Fifty-Seven Years Ago Today

Originally posted June 27, 2009

It was fifty-five years ago, a lifetime to some of us, a minute to others, but it marked a turning point for what would become the LGBTQ+ community. It wasn’t the first time our community fought back—there was the Cooper Do-nuts Riot in 1959,  the Dewey's Restaurant protest in 1965,  the Compton's Cafeteria riot in 1966, the Black Cat Tavern and New Faces, The Patch in 1968, among other—but Stonewall marked one of the loudest times that gay men and trans women stood up en masse and said, ‘No. We will not be treated like this any longer!’

The weekend of June 27-29,1969 began what is the modern-day gay movement. To be sure, there were gay and lesbian activists before that weekend, but the confrontation between police and demonstrators at the Stonewall Inn in New York City lit a fire in the hearts of the LGBT community like it had never been done before.

And like any good story, there is controversy surrounding the Stonewall Riots; there are arguments and differences over what happened, how it started and how it ended. But the fact that we all need to remember is that it did happen, and it should continue to be a rallying cry for the LGBTQ+ community today, as we continue the march toward equality in the eyes of the law, and in the eyes of America.

Friday, June 27, 1969: the world was mourning the death of Judy Garland. Could it be that the death of one of the most famous gay icons was what sparked the fire of the modern-day Gay Rights Movement? Many people have speculated that Garland's death did indeed push the gay community into the streets of New York that night, but it was also hot in New York that night, and some say it was the heat that fueled the crowd into action, into reaction. I think maybe it was both, Garland's death and the hot summer night; or maybe it was just that the gay community had finally had enough of being told what to do, what not to do, and how we should live our lives. Whatever the reason, it was enough. Finally, enough.

In the early morning hours of June 28, police officers raided the Stonewall Inn, a small bar located on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, as they had done on other occasions. Although mafia-run, the Stonewall, like other predominantly gay bars in the city, got raided by the police periodically.

Typically, the more "deviant" patrons—the queens and butch lesbians, especially if they were black—were arrested and taken away, while white, male customers looked on or quietly disappeared. The bar owners would be levied an insubstantial fine—a sign of police corruption and collusion between bar owners and police—allowing them to reopen for business the following day.

On this night, the charge at the Stonewall was the illegal sale of alcohol. The raid began as they always did: plainclothes and uniformed police officers entered the bar, arrested the employees, and began ejecting the customers one by one onto the street. For some reason, however, the crowd that had gathered outside Stonewall, a somewhat campy and festive crowd, began to cheer as the patrons were pushed out of the bar. But soon the mood changed; it was Judy Garland's death, or the summer heat, or the fact that the summer of 1969 was a particularly busy one for police raids on gay bars. Or maybe it was watching drag queens and lesbians being pushed and shoved and kicked into paddy wagons. Whatever it was, the on-lookers lost their patience. No one really knows who threw the first punch; some say it was a drag queen, some say it was a rather butch-looking lesbian. But someone defied the police that night; someone had finally had enough.

The crowd, now numbering several hundred, exploded. People began hurling coins at police officers, then they moved on to rocks and bottles, whatever they could grab. The police, at first stunned that the normally docile and shamed homosexuals would react in such a fashion, soon began beating the crowds with nightsticks. This group, however, was too angry, and was not going to be pushed around, or down, any longer; the police officers were forced to take refuge inside the Stonewall.

As news spread throughout Greenwich Village the crowd grew ever larger; many residents, some gay, some not, ran down to the Stonewall Inn to join the fight. Lighter fluid was squirted inside the bar and someone tried to light it; others grabbed a downed parking meter and used it as a battering ram against the front of the Stonewall. Someone began chanting "Gay Power!"

The riot-control police unit arrived to rescue the trapped officers and break up the demonstration, though it took over an hour before the crowd dispersed. To taunt their attackers a group of drag queens began to sing at the top of their lungs:

We are the Stonewall girls
We wear our hair in curls
We wear no underwear
We show our pubic hair
We wear our dungarees
Above our nelly knees!

That first Stonewall Riot ended the morning of Saturday, June 28, but the fight was far from over. That night a second riot broke out and the crowd now numbered in the thousands, filling the streets in the name of Gay Pride. They marched to the Stonewall Inn and waited for the police to arrive; and they did, in the early morning of Sunday, June 29.

For over a week, though in smaller numbers, protests and demonstrations continued in Greenwich Village. There was finally a sense of what could be accomplished by banding together, by being out, by being seen, by being heard. By being angry. It was a new day.

A month after the riots, the Gay Liberation Front [GLF] was formed. Radical and leftist, the GLF was one of many politically focused lesbian and gay organizations formed in the days following the riots. The number of lesbian and gay publications skyrocketed as well, which led to an even greater sense of community. The LGBT community was no longer strictly marginalized in United States society. Now, out and proud lesbians and gay men were developing their own communities in cities across the country.

Since 1970, marches have taken place in New York City—and all over the world—every year on the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. In June 1994, hundreds of thousands of people converged on New York to celebrate Stonewall's 25th anniversary. In 1999 the United States government proclaimed the Stonewall Inn a national historic site. The following year, the status of the Stonewall was improved to "historic landmark," a designation held by only a small percentage of historical sites.

Stonewall, while not the first protest, is our Plymouth Rock. It's where the gay community landed and came together and began the march toward equality. Stonewall was our first glimpse of a new world where we weren't alone, we weren't all that different, where we belonged.

It makes no difference how it started. The death of an icon; the summer heat; a sense of frustration. It makes no difference who started it; drag queens or lesbians; coin tossers or rock throwers. The difference is that it happened.

As I said, no one really knows who started the riot, or how it all started, but we do know that a great deal of the credit goes to Marsha P. Johnson, a drag queen who frequented the Stonewall Inn, and fought back and fought for our community before some of us were even born.

Fifty-five years ago today.

As we have seen this past year, in states around the nation, and in the Supreme Court, no rights, no laws, are safe with this radical rightwing GOP. And while the Supreme Court justices say they won’t come for LGBTQ+ rights, or marriage equality, we know them to be deceitful as they have come for our trans brothers and sisters. What we once thought was settled law could be lost to us unless we stand up, speak up, shout out, show up and CAST A GODDAMNED VOTE.

The march goes on …

Before Stonewall There Was Compton's Cafeteria

In the LGBT+ community, Stonewall is often seen as the turning point in the fight for our rights but there was another riot, on the other coast, about three years earlier. It was known as the Compton's Cafeteria Riot and it occurred in the summer of 1966 in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco.

George Compton owned several cafeterias in San Francisco from the 40s through the 70s, but it was the Compton’s in the Tenderloin where many transgendered people would gather. In those days—the 40s, 50s, and 60s—transgendered people were unwelcome in gay bars, so they began to meet at other places throughout the city and since Compton’s was open 24-hours, it made the perfect meeting spot.

At that time, transgendered people were commonly referred to by themselves, other gays, and non-gays as Hair Fairies, and because cross-dressing was illegal at the time, police could use the mere presence of transgender people in a bar as a pretext for making a raid and closing the bar down. However, like Stonewall, this hot summer night in 1966 would prove to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

That night, police were called to Compton’s because, allegedly, a group of transgendered people were being especially boisterous. The management felt they needed to go and called the police. One officer, accustomed to manhandling transgendered people, attempted to arrest a transwoman and she was not having it; she threw her coffee in the officer's face and it was on. Dishes and food were thrown; furniture was upended. The large plate glass window that fronted Taylor Street was shattered. As police called for reinforcements, the riot spilled out into the street where a newsstand was set on fire and a police car had all its windows broken. Many were arrested that night, but like Stonewall, it wasn't over.

The next evening more transgendered people showed up at Compton’s, along with the L, G, and B’s in the gay community. Militant hustlers and street queens, members of Vanguard, the first known gay youth organization in the United States, which had been organized with the help of radical ministers at Glide Memorial Church, came along as well. A lesbian group of street people, the Street Orphans, also went to Compton’s that night.

It was a more civil demonstration that second night, with the community simply picketing the cafeteria whose new policy was not to allow transgendered people service. And, as happens, when it became apparent that their quiet march was getting them nowhere, the group, before disbanding, shattered the newly installed plate-glass windows of the cafeteria again.

The Compton Cafeteria riots were a big deal in San Francisco in the 60s but have been largely forgotten over these last forty years. It wasn't until a documentary, Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton's Cafeteria, that the story was reborn, and retold. On June 22, 2006, a memorial plaque was placed in the sidewalk in front of the cafeteria site, which is now the Oshun Center, a free clinic for women.

It may not have been as big as Stonewall, but it was just as important, and may have lit that fuse in New York City three years later.

Repost: Tulsa Race Massacre: We Can't Fix Racism If We Don't Learn From It

I originally posted this in 2021 ... but feel we still need to hear the story today, and every day:

Years ago, in high school and later, in college, I wanted to be a history teacher. I have always been fascinated by history, and the fact that history repeats, especially where no lessons have been learned. But I wonder, how we can expect to learn anything from history when we aren’t, weren’t, and might not ever be, if the Republicans have their way, taught the full history of this country, the good, the bad, and the terribly ugly.

I took history classes in grade school, middle school, high school and many in college and not once, ever, did I hear the words ‘Tula Race Massacre.’ Not once. Oh, I learned about Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks and a few others, but I never heard of the Greenwood District in Tulsa, about Black Wall Street, about the murders of at least 300 Black Americans and destruction of what was, in fact, an entire thriving city.

But I have learned that the reason for this is that our history is written, at least for school textbooks, mostly by white people, who, perhaps through no fault of their own, never heard of Black Wall Street either. I only learned of the Tulsa Race Massacre last year … and only because the twice-impeached, one-term loser wanted to hold one of his super-spreader rallies in Tulsa on the anniversary of the massacre. I have, however, since then, read much about the massacre, and have seen several documentaries this past week as the 100th anniversary came and went.

And that makes me angry. I mean, I wasn’t brought up to think that I was better than anyone else, whether because I was male or white; I was brought up to believe we are all the same, even though we may look, love, or worship differently, or have different education or different socio-economic status. And I wonder if this stain on US history, which has gone silent in schools since it happened, I wonder if it had been taught and discussed, would we have learned something new, changed our ways. Would we need a Black Lives Matter movement in 2021 if we knew what had happened to all those Black lives in 1921? And so, for anyone who doesn’t know about the Tulsa Race Massacre, let me tell you what I now know …

It began on May 31, 1921, when a Black teenager named Dick Rowland was working at a shoe-shine stand. His employer didn’t’ have a “colored” restroom, so Rowland walked down the block to the Drexel Building to take the elevator to the fourth floor and use the nearest “colored” bathroom. No one really knows what happened on that elevator—Rowland says it lurched and he bumped into the elevator operator—but at some point, the young white operator, Sarah Page, screamed and Rowland fled. The police were called, and Rowland was arrested the next morning for assault, code for rape.

During the day, white men began to gather around the courthouse where Rowland was being held, looking to lynch the teenager. Their numbers grew and grew and around 9PM a group of 25-armed Black men—including World War I veterans—arrived at the courthouse to make sure Rowland wouldn’t be turned over to the mob. The sheriff assured them that the young man would be safe, and turned them away, but as the mob of angry white men grew to over 1,500, later that night some 75-armed Black men returned to the courthouse, where they were met by the white men, many of whom were also armed. The sheriff again tried to persuade the Black men to leave the jail, assuring them that he had the situation under control, but then a shot was fired, and all hell broke loose, leaving 10 White men and two Black men dead.

The outnumbered group of Black men retreated to Greenwood and that was when the sheriff began to deputize those angry white men and provide them with firearms because there were rumors that Black people from neighboring towns were flooding into the city, but there is no evidence that this ever occurred.

What did happen was that this growing mob of angry white men poured into Greenwood on the morning of June 1, 1921, looting and burning homes and businesses over 35 square blocks. Police and firefighters arrived on scene, but did nothing to help, allegedly because rioters had threatened them with guns and forced them to leave.

And it wasn’t just white men with guns and torches and gas cans attacking Greenwood, eyewitnesses tell of airplanes carrying White assailants, who fired rifles and dropped firebombs on buildings, homes, and fleeing families. Law enforcement officials later said that the planes were to provide reconnaissance and protect against a "Negro uprising" even though it has been said that many in law enforcement were aboard at least some flights that torched Greenwood.

By the end of the day, more than 1,256 Black-owned homes were burned to the ground, with another 215 looted. In the downtown area, the two Black-owned newspapers, a school, a library, a hospital, several churches, hotels, stores and many other businesses were also destroyed. By the end of the day, Governor J. B. A. Robertson called out the National Guard and declared martial law, but the riot had effectively ended. Though guardsmen helped put out fires, they also imprisoned many Black Tulsans, and by June 2 some 6,000 people, all Black, were under armed guard at the local fairgrounds.

There were no convictions for any of the charges related to violence.

On June 3, 1921, over 1,000 businessmen and civic leaders met to form a committee to raise funds and aid in rebuilding Greenwood. Many Black families spent the winter of 1921–1922 in tents as they worked to rebuild. But then a group of influential White developers persuaded the city to pass a fire ordinance that would have prohibited many Black people from rebuilding in Greenwood. Their intention was to redevelop Greenwood for more business and industrial use and force Black Tulsans further to the edge of the. The case was litigated and appealed to the Oklahoma Supreme Court where it ruled unconstitutional but most of the promised funding was never raised for the Black residents, and they struggled to rebuild.

While the Oklahoma Bureau of Vital Statistics officially recorded 36 deaths, historians estimate the death toll may have been as high as 300. In 2001, the report of the Race Riot Commission—which has subsequently, more accurately, been renamed the Race Massacre Commission—concluded that between 100 and 300 people were killed and more than 10,000 people were left homeless over those 18 hours; property damage amounted to more than $1.5 million in real estate and $750,000 in personal property.

And yet we were never told about this because … many survivors left Tulsa, and those who stayed, both Black and White, kept silent about the terror and violence for decades, and the massacre was largely omitted from local, state and national histories. And for decades, there were no public ceremonies, no memorials for the dead or any efforts to commemorate the events of May 31-June 1, 1921. Instead, there was a deliberate effort to cover them up.

The Tulsa Tribune removed its own May 31st front-page story of the assault on a white girl by a “negro” that sparked the chaos from its bound volumes, and both police and state militia archives about the riot have gone missing as well.

Erased, Forgotten. Never taught in schools.

A bill in the Oklahoma State Senate requiring that all Oklahoma high schools teach the Tulsa Race Massacre failed to pass in 2012, with its opponents claiming schools were already teaching their students about the riot. It was not recognized in the Tulsa Tribune feature of "Fifteen Years Ago Today" or "Twenty-five Years Ago Today" and every year, on the anniversary of the massacre, no mention was ever printed in the local papers. A 2017 report detailing the history of the Tulsa Fire Department from 1897 until 2017 makes no mention of the 1921 massacre.

In 1996, as the riot's 75th anniversary neared, the state legislature authorized an Oklahoma Commission to investigate the Tulsa Race Riot, by appointing individuals to prepare a report detailing an account of the riot. The commission had originally been called the "Tulsa Race Riot Commission", but in November 2018 the name was changed to "Tulsa Race Massacre Commission. A final report was delivered in February 2001, and recommended actions for substantial restitution to the Black residents, in the form of reparations to survivors and descendants of survivors; a scholarship fund available to students affected by the Tulsa race riot; establishment of an economic development zone in the Greenwood district; and a memorial for the reburial of the remains of the victims of the Tulsa race riot who had been placed in mass graves in a local cemetery and presumed to have been dumped into an area known as The Canes along the Arkansas River.

Lastly, in the hours after the Tulsa Race Massacre, all charges against Dick Rowland were dropped, with authorities having concluded that Rowland had accidentally stumbled into Page. Dick Rowland left Tulsa after his release and never returned.

It was all a misunderstanding that left many hundreds dead, many thousands homeless, and an entire city destroyed.

Oh, and before I go, I should also point out that I was never taught about the Slocum massacre of Black residents in Texas by an all-white mob in 1910 or the Red Summer of white supremacist terrorism in 1919.

How will we ever do better if we don’t learn from the past?

Tulsa Race Massacre

Slocum Massacre

Red Summer of 1919 

Happy Memorial Decoration Day

I have posted this before but I do think it bears repeating.

This is the story of the first Decoration Day, which would become Memorial Day, that occurred down here in South Carolina, where good, sweet, wonderful things do happen.

Enjoy, and Happy Memorial Decoration Day.

"The First Decoration Day"

by David W. Blight, Yale University

Americans understand that Memorial Day, or "Decoration Day," as my parents called it, has something to do with honoring the nation's war dead. It is also a day devoted to picnics, road races, commencements, and double-headers. But where did it begin, who created it, and why?

As a nation we are at war now, but for most Americans the scale of death and suffering in this seemingly endless wartime belongs to other people far away, or to people in other neighborhoods. Collectively, we are not even allowed to see our war dead today. That was not the case in 1865.

At the end of the Civil War the dead were everywhere, some in half buried coffins and some visible only as unidentified bones strewn on the killing fields of Virginia or Georgia. Americans, north and south, faced an enormous spiritual and logistical challenge of memorialization. The dead were visible by their massive absence. Approximately 620,000 soldiers died in the war. American deaths in all other wars combined through the Korean conflict totaled 606,000. If the same number of Americans per capita had died in Vietnam as died in the Civil War, 4 million names would be on the Vietnam Memorial. The most immediate legacy of the Civil War was its slaughter and how remember it.

War kills people and destroys human creation; but as though mocking war's devastation, flowers inevitably bloom through its ruins. After a long siege, a prolonged bombardment for months from all around the harbor, and numerous fires, the beautiful port city of Charleston, South Carolina, where the war had begun in April, 1861, lay in ruin by the spring of 1865. The city was largely abandoned by white residents by late February. Among the first troops to enter and march up Meeting Street singing liberation songs was the Twenty First U. S. Colored Infantry; their commander accepted the formal surrender of the city.

Thousands of black Charlestonians, most former slaves, remained in the city and conducted a series of commemorations to declare their sense of the meaning of the war. The largest of these events, and unknown until some extraordinary luck in my recent research, took place on May 1, 1865. During the final year of the war, the Confederates had converted the planters' horse track, the Washington Race Course and Jockey Club, into an outdoor prison. Union soldiers were kept in horrible conditions in the interior of the track; at least 257 died of exposure and disease and were hastily buried in a mass grave behind the grandstand. Some twenty-eight black workmen went to the site, re-buried the Union dead properly, and built a high fence around the cemetery. They whitewashed the fence and built an archway over an entrance on which they inscribed the words, "Martyrs of the Race Course."

Then, black Charlestonians in cooperation with white missionaries and teachers, staged an unforgettable parade of 10,000 people on the slaveholders' race course. The symbolic power of the low-country planter aristocracy's horse track (where they had displayed their wealth, leisure, and influence) was not lost on the freedpeople. A New York Tribune correspondent witnessed the event, describing "a procession of friends and mourners as South Carolina and the United States never saw before."

At 9 am on May 1, the procession stepped off led by three thousand black schoolchildren carrying arm loads of roses and singing "John Brown's Body." The children were followed by several hundred black women with baskets of flowers, wreaths and crosses. Then came black men marching in cadence, followed by contingents of Union infantry and other black and white citizens. As many as possible gathering in the cemetery enclosure; a childrens' choir sang "We'll Rally around the Flag," the "Star-Spangled Banner," and several spirituals before several black ministers read from scripture. No record survives of which biblical passages rung out in the warm spring air, but the spirit of Leviticus 25 was surely present at those burial rites: "for it is the jubilee; it shall be holy unto you… in the year of this jubilee he shall return every man unto his own possession."

Following the solemn dedication the crowd dispersed into the infield and did what many of us do on Memorial Day: they enjoyed picnics, listened to speeches, and watched soldiers drill. Among the full brigade of Union infantry participating was the famous 54th Massachusetts and the 34th and 104th U.S. Colored Troops, who performed a special double-columned march around the gravesite. The war was over, and Decoration Day had been founded by African Americans in a ritual of remembrance and consecration. The war, they had boldly announced, had been all about the triumph of their emancipation over a slaveholders' republic, and not about state rights, defense of home, nor merely soldiers' valor and sacrifice.

According to a reminiscence written long after the fact, "several slight disturbances" occurred during the ceremonies on this first Decoration Day, as well as "much harsh talk about the event locally afterward." But a measure of how white Charlestonians suppressed from memory this founding in favor of their own creation of the practice later came fifty-one years afterward, when the president of the Ladies Memorial Association of Charleston received an inquiry about the May 1, 1865 parade. A United Daughters of the Confederacy official from New Orleans wanted to know if it was true that blacks had engaged in such a burial rite. Mrs. S. C. Beckwith responded tersely: "I regret that I was unable to gather any official information in answer to this." In the struggle over memory and meaning in any society, some stories just get lost while others attain mainstream dominance.

Officially, as a national holiday, Memorial Day emerged in 1868 when General John A. Logan, commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, the Union veterans organization, called on all former northern soldiers and their communities to conduct ceremonies and decorate graves of their dead comrades. On May 30, 1868, when flowers were plentiful, funereal ceremonies were attended by thousands of people in 183 cemeteries in twenty-seven states. The following year, some 336 cities and towns in thirty-one states, including the South, arranged parades and orations. The observance grew manifold with time. In the South Confederate Memorial Day took shape on three different dates: on April 26 in many deep South states, the anniversary of General Joseph Johnston's final surrender to General William T. Sherman; on May 10 in South and North Carolina, the birthday of Stonewall Jackson; and on June 3 in Virginia, the birthday of Jefferson Davis.

Over time several American towns, north and south, claimed to be the birthplace of Memorial Day. But all of them commemorate cemetery decoration events from 1866. Pride of place as the first large scale ritual of Decoration Day, therefore, goes to African Americans in Charleston. By their labor, their words, their songs, and their solemn parade of flowers and marching feet on their former owners' race course, they created for themselves, and for us, the Independence Day of the Second American Revolution.

The old race track is still there — an oval roadway in Hampton Park in Charleston, named for Wade Hampton, former Confederate general and the white supremacist Redeemer governor of South Carolina after the end of Reconstruction. The lovely park sits adjacent to the Citadel, the military academy of South Carolina, and cadets can be seen jogging on the old track any day of the week. The old gravesite dedicated to the "Martyrs of the Race Course" is gone; those Union dead were reinterred in the 1880s to a national cemetery in Beaufort, South Carolina. Some stories endure, some disappear, some are rediscovered in dusty archives, the pages of old newspapers, and in oral history. All such stories as the First Decoration Day are but prelude to future reckonings. All memory is prelude.

David W. Blight teaches American History at Yale University where he is the director of the Gilder Lehrman Center for the Study of Slavery, Resistance, and Abolition, the author of the Bancroft prize-winning Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory, and the forthcoming A Slave No More: Two Men Who Escaped to Freedom, Including Their Narratives of Emancipation.

I STILL Have That Dream

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

The time is always right to do what is right.

We’ve learned to fly the air like birds. 

We’ve learned to swim the seas like fish. 

And yet we haven’t learned to walk the earth like 

brothers and sisters.

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

No, violence is not the way. Hate is not the way. Bitterness is not the way. We must stand up with love in our hearts, with a lack of bitterness and yet a determination to protest courageously for justice and freedom in this land.

Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?'

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.

 

Morality cannot be legislated, but behavior can be regulated. Judicial decrees may not change the heart, but they can restrain the heartless.

 

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the  narrow confines of his  individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.

 

So even though we face difficulties of 

today and tomorrow, 

I still have a dream.

Happy New Year

I love a New Year.

A fresh start, so to speak, and the thought of infinite possibilities, even though there is that darkness of anger and racism and greed all around us. But maybe I am a bit of a Pollyanna, I believe the times are changing; people are growing tired of division and hate, of billionaires complaining, tired of religion as politics, tired of faith being used as a weapon against women, immigrants, people of color and LGBTQ+ people.

Think of what might happen if women and people of color, immigrants and LGBTQ+ Americans, along with our allies, all stood up and voted every single time; think of the changes we could make in this country … equality, fairness, acceptance.

And, while the numbers may be adding up faster than I ever thought possible, I like the idea of being another year older, and another year wiser; okay, maybe not that older shiz. As I once told my sister, who thought I never looked any older, The Gays aren't allowed to age, so I don't mind the extra year under the belt … as long as it doesn’t puddle over my belt.

I look back on the past years, remembering the good times, the tough times, the bad and sad times, because they are all a part of life. I still wake up every morning, look out the window to that spot beneath the trees and say Hello to Tuxedo and then whisper Goodnight at the end of the day; I still miss the Pocket Dog racing through the house like a small black blur; and I miss MaxGoldberg, heavy as a cinderblock, sleeping on me at night. I still wonder every Sunday if my Dad will call for our weekly chats, but when he doesn’t, I just talk to him myself.

And even while looking back, I also look forward to doing more, and learning more, thinking more, reading more, loving more, laughing more. These aren't resolutions, as I don't make resolutions because when I do, they last about as long as it takes me to say ‘resolution.’ These are promises and wishes, hopes and dreams, positive thoughts that 2026 will be a far better year for all of us, around the world, than 2025.

So, I'll leave you all to have a good day, with a repost of some New Year’s Day thoughts:

The more things change :::blibbety blah blay bloo touch me::: the more they remain the same:  I am a believer in happiness. My parents raised their children to believe that happiness is all we really get in life, and that everything else follows. 

Things don't make us happy, at least not for long. And you can't expect people to make you happy either; you either have it to begin with, and others add to it, or you don't. If you don't believe that, just look around at all the sad, angry, lonely faces you pass on the street. Happiness is something you possess, that you give out, and get back. But we are each responsible for our own happiness; responsible to find it, to hold on to it; to nurture it and share it.

Without happiness in ourselves, for being ourselves, how can we expect to live fully and completely? We suffer loss every day; I've had my share and, sad to say, I know there's more to come, but I feel happy in the memories I have of those who've gone on ahead. I still, even as I reread this from years past, mourn the loss of my father; he would have loved the Dodgers winning the World Series and he would have screamed at America once again for believing a liar.

I like to think things will get better, though it might not be the better I was thinking it would be, but I have seen tough times and I have seen them get better, so I will remain hopeful, because of the things I have learned.

I learned, from my Father the Teacher, never to stop learning and reading and speaking and, well, ranting; the more you learn, the more you grow, and understand, the more happiness you can accept. I've also learned that the best thing you can do for the people you love is to be there when they need you.

I learned, from my Mother the Nurturer, to care for things, for people, for animals, for life; to make each day better for those around us, and to make it better for ourselves in the end. I have learned to hold family close; never let them go; whether it's the family you were born into, or the family you created out of necessity; hold on to them, and protect them, and love them. 

I learned, from my Sister the Temper, to speak up; why sit quietly and let things happen to you? Stand up and demand the things you want, the happiness you want. Don't settle. 

I learned, from my Brother … well, let’s just say he taught me that people change dramatically … they ignore science, even after contracting COVID; that people who never voted will support a traitorous rapist racist. He taught me that people change, and not always for the better, but we are all human and perhaps one day he will change again.

I learned from the Blog People that, while we all may have different lives and different backgrounds and different ideas, we can communicate and listen and learn. I thank all of you for your blogs and the things you say that make me laugh and smile, cry and rant, learn, and even sometimes sing and dance.

I learned from the pets we lost in the last few years ... MaxGoldberg, Tuxedo, and Ozzo ... and the others we've lost through the years that sheer, unmitigated joy and pure unconditional love are real things to be accepted and given right back. 

I learned, from my Husband the Optimist, how to actually let go and be in love and damn the torpedoes; how to be open and honest and know that it won't hurt; how to love yourself, and everyone around you; how to take what you’re given, the good and the bad, and live with it, and adapt to it. His eyesight is almost nearly gone and yet he soldiers on, telling people that he may be losing his eyesight, but not his vision.

So, I once again realize that I have learned to be happy; I've earned happiness and I am responsible for keeping it. It is, after all, all you really get in life.

Happy. New Year.

xoxo

Bob, Carlos, Consuelo and Rosita.

Peace Love Happiness

I didn’t know what you wanted for Christmas, so I’ll regift what I gave y’all last year … and the years before that: a repostage of my annual holiday wish that still holds true … for me:

Christmas means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.

It's a religious holiday.
It's a shopping holiday.
It's a day for those who shop religiously.
I'm not a big fan of either.

So, for me, Christmas is a day to spend with those you hold most dear in your heart. For me, it's Carlos and my family. Of course, the family is mostly on the Left Coast and I'm over here on the right, so Christmas is me and Carlos, and Rosita and Consuelo Roca Jones—our furry kids.

It's a day of relaxation and togetherness; reflection and laughter; of a good dinner cooked and shared by the two of us. It's not a day for What did you get? or for thinking How could I have spent so much? It's a day for How lucky am I?

How lucky indeed.

Christmas is more than a celebration; it's a connection we all can share regardless of faith, if we look at it as a day of Peace. A day to relax; to forgive, if not forget. To be at Peace.

Every year I get the same question from friends and strangers alike: What are you getting for Christmas? What do you want for Christmas? And I always say, What I get is a lovely day. What I want, and I ask for it every year, is Peace on Earth.

So here's to Peace on Earth, and the little parts that each of us plays in creating our own peace. To make amends to those we may have slighted in the past year; to those who may have slighted us. To talk with the people we love just because we love them. To be nice.

Just to be nice. Now, there's a concept. Maybe if we all took a moment to think about how we'd like to be treated, we would find ourselves treating others the same way. It's a small step, but an important one. A Please here and a Thank You there. You're Welcome is good, too, though My pleasure, is better. Hold a door open for someone; let someone with fewer packages get in line ahead of you. Lay off the horn. Don't speed. Smile. Be nice.

Be at Peace.
Merry Christmas world.
Happy Hanukkah.
Happy Kwanzaa.
Merry Festivus.
Happy Holidays.
Peace.

And so that's my wish for you and yours. Health. Happiness. Love. Peace.

And, while I've said it over and over again, that I have my personal spiritual beliefs and they do not follow the teachings of any organized religion, every Christmas, no song makes me feel more peaceful, happier, more at ease, or more hopeful than this one.

And so I'll end with O Holy Night, not because I am a religious man, but because I am a hopeful man, a peaceful man, a contented man. And no one, for me, sings it better than my girl, JHud.....Jennifer Hudson.

I wish you Peace Love Happiness

Thank.Full.

I first posted a version of this back in Ott-Eight, a few days after I started this here blog thing … cripes, I’ve been doing this for seventeen years … and have edited it, as need be, and reposted it every year to remind me of where I was then, what I thought then, and what I wanted out of life. And every year as I repost it, I realize that the more things change the more they stay the same.

Now, not to brag, but I've been told that I am an extremely polite person. I was raised on Please and Thank you, Yes Ma'am, No Sir, and I still act that way today.

True story: I was selected for jury duty when we lived in Miami and when it was my turn to be questioned, I stood up in the very narrow aisle and put my hands behind my back. As I was questioned, I replied Yes sir and No Sir. The judge stopped and smiled.

"Are you in the military?" he asked.

"No, sir" I said. "I was raised by a military man and a Southern woman."

True story: A few years before that, while living in California, I was in a grocery store buying a birthday cake for a coworker. I asked if I may please order a cake. May I please have a name iced onto it? I ‘Pleased’ and ‘Thank you'd’ my way through the entire process and finally as the girl was leaving to finish my order, she turned and said, “I think you are the politest person I've ever waited on."

I smiled and said, "Could you just shut up, please, and ice my damn cake!"

When all else fails I slip into sarcasm. That's my motto, and I’m thankful for that, too, but I digress.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, probably because there are no gifts involved, except for the gift of time and good food and drink; time spent with loved ones and friends; the gift of thanks. A day of thanks; a truly American holiday, like 4th of July, but one we celebrate not with picnics and beer, firecrackers and sparklers, but with a meal shared with friends and family, and pets, always the pets.

I have so much to be thankful for again this year. Yes, the usual family and friends and health and happiness, blah blah blah, everyone says that …

My father was a tough man who may not have expressed love openly often—though his last words to me were “I love you.”—but he did so when it was important.

The day I came out to him, he said, “You’re my son and I love you.”

The day I move to Miami to start this life with Carlos, he said, “Be happy. I love you.”

The day Carlos and I got married, he said, “I love you both.’

I am thankful for the time and the years and the memories.

I am thankful for this link around the world that I have found with bloggers, where I find people very different from myself, and people very much like myself, and we all co-exist peacefully. I still miss the glorious Anne Marie and her love for F-bombs and disdain for ABBA, something we shared, and I am grateful for the bloggers who still blog and the words and opinions and jokes and Candy Shop photos they share.

As a gay man I know all too well that … cue PSA music … It Gets Better.

Twenty-four years ago, when we began this ride, Carlos and I couldn’t be legally married anywhere in America, and here we are now, married for ten years … in South Carolina of all places. I am thankful for that every day and will fight to the death anyone who thinks our marriage can somehow be erase. Carlos and I are husband and husband and that’s how it will stay. That bell cannot be unrung, no matter who says what. No matter who sits on the Supreme Court.

Trust. And be thankful.

I am thankful for the years I had with my sister—I miss her every single day—because of the things she taught me and continues to teach me. I am grateful to her four daughters, all of whom she raised so well that when Carlos and I told them we were getting married, they all responded, “Now he really is our Uncle.”

I am thankful to my Mom, especially today. Thanksgiving was her holiday; cooking for her family was my mother’s greatest joy and a great gift to all of us. I am thankful that I can keep that tradition alive and can see my Mom in myself as Carlos and I cook dinner for our friends. I am thankful for her kindness, even to those who were unkind to her; I am grateful for her laughter, which I can still hear in my head, and the way she would say, ‘Bye-bye, sweetie, I love you,’ as we ended a phone call.

I am thankful for icy cold mornings and clear blue skies … colored leaves falling. I am thankful for Consuelo and Rosita because, well, I'm bigger than them and I will always beat them ... just channeling a little Joan Crawford and Christina at the pool.

I am thankful being ‘Dad’ to The Great tuxedo, MaxGoldberg, and Ozzo, for their entire lives, and for the joy they brought into our lives every single day. If you pay attention, you can really learn something about people from your pets, and not just unconditional love …

I am thankful for Carlos. Every.Single.Day. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about how lucky I am to have him; even the days when he makes me insane … more insane. I realize I’d rather be driven nuts by him for a moment than not to have him in my life at all. I am thankful for the smirk he gives me; I am thankful for the look of horror on his face when I bust out a showtune; I am just plain thankful. I don’t know where I’d be, or who I’d be, if I hadn’t met him all those years ago.

I am thankful for music and pets and soft blankets and breathing and speaking, and having a voice to use, and use often. I realize we are once again facing a tough time in this country; we are once again facing division; we are still seeing our Black and Brown brothers and sisters killed by police, and self-entitled crybaby vigilantes; we are still seeing our trans brothers and sisters murdered; we still see hate; we are seeing hatred towards refugees fleeing their homeland to come to a country built by immigrants and slaves.

But I remain hopeful, hope filled, and thankful, that this country, most of this country, will once again stand against that hate and divisiveness; I am thankful that we will stand for one another and not against one another; that we will stand up to those who hate; speak out against those who use fear to intimidate others; resist those who are untruthful. I am thankful that more people are standing up for those who may not feel like anyone would ever stand for them.

I am thankful for being woke. Yes, I am thankful for that … and thinking being feeling loving breathing laughing crying living and speaking.

For Life … and all it encompasses.

To Life.

Thanks.

PS We are once again celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow with chosen family members and friends and then I'm taking the weekend off. 

Have a thankful day and I'll see y'all on Monday.

Shake The Etch-a-Sketch: Our Eleven-and-Twenty-Five Anniversary

Here we are, eleven years legally married and twenty-five years together; my how the time flies … so sit back, and let me tell the tale …

We all do it to an extent; follow a line or path that we set up for ourselves. We plod a course, the straight and narrow some might say, and then walk that line toward a particular destination we've imagined we want. And every so often we twist the knobs on the Etch-a-Sketch of our lives  and a new course is charted, moving in a direction we hadn't thought of before. But it’s a slow curve most of the time, not dangerous and we can still see where we're going and can always go back if we don’t like the destination.

But what about shaking the Etch-a-Sketch? What about saying, screw that line, damn that curve. Let me hold on tight, both hands, and shake things up. See, I was an Etch-a-Sketch person, following the easy line, the one I thought I was meant to follow. I didn't stray too far off the path; who am I kidding, I never strayed off the path. But then it hit me, following the path, that straight line or that gentle curve, and where are you going? Toward another straight line, one more gentle curve? What was that all about?

My first shake was telling my parents I was gay. That was a big shake at the time, although now it seems more of a 'so what.' But I thought it was a big deal because I didn't have a real-life reference point on what it meant to be gay. What were the rules? Was there a uniform? Did I have to pay dues? What was it? See, in my family there were no 'funny uncles' or 'aunts in plaid' that I could see; that I could say, "Hey, I'm like that, so it must be okay." The only gay men I knew were the limp-wristed types on TV shows and in the movies. They wore ascots and paisley jackets, were sarcastic and alone. Terry-Thomas? No, not me. Uncle Arthur, I was not....at least I didn't think so.

So I shook the Etch-a-Sketch and came out and no one died and no one fainted and my family didn't disown me; my parents’ response was, “We love you.” Now, I lost a few friends, but maybe they weren't really friends to begin with if "I'm gay" causes them to disappear. I'm gay … Poof … you’re gone. It's like a homo David Copperfield.

I was out, and yet the Etch-a-Sketch was still giving me straight lines—I’ll save you the horror of joking about me following a 'straight' line because it’s already been done—and gentle curves. But then in 1999—so last century—I decided to give Etch-a-Sketch another nudge and I got a computer. Yes, I was late to the game, again, but I began looking around the Internet and found AOL and the series of chat rooms they had. I found one called Gay Lifestyles, and it was a fun chatty room where you could be gay, where you could step off the line a bit because no one really knew you.

I met Carlos in that chat room. The Etch-a-Sketch bumped a little and we started to online chat; another turn of the knobs and we took to the phones, and then the mail. He was in Miami, I was in California, but then I took a leap and told him I wanted to meet him . He was thrilled and plans were made for me to fly to Miami in July.

JULY? IN MIAMI? Oy! What was I thinking?

I bought plane tickets and readied myself to take a sharp turn. I realize now that my life had been split into Old Bob and New Bob. See, Old Bob would have bought the tickets to Miami, told everyone he was going, and gotten on the plane, but when it made a stop in Houston, Old Bob would get off the plane, find a Motel 6, and spend the week there. Then he'd return home and tell everyone that Carlos was 'okay' and the trip was 'fine.' I'd ignore Carlos' phone calls … I almost invented ghosting y’all … and stay off the computer. I'd go back to following that line.

New Bob didn't do that. New Bob flew to Miami and met Carlos and spent a wonderful week in Florida. New Bob fell in love with Carlos and cried at the airport when he had to go home. New Bob's Etch-a-Sketch was shaking. And it was okay; twists and jogs in the path weren't anything to fear.

A month after I came home, Carlos came to California and met my family. I was so happy to have him there; so happy that my family liked him; my friends, too. But then he was gone, back to his home again and I wondered what would happen next.

It wasn't but a few weeks before I hurled the Etch-a-Sketch across the room and chose to follow the path I chose, not one that was arbitrarily set out for me. Carlos and I made plans for me to move to Miami. I sold a car, some furniture, some knickknacks; I got rid of my apartment and quit my job.

Every once in a while, you gotta Shake the Etch-a-Sketch … or toss it out altogether.

So, where does this all lead? It leads to today, twenty-five years after I stepped off another plane in Florida, though this time I was staying for good. We started our life together, all the good times and the bumpy times, and we are still here.

After six years together we moved to South Carolina, of all places, but made a wonderful family out of our circle of friends who celebrated with us when we chose to get married in October of 2014. Marriage equality was happening, even in South Carolina and since we had longed talked about being married, and having our friends and family, coworkers, strangers, the check-out girl at the Food Lion, the waiter who brought me another cocktail, and the world, or at least our corner of the world, know that we weren’t just a couple, we weren’t close friends, we weren’t partners—though those are all good things—we wanted to be Mister and Mister.

On October 17, 2014—fourteen years to the day that I moved to Miami—we were back across the country in Bellingham, Washington, to be married with my father as a witness.

And pause … y’all know that this year I lost my Dad last year and we celebrated our first anniversary without a Dad card and phone call wishing us more love and happiness. That was a Shake the Etch-a-Sketch moment I hadn’t thought about. I will be thinking of my Dad today, and my mother who loved Carlos the instant she knew I loved him.

So, we’re back …  I seriously never thought I would see the day that I would ... that I could ... marry Carlos,  but we did just that. I remember as a kid—a not-yet-out-but-knowing-I-was-different kid—telling my mother that I would never get married, but I would have a maid to take care of my kids. I remember that story and realize now that might have been my first shot at coming out—as a six-year-old, I think—because, even then, I never thought I could get married, never thought I’d be allowed to get married and create my own version of family and home.

And so we did it, and while it has been lovely, raucous, and fun, and there have been down times and sad times and bad times, but, as Elaine Stritch would say—and god am I gay … Elaine Stritch!—we’re still here.

And looking forward, always forward, and while I didn’t say this myself—Charlotte said it in one of those Sex and the City movies … again, god I’m gay—I like to say that I am happy every single day with Carlos. Not all day, every day, because that’s life, but every single day for the last twenty-five years, for some small or large part of the day, I have realized how happy I am and how happy he makes me, and that I am still crazy in love with him.

And that’s something to celebrate!

Happy Anniversary, baby. I love you, always, ever.