she gulped and said she’d check to see if it was possible. After checking with her boss, she came back and told me that if I insisted — which I had by telling them I was planning to leave the company if they didn’t grant me the time away — then they would give me a few months paid leave and would try to rehire me upon my return if a position was available.

So, off I went. My first stop on the trip was in October 1989 at Yale University for the Third Gay and Lesbian Studies Conference, organized primarily by a Yale history professor and department head known as John Boswell, author of Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality and of Same-Sex Unions in Pre-Modern Europe.

The conference was rather unique in that quite a few activists — queer activists — attended, including myself. It was the heyday of Queer Nation and its in-your-face direct action tactics for queer activism.

At at the conference, I met the likes of John Boswell, Vito Russo, Larry Kramer, Jonathan Katz (well, I already knew him from activist circles in San Francisco), and a host of others.

The conference was well-run and had the excitement of a groundbreaking moment in history. The sessions were well-attended and provoked fascinating dialogues that lasted long into the night.

At one plenary session, someone ran into the room and yelled that the Yale police were arresting one of the conference attendees. Naturally, this shocked the crowd. The surprising reaction of the crowd was to relocate en masse to the scene of the arrest. Apparently, the Yale police were upset with an activist from a group called Arms Akimbo who was posting somewhat provocative flyers around the university campus.

They were quite surprised when a crowd of dozens of conference attendees arrived at the scene. Once it became clear what had happened, the crowd surrounded the police vehicle and requested the release of the activist in police custody. The police refused, and in the ensuing melee, a half-dozen more activists were arrested for lying down in front of the police car to block its progress. I was one of those arrested. We were taken in a police wagon to the jail in New Haven and I remember being excited and not at all scared. (Even previously on my first of many arrests for civil disobedience, the rush of it all kept me from being truly frightened.) We talked amongst ourselves, reassured each other, and developed a sense of solidarity that we would not budge until all of us were released. Not anticipating an arrest, most of us had identification on us, so it was not a question of whether we would be identified.

Meanwhile, John Boswell had contacted the president of Yale University and was negotiating for our release. Apparently the president of Yale got on the horn with the chief of New Haven police. I can only speculate that he applied pressure to avoid the embarrassment of the conference arrests becoming widely publicized by urging the chief to release us rapidly. Somehow, we were processed within hours and released with orders to appear in court on a later date. If my memory is correct, they released us without us signing any promise to appear, although I may have that part wrong. The reason I think that is that I was scheduled to continue on my trip around the world. So I wrote a letter to the judge, which I left with one of my fellow arrestees. In the letter, I explained that my pressing responsibilities for this trip prevented me from making a court appearance what I consider to be a spurious arrest that compromised the free-speech rights of the conference participant. I went merrily on my way with my travels and, to this day, I’m not sure how my case was resolved in the court. My memory is that the others had their cases dropped with no further penalty. But who knows, I may still have an outstanding warrant for my arrest in New Haven.

Open Letter to Barebackers, Bug Chasers, and You Who Don’t Care

Dear Barebackers, Bug Chasers, and You Who Don’t Care,

I’m all for freedom, so my first thought is to tell you, “Go for it, find your own way through this life. Do whatever you like as long as you aren’t hurting others.” I would never sic the law on you for consensual adult activities like fucking without a condom or using crystal meth because I believe in your personal liberty.

Our culture has caused problems for every one of us in one way or another. Growing up with a constant stream of abuse and discrimination against queer people — whether or not directed specifically at any one of us — takes its toll on all of us. Some struggle to have pride because we didn’t have it before. Some become macho men to counter the stereotype that fags are sissies. And some assimilate into queer consumer culture claiming that we no longer face discrimination so we no longer have to fight for our rights.

I was a big drug user. It started in high school as a way to find acceptance, to hang around hot guys among the stoner crowd and to avoid dealing with my attractions to them. Fortunately for me, my drugs of choice weren’t really addictive. I didn’t get trapped in a box of using and needing to use more until my body started to waste away. But some of my friends got addicted and more likely will.

I fucked a lot too. In college, we had a club where you had to have sex with two other members at the same time to join. Fortunately for me, my sex of choice wasn’t really risky. I prefer being a top, so once AIDS came around, it was fairly easy to avoid getting fucked without a condom. But some of my friends fucked unsafely a lot and more likely will.

In the earlier days of the disease, I stood by helplessly as my friend Richard, who had AIDS, lost his mind and lost control of his body, screaming incoherently as they dragged him off to the hospital where he went to die.

Even with the drugs available today, friends who have HIV often have to pop pills multiple times every day, fighting off the side effects of the meds. Some face troublesome health complications and others just don’t make it because they get drug-resistant strains of the disease or decide not to seek conventional treatment until it’s too late.

I stood by helplessly as my friend Todd got hooked on meth. Looking for love in the raver crowd, he did what everyone else wanted him to do until his body shrank, his face grew gaunt, and he got nervous ticks and twitches. He couldn’t concentrate on anything anymore and, as he says, the drug became “an evil necessity” so that he couldn’t have sex or function at all without it. He got HIV while he was high. And reaching rock bottom with an overdose, he’s actually one of the luckier ones who had the resources to get into a rehab clinic and try to clean himself up.

When I go the bars, the sex clubs, or the chat rooms online, I see lots of guys cruising for bareback sex and pnp (party ‘n play), using drugs for sex. I read that the rates of younger and older queer guys getting HIV are going up. Then, we have the higher rates of suicide, especially among queer youth.

I’m writing to you because I care and it’s tearing me up inside to watch you and live among you.

I want to live in a place where we have faced the odds stacked against us and responded by connecting and taking care of each other, living fulfilling lives in a supportive community.

I want to live in a place where we have exorcised the personal demons of low self-esteem and self-destruction — whatever the combination of internal struggle or external abuse that caused them — and responded by taking care of ourselves so we can live fulfilling lives in a supportive community.

It seems like most everyone is at a loss for how to prevent these problems.

My intuition is that it starts with caring.

Caring enough to see the people inside the bodies in the cars and walking down the street. Caring enough to tell people it’s totally fine to be queer in this crazy homophobic era. Caring enough to love people with the color of their skin and the cultures they come from. Caring enough to love people of the gender we don’t necessarily want to fuck. Caring enough to love people in whatever place they come from enough to offer a helping hand when we can and when it helps, rather than hinders, the situation. Caring enough to take action for constructive social change. Caring enough to discuss drug use and sex practices with our friends. Caring enough to choose not to pass HIV on to others.

And most important, caring enough about ourselves to get to a place beyond low self-esteem, drug abuse, unsafe sex, and self-destruction to a place of heightened self-esteem, hot sex that affirms life, and friendships that form a community of support that strengthens us all.

de lejos

soporte en un paso abajo
charla en su oído
muchedumbre ruido música
tire de mí llano
empuje su pecho en el míos
pezones que zumban vientre abajo
reunión de los arcos
la bebida agarra lujuria que cuida
llevándonos abajo
escaleras

miramos a esos izquierda detrás
conclusión asentado
otra vez en las
escaleras

sus labios y mina llenos
presione entonces profundo ligero
acaricio hombros
pelo largo a través de los dedos
ojo al ojo
piel reluciente
abrace entonces aparte

junto otra vez
sacar fotos sonrientes
bebemos el néctar de la guayaba
de mi pecho
de su vientre
lamo sus pezones
grita
el jackfruit maduro cuelga oscilante
de un rama erguido

madera firme de la selva
plantado profundamente
el corazón golpea el corazón
lengüeta a sudar
jugos tropicales

sueño
playas
cenas
y lejos
de lejos
palabras de la escritura

Mercedes Lackey and Other Reading

I finished reading “Take a Thief” and another Mercedes Lackey novel called “Storm Warning.” I’m getting a sense of the continuity of plot and characters throughout her entire Valdemar series. I’ll probably have to return some others “Firebird,” “The Ship Who Searched,” and “The Serpent’s Shadow” before finishing them.

I’m also reading “Queer in Russia” by Laaurie Essig.

Queers Against War

Yesterday, I went to a protest of queer people against the war in Iraq. I biked over to Castro and Market Sts. where there was a brief rally followed by a march to the LGBT Community Center. My housemate Jack was there, as well as faerie Roux, activists Tommi A. Mecca, Liz Highleyman, and David Solnit, and many others.

I talked with a bunch of folks about the San Francisco ballot propositions for secession and participatory budgeting.

Since I missed the February 16 protest in San Francisco while at the Breitenbush gathering, it was good to feel some of the march-in-the-street energy again!

Also, it was a relief to have a die-in in front of the LGBT Community Center without inappropriate police action like apparently happened when Gay Shame protested mayoral candidate Gavin Newsom’s appearance there last week.

Here are pictures:
http://sf.indymedia.org/news/2003/02/1577256.php

Rio Wow! Paul My Hero

I was sleeping much of the time and the weather was overcast the first couple of days in Rio. That turned out to be a blessing because it was cool. Once the weather cleared, the temperatures soared to more than 35 degrees Celsius every day. Even just walking outside one day for less than an hour without suntan lotion gave me a nasty sunburn.

I met some Americans also staying at the Vermont Hotel in Ipanema: Paul, Dale, and ? (Indian heritage, who I had met through Daniel Bao at the first Life After Capitalism dinner at the World Social Forum). My favorite place to eat is the New Natural Restaurant, just on the opposite side of the same block where the hotel is located. The restaurant has a really wide variety of vegetarian dishes at really reasonable prices. The juice place on the corner of the hotel street and the next street toward Copacabana was a favorite with more than 80 choices of juices!

One of the first nights in town, some of us went to Bofatida Bar on the Rua Farme Amoedo, which is where the guys go to cruise in the evening after hanging out on the rainbow-flag waving gay part of the Ipanema Beach. During Carnival, the gay folks apparently sometimes get into fist fights with rough locals hanging at another choppo, or draft beer bar, on that street. After drinking some rot-gut caparinhos at Bofatida, we headed onward to Le Boy Club. At first, we almost didn’t go in because they tried to charge the woman who was with us twice the entry charge of the guys, but when we went next door to the empty La Girl Club, an employee or perhaps the manager from there convinced the Le Boy folks to let her in for the same price as the rest of us.

That’s when I met Paul… I saw this gorgeous long-haired guy standing in the club watching the drag and hunky guy strip show. I decided “what the hell!” and went over and just started talking with him. We both felt an instant attraction which built as we talked and realized that we have quite a bit in common. We talked and made out for hours. Finally, it was time to go… he for work the next morning and I because I was dead tired. We went by taxi and dropped him off at his place after we exchanged numbers.

I called him the next morning while he was at work and we arranged a date that day and every day for the rest of the time I was in Rio. Often, we snuck him into the hotel room for the night since it wasn’t too cool for me to stay at his place. While he was at work, I checked out sites such as Corcovado, the large statue of Christ atop one of the hills of Rio, and the Botanical Garden, which has nice houses of orchids and bromeliads. We spent almost an entire weekend together walking on the beach, exercising, swimming, sharing dinner and conversation, and making love.

Paul is an architect from Cordoba, where his family lives. He’s the oldest of three sons. His father is of Ukrainian-Italian heritage, works a lot, is very rational, and likes to plant gardens on the land that the family owns in the hills near Cordoba. Paul also has a piece of land there and wants to build a house on it. His mother, who is entirely of Italian heritage, and his father had split up for a year but are back together again now.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone who was willing to really take time to get to know me. Most people in San Francisco are so busy trying to work to pay the rent that it’s hard to find quality time to share. I’d have to say that I enjoyed every moment we spent together, even when we were doing something that both of us thought was boring, like visiting the museum at the fort between Ipanema and Copacabana beaches.

I think Paul is totally gorgeous, sexy, and smart. He’s kind and took good care of me when I wasn’t feeling well. He could make an excellent boyfriend. Of course, there is the slight problem of the distance between San Francisco and Cordoba!

Anyway, I hope that he and I will have more chances to spend time together soon.