The White Peril 白禍

Interesting, if not entirely unexpected:

Oscar favourite Brokeback Mountain has been effectively banned from cinemas in China, it has been reported.

Censors ruled the gay cowboy romance too controversial to be shown in the country where homosexuality is a taboo, industry paper Daily Variety said.

Brokeback Mountain - by Taiwanese director Ang Lee - is a firm favourite to be among the Oscar nominations when they are revealed in the US on Tuesday.

One wonders what Lee would have to say about that (via Gay Orbit):

Director Ang Lee says Asian audiences are more accepting of gay subject matter than Americans.

A Utah movie theatre, owned by a Mormon, pulled his new film, the gay cowboy romance Brokeback Mountain.

"I think Asian society is more open," said Ang. "I think there's pressure to condemn [homosexuality] in their [Americans'] religion which causes their homophobia."

In a way, of course, it's not fair to make such a comparison--theoretically, Lee could be right about Asia, and the PRC's censors could be abnormally uptight and lack understanding of what people are willing to see.

I wouldn't buy it, though. One doesn't hear a lot of open condemnation of homosexuality in Asia because people pretend it doesn't exist. You still get people telling you, "Homosexuality is a Western thing--we don't have it in Korea." That doesn't mean people are accepting, though (at least in Japan) I do think it means that as long as you're willing to be ultra-discreet, your likely to be able to live without really encountering open hostility.

It's important to note, though, that that tradeoff is forced here in ways it isn't in the States. In America, your choices are limited if you want to live somewhere where you can be a complete, 24/7 flamer and have lots of gay people and institutions at your disposal; but such places do exist, and finding out where they are is very easy. Everyone in America has heard of New York. You can choose to stay in a more socially conservative environment and be closeted to a greater or lesser degree if you like, but you don't have to.

In Japan, by contrast, my area of Tokyo is as good as it gets. There are no gay neighborhoods to speak of. There are quite a few areas with bars, of which Shinjuku 2-chome is the largest. Gay guys live in concentrations there and in certain parts of Nakano and perhaps elsewhere. But the social stigma attached to not marrying and having children is very pronounced, and it comes at you from all sides if you're Japanese. I've never lived in Taiwan or Korea, but friends from there tell me it's basically the same. People we know in Malaysia and Indonesia do have their bars raided; and for the Muslims, their religion is no more hot on homosexuality than Christianity is. (Ang Lee does remember that Asia doesn't stop at Tokyo, Taipei, and Hong Kong, doesn't he?)

So while Lee is Asian and I am not, I don't think he has any idea what he's talking about. One final note: Asian viewers, like foreign viewers in many other places, are often entertained by sexual and other behavior in pop-culture artifacts that they think shows what a crazy, disorderly, hedonistic place the West (especially the US) is. That says nothing about how they would react to similar behavior by their children, neighbors, or coworkers.

Atsushi flew home this afternoon. This month was not only our fifth anniversary but also the 250th anniversary of Mozart's birth. Because I don't believe in asking questions I don't want to know the answer to, I didn't ask Atsushi which milestone was more significant to him.

Have I mentioned that my man is really into Mozart? And the Strausses. And pretty much every other Austrian who ever wrote music. They were running a series of Mozart performances on NHK this week; he brought a tape of The Magic Flute (2003 in Covent Garden) along. We didn't go to the orchestra when I was growing up, but we listened to classical music at home quite a bit. Mozart's 40th is probably about my favorite piece--yes, before you say it, it goes with my high-strung personality.

Opera? Not really my thing, but sometimes entertaining. Atsushi and I watched The Magic Flute while eating our brunch (contrived using the cast-iron frying pan and potato ricer my parents sent me for Christmas). Ichs and Neins were sung. Daggers were handed to psychologically vulnerable maidens with creamy bosoms. Heroes were aided by trios of altar boys sent by (I think) the Sun King. Magic flutes were played. Well, I guess one magic flute and one organ-grinder kind of thing with chimy bells inside. I kind of liked it. Atsushi, however, beamed the whole way through like a four-year-old boy whose dad had just given him his first toy train.

Since it's not a bank holiday tomorrow, he's back in Kyushu already, and I'm doing the laundry and clean-up thing. Great weekend, though, even if I am ending it sitting alone in the apartment eating smushed-together leftovers: mashed potatoes and a grilled peach (yes, obviously in heavy syrup--if God hadn't meant peaches to come in heavy syrup, he wouldn't have made cans) and some steamed vegetables. Hope everyone else enjoys the remaining time...about a half-day at home in the States, right?

Mentee is the sort of coinage that sours my stomach, but the program described here at Penn is doing a good thing (via Gay News). I especially like that the interviewees (shut it) forgo the opportunity to make the campus out to be some sort of anti-gay minefield:

"I think it's great that [the program] is helping people figure out things for themselves," Thalmann said. "They are much more involved in activities and feel more comfortable at Penn."

Generally, gay or questioning students seem to find an accepting climate at Penn, Thalmann said.

"I had no qualms or concerns about the Penn community," Mangam said. For him, how to come out to his close friends and family presented a larger issue.

That squares with my experience a little over a decade ago, though it wasn't until after graduation that I came out conclusively. My college friends were the least of my worries--it often seemed that they were positively champing at the bit for me to be gay, though I know they really just wanted me to accept myself. In academic terms, well, I was in the comparative literature program--not exactly a hotbed of in-your-face anti-gay activity--but I doubt there were many places where being gay presented a problem besides (maybe) some of the sports teams or Greek organizations and, like, Campus Crusade for Christ.

And I'm not even sure about there. Nevertheless, some time around my junior or senior year, a bunch of people with too little to do decided that the LGBA wasn't militant enough or something and decided to form a loud(er)-mouthed group called QuIP: Queers Invading Penn. Like most postures of unregenerate in-your-face rebelliousness attempted by the milk-fed children of Bergen County, NJ, and Greenwich, CT, I went to school with, it was pretty damned pathetic. Wholly unnecessary, too, since by 1995 Penn was already deep into its current PC-sensitivo phase.

However, knowing that other people on campus are going to accept you only helps so much when you're wondering whether your parents are going to disown you. Level-headed, practical mentoring is a useful thing, and it's good to see that the program the gay center's program is being taken advantage of.

Chris Crain at the Washington Blade has a lengthy post about Virginia Governor Tim Kaine's statement that he will not veto a near-comprehensive ban on legal recognition of gay partnerships if it passes the legislature:

Not to worry, gay Virginians. You still have plenty of leverage here because Kaine is a Democrat and has aspirations to higher public office. Given the influence gay Democratic groups have within the party, pressure will surely be brought to bear on such an abject betrayal of an important constituency, not to mention the party's historical commitment to civil rights.

Enter Josh Israel, president of the Virginia Partisans Gay & Lesbian Democratic Club, which endorsed Kaine's election. Contacted by the Blade, Israel...well...he didn't exactly call on Kaine to veto the amendment. In fact, he didn't even ask Kaine to pressure the Senate to limit its scope. Instead, Israel begged (apparently from within Uncle Tom's quarters at the plantation, since that term is being bandied about so much these days) the governor to at least make sure the ballot wording is fair.

How's that? The ballot wording? Why not call on him to oppose the measure? Because, according to Israel in a remarkable bit of Orwellian spin, "it's not the governor endorsing this effort when he says he will send it to the ballot. It's just the governor doing his job."

With gay rights activists like that, who needs party hacks?

Still, even if gay Virginias [sic] are left unprotected by weak-kneed local leaders, they can be thankful there's a nationwide organization of gay Democrats to put the screws to Kaine. Only...the National Stonewall Democrats were a bit too busy this week to notice what was happening across the Potomac from their Washington headquarters.

Instead, they were pleasantly distracted by the goings on north of the nation's capital, in Maryland, where Republican Gov. Robert Ehrlich was introducing legislation that would allow gay and unmarried straight couples to sign an official government registry ensuring they can make medical decisions for each other in time of emergency.

Just how did the National Stonewall Democrats react to a Republican governor in Maryland introducing legislation offering a modicum of legal recognition to gay couples, on the same week that the Democratic governor in Virginia said he would sign the broadest constitutional ban ever on legal recognition for gay couples? By attacking the Republican and not even mentioning the Democrat, of course.

"A bridal registry at Target would offer same-sex couples more benefits than this watered-down, election-year ploy by Governor Ehrlich," said Eric Stern, the Stonewall Dems' E.D., in a press release issued Friday.

Maybe so, but the Democrat in Richmond is poised to sign a ballot measure that would amend the state's constitution to forever ban even a "watered-down" registry like the one proposed by Ehrlich, and it would probably take the bridal book at Target down with it.

People are always asking me why, since I think about politics all the time, I'm not more active in any PACs or in my party. (I bet even my dear friends reading this forgot that I switched my registration to the GOP a few months ago, right? Of course, you did.) The main reason is, the moment discussions of politics veer off policy and into which senator's aide's back needs to be scratched to get X done, or why Congressman Y had to use this word instead of that word when responding to a question about a certain issue at this or that rubber-chicken banZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

I know glad-handing is necessary. I know maneuvering is necessary. I'm also aware that a lot of people make ringing declarations of "principledness" that, in effect, mean they want to hold themselves aloof from the job of getting in there and figuring out how we can all live together in the real world without killing each other.

But the major gay political organizations provide illustration after illustration of what happens when politicking becomes the end rather than the means. Jonathan Rauch's National Journal article from last week discussed a similar problem with the Republicans:

From 1981 through 1998, Republican reformers' thinking was dominated by Dave Stockman (President Reagan's first budget director) and Newt Gingrich (the reform-minded House speaker of 1995 to '98). Both were movement politicians who believed that, by cutting spending, Republicans could build prosperity, tame Big Government, and win majority status.

The trouble was that budget cuts brought short-term political backlashes that kept interrupting the program. Burned by President Clinton in 1995-96 and then spanked by voters in 1998, Republicans decided to reverse the sequence. First they would build a political machine; then, once safely entrenched, they would reform Social Security and Medicare, shrink government, and so on. The new course was set by DeLay and Karl Rove, President Bush's chief political strategist—both machine-builders par excellence.

And so, under DeLay and Bush, the Republicans spent generously, even profusely, to build their base. The number of budgetary earmarks increased from 2,100 in 1998 to 14,000 in 2005, according to Citizens Against Government Waste. To disarm the Democrats, the Republicans gave up on reducing entitlement spending and instead dramatically increased it, notably with an expensive new prescription drug program. (According to Richard Kogan, a senior fellow with the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, the Republicans have added $540 billion to entitlement costs over the 2001-to-2011 period.) They cut taxes and spent heavily on the Iraq war and defense. (Real spending on defense and security has risen by more than 7 percent a year since 2001, Kogan says.)

When, last year, DeLay blurted out that the budget had no fat left, he meant that it had no political fat, and he was right. Every dollar now served a constituent group in DeLay's carefully built machine.

Naturally, there are a lot of ways in which the cases aren't analogous. The link I see is in the expediency-prioritizing operating procedure that involves playing the game to get ahead now and figuring you can revert to principle later. Maybe I'm just too trusting, but I find it hard to believe that most of the best-connected gay activists are just being cynical--that is, that they're consciously using their positions to curry favor with the DNC and its more powerful local pols even if it means selling out gays in general. Their reasoning is probably that you can't exert leverage you don't have, and that building leverage means demonstrating a willingness to compromise.

That's true enough, but if you haven't nailed down what it is you're not going to compromise on, you end up without any leverage anyway, even if you're invited to some pretty choice receptions. The organizations mentioned in the Blade entry are both Democratic, so you can't fault them for being partisan. That's their job. You can fault them for being both disingenuous and pathetic about it.

Dear Mariah:

Because of you, I almost had the perfect weekend.

I mean, it's because of you that I had to add the "almost." Of course, Atsushi would have had to be here for it to be really perfect, but we had an appropriately tender anniversary call, and he seems less stressed by work lately, which is as perfect as things get while he's away. Yesterday, I got the most delicious little spring sweater at Zegna to wear when we have dinner this Saturday. My best friend appears to be cementing a new relationship with a man I approve of. On Saturday night, everyone was in a great mood--ran into guys I hadn't seen for ages but always enjoy talking too--and there was none of that slightly-strained merrymaking you sometimes get into over the New Year.

And then while I was talking to a cute, flirtatious Australian guy, I glanced up, and there was your hideous "Get Your Number" video. TOTALLY DESTROYED the combination of conviviality and aesthetic pleasure (did I mention that the boys at GB had managed to mix me a particularly yummy vodka tonic that go-round?).

Seriously, Mariah, or Mimi, or whoever you are now, I'm glad for your comeback. It's horrible to see people suffer in public, and with that suicidal website post and your career tanking and the nervous breakdown...well, I'm no more a fan of your music than I was before, but I'm glad you were able to come up with another album that sold in the gajillions because you clearly needed it to make you feel better.

Now that you do feel better, can we make the next project not looking like a whore? As another cute, flirtatious guy (this one from New York) remarked when that horrid video played yet again, you're working the "busted tramp" thing, and it's so...bad...so very, very bad. It's a lie that all (or most) gay men are misogynists, but it's not a lie that some are, and I fear you've managed to fall in with a stylist or two who really don't have your best interests at heart.

Same with your video director. Next time he says, "Okay, now that you've gotten into the shiny dress with the micro-miniskirt and the plunging neckline that exposes your appallingly obvious new rack-inflation job, I want you to perch on the edge of this here sofa with your knees three feet apart," here's your response--and I want you to practice this, dear: "LIKE HELL I WILL, BUSTER."

You'll be doing all of us a favor.

Still kinda feeling icky,

Sean K.

You have got to be kidding me (via Ace Pryhill at Gay Orbit):

University of Florida employees have to pledge that they're having sex with their domestic partners before qualifying for benefits under a new health care plan at the university.

The partners of homosexual and heterosexual employees are eligible for coverage under UF's plan, which will take effect in February. The enrollment process began this month, and some employees have expressed concern about an affidavit that requires a pledge of sexual activity.

...

Kim Tanzer, chair of the Faculty Senate, said she could understand why some faculty might view the affidavit as invasive.

"I can see (Behnke's) point," she said. "If you ask married folks if they're in a platonic relationship, that's a personal question."

"Some faculty might view the affidavit as invasive"?

Some?

MIGHT?!

And the rest are perfectly sanguine about having a "must fuck" clause built into their health insurance policy? Even Ace herself ("Okay, so while that sounds great, and totally could be used as ammo when one partner doesn't think the other is giving up the booty with enough frequency, it's really a stupid stipulation") and North Dallas Thirty (in the comments: "True, but I can see their point.....DPs really are not meant to cover, as they put it, long-term roommate relationships that don't involve anything deeper than shared space and bills"), both of whom are usually reliably reasonable people, don't seem to see what an OUTRAGE it is to have bean counters passing judgment on one's sex life.

Because, you know? I really can't see their point. Not even kind of sort of in a way. In fact, it's so ludicrous that I clicked around the parent site a little just to make sure we weren't being suckered by an Onion-style parody played straight. No such luck. Normally, I would be chary of interpreting "non-platonic" as meaning "sexual" to the bureaucrats interpreting it, but that's how the UF people quoted sure appear to mean it. (And my understanding from people who have dealt with having their marriages observed for green cards and things is that even the INS only tries to determine whether you live together in an intimate way. If there's some kind of bald sex requirement, it's the one complaint about bringing a spouse back to the States that I've somehow avoided hearing.)

This kind of thing is the perfect illustration of how the campaigners for gay marriage, with their squalling emphasis on achieving "validation" and "respect" and "dignity" through paperpushing, have been shooting themselves in the foot. If two people of undisclosed sexuality decide they're never going to marry and want to be responsible for each other, why shouldn't a domestic partnership arrangement cover them?

I love seeing romance bloom, but I cannot for the life of me imagine having the effrontery to demand it of people. And when it comes to my own household, the only person whose business it is whether Atsushi's being adequately serviced is Atsushi. I don't even discuss what happens in our bedroom with my best friend.

UF's VP of Human Resources is quoted as saying he "had no plans to personally enforce the sex pledge," which is nice, because even if the idea weren't COMPLETELY CRACKERS to begin with, what would you do? Would a used condom with DNA from both partners suffice (in the case of men)? Or would they have to go for it right in front of a certified university employee who would then sign a confirmation that they both got off? And, for that matter, even if they weren't really in a "non-platonic" relationship, couldn't the benefits be good enough that gritting their teeth through one bone-dance session a year (if that were the qualifying minimum) would be worth it for two unmarried roommates?

Unreal. Just unreal.

Happy fifth anniversary to my wonderful boyfriend, who deserves a much better man but, luckily for me, has shown no inclination to look for one. Five years and a month or so ago, I would have said that long-term commitment and stability and stuff were great ideals. You know, for other people. For Atsushi's part, one of the first questions he asked me when we started tentatively dating was "Don't you think it's pretty much impossible to have a lasting relationship with someone whose cultural background is so different from yours?" Glad we were both wrong.

We let straight folk believe the Global Homosexual Conspiracy is organized around recruiting new members because...well, they seem to get a spy-novel sort of thrill out of thinking so, and why rob people of a source of excitement? Especially when all they'd have left to console themselves with if disillusioned is Rolling Rock and Lean Cuisine.

Anyway, the real purpose of the gay network was illustrated last night when I was out with a few people from our Taipei office at the night market. The Chinese New Year is coming up, so I figured that, since Atsushi has taken an interest in feng shui lately--don't ask me, I don't know either--I'd get him something lucky and Taiwanese. So we looked. There were dog statuettes whose contribution toward our household prosperity and longevity would, unfortunately, have been offset by the degree to which they would have fuglified our decor. Not a bargain, as far as I'm concerned. There were red and gold scrolls and things, but most of the nice ones were too big to fit in my carry-on.

We were getting desperate, so one of the girls from the office made an exaggerated leave-it-to-me-darling flourish with one hand and clapped her cell phone to her ear with the other. As we walked, you could hear her addressing whoever was at the other end as "sweetie." You got snatches of sentences like "No, he wants something AUSPICIOUS...for the Year of the DOG, you know?...yeah, it's for his BOYFRIEND." Minutes later, she hung up. She'd been talking to one of her gay friends. She had to cut out right then--family dinner, or something--but we were left with directions to a shop that furnished very cute bibelots and instructions to call his partner if we got lost. (Amazing the way no gay couple in any country I know of is rationed more than one partner who can give reliable directions.) I remain unconvinced they'll ensure Atsushi's good luck for the year--I'm not really superstitious, though it's nice to think you can guarantee that sort of thing by buying the same kind of useless wood/clay/mineral objets you would have lusted after anyway. But I have something suitably cool to present to him as my お土産 from Taiwan, thanks to two of our unseen boys who, on a work night, let themselves get roped into a twenty-minute discussion about helping a stranger shop. Membership has its privileges.

You could subtitle this one "How to Break up with a Friend of Sean's."

I should start by saying that if you're lucky enough to be with one of my friends, I don't recommend breaking up with him. My friends are stand-up, interesting, fun guys, and (while this obviously isn't a characteristic I screen for in establishing friendhood) they're pretty cute, too.

Next I should probably say that I have no interest in passing judgment on whether your reasons for breaking up are valid. Most, or at least a lot, of us go through a kind of compressed adolescence after coming out, because we didn't spend our teenage years gradually growing into our sexuality and the all the possibilities for give-and-take with guys. My friends in their mid-20s tend to have boyfriends of around the same age, and while it's great to see someone find the love of his life right then, it's also perfectly natural to be restless. Not a phenomenon I'm unacquainted with.

So, if I might kind of secretly agree with you that giving my friend the heave is ultimately all for the best, what am I about to get crabby about? Just this: That too many men seem to be looking for a relationship-ender that they don't have to feel guilty about. They don't want to be the bad guy. Kind of understandable, maybe, but the thing is, if you're bent on recapturing the freedom to see what happens with that hottie across the bar who's giving you The Look by breaking it off with someone who's been happy with you (and to whom you gave every indication that you were happy with him), I've got news for you, honey: YOU. ARE. THE. BAD. GUY. Even if you can't see any other way and you feel you're going to lose your mind if you have to spend one more claustrophobic second in this relationship. Deal with it, and act like it.

I'm not saying you should, like, really sink your teeth into the bad-guy role and steal all of my friend's CDs and deface his coffee table books. Wrecking property isn't gentlemanly, and besides, I may have been planning to borrow it later. But you have to leave out all the backing and filling that you perversely think softens the blow, particularly such knife-twists as: "I still love you" and "I never meant for this to happen" and "I can't tell you how bad this makes me feel" and "It's your happiness I'm interested in; you deserve someone who can give you 100%."

Because you know what happens then? Friend of Sean comes to Sean to unload and says, "Of course, he still loves me" and "He's got to recognize, soon, that this is all a mistake" and "It's so obvious how guilty he feels" and "I think he just needs time apart to figure out what I really mean to him," and spends an hour talking about the pathetic little shards of (utterly baseless) hope he's managed to pick out of the rubble.

And then Sean has THE WORST time explaining why no, the relationship actually is clearly kaput, and yes, sweetie, you need to take some down time and then soldier on and look for a new boyfriend. In fact, sometimes it has to be explained every Friday night for several weeks in a row. This is inefficient. If, when breaking up with a friend of mine, you just stopped at "I'm sorry, but I need to do this, and I'll clear out as soon as I can," and then matched deed to word, then I would be able to proceed straight to "God, what a perfidious little bitch. Better to be rid of him sooner rather than later. You'll do much better next time." Not that that fixes everything, but as Miss Manners (and presumably Dad?) has been trying to tell you for eons, the faster the dumpee realizes the dumping is permanent and non-negotiable, the faster he can move on to the hottie across the bar who's giving him The Look.

And after all, it's his happiness you're interested in, right?

Can I just tell you how much I totally enjoyed typing that title?

Jeff flays gays whose idea of tolerance has gone from excessive to positively lunatic. It's the kind of thing that shouldn't have to be said again and again, but it does.

Eric is reminded that some people think we're uncritical vessels into which art pours messages. He also knew a gay Marlboro Man.

Fred at Gay and Right says something else that has to be repeated over and over: Gays have no genetic predisposition toward leftism.

Toby, the Bilious Young Fogey, linked something of mine (thanks!) as the point of departure for a post about settling post-war responsibility.

Tom uncharacteristically misses the opportunity to joke abou the use of the word "seminal."

Mike at Ex-Gay Watch finds, though he doesn't call it that, confirmation bias in an analysis of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

Jeff at Alphecca has raised the linguist shortage issue again.

Michael at Gay Orbit may be finding love. As North Dallas Thirty says, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

Chris at Coming out at 48 reminds me that it's been quite a while since I've thanked everyone for reading and writing. I'm always on the lookout for opportunities to avoid meeting new people, but in the nearly two years I've been posting, I've managed to make a few new friendships, deepen a few existing ones, and get sharp feedback from plenty of poeple I've never heard from again. Almost no incivility or hate mail, either. The constant reminder that the world is full of cool and interesting people is very welcome. Thanks.

Here's a question for people: Which of the following is the more important to you?

1. living by your principles


2. making other people like you

Because the thing is, they're both worthy goals, but you can't prioritize them equally all the time. You can and should listen to others without assuming you already know what they're going to say. You can and should resist the temptation to put words in their mouths just because you heard them from the last few proselytizing [conservatives/liberals/heteros/homos/Atkins dieters/Steely Dan fans] you got into a tussle with. You can and should avoid second-guessing people's motivations and spinning out speculative narratives about their inner emotional lives (a pet peeve of mine, that). All of which is to say, you can and should be civil.

But that doesn't mean making nice at all costs. Something Camille Paglia wrote a decade ago in her "No Law in the Arena" essay impressed me greatly when I first read it, even though it clearly wasn't intended as one of her trademark rampaging-diva climaxes. She was talking about rape activism specifically, but her point has wider applications:

What I call Betty Crocker feminism--a naively optimistic Pollyannaish or Panglossian view of reality--is behind much of this. Even the most morbid of the rape ranters have a childlike faith in the perfectibility of the universe, which they see as blighted solely by nasty men. They simplistically project outward onto a mythical "patriarchy" their own inner conflicts and moral ambiguities.

It's hard to have a discussion with people whose view of reality starts with the fallacy that people naturally get along swimmingly, and that therefore whatever friction arises is only there because you--you evil [liberal/conservative/homo/hetero/carb consumer/only-owns-Gaucho-er]--artificially brought it in from an alien realm. Living, breathing people in a free society have deeply-held beliefs that are at loggerheads with other people's deeply-held beliefs. People also have internal conflicts that are hard to resolve. That doesn't make human empathy or the impulse toward kindness less real; it just means that it's not the only force we need to factor in when discussing our interests.

It also means that we have to deal with people on their own terms. No one's personality comes with a line-item veto. I don't see why LaShawn Barber should not write what she thinks about homosexuality in order to get a rep as the nice black female conservative any more than I plan to stop being a flaming homo in order to get more social conservatives to pay attention to what I'm saying about Japan-US relations. People who only like some aspects of a given blog are free to skip the posts they don't feel edified by; if the stuff they object too carries sufficient weight with them, they can decide the rest of the blog isn't worth it and skip the whole thing. People who freak the hell out at the possibility that they might applaud 80% of what a blogger writes and be outraged at the other 20% should probably skip reading blogs altogether and take up PlayStation. Those who are secure in their identities and convictions don't shrink from criticizing that which they believe reprehensible (or plain inaccurate), but they don't have a nervous breakdown over its very existence.

Open conflict is a part of life in democratic societies, and it has the advantage of sifting out and sharpening the best among competing ideas as well as the disadvantage of making life less harmonious. (See also Eric and Grand Stander) The alternative is rule by the collective, in which you the individual are peremptorily informed which tradeoffs will make you happy and then expected to live with them. The tendency of people from such societies to scramble aboard the nearest boat to America the minute they get the chance should indicate how attractive that option really is. In a classical-liberal society, we can't stop people from trying to impose their estimation of our dignity and worth on us--sometimes loudly and publicly--but we're not obliged to go along with it. Are there really people who don't think that's worth the compromise?

Don't answer that.

Since Atsushi and I managed to yum-yum our New Year's rice cakes* right down without choking to death on them, it seems you're stuck with me for another year.

For that matter, in a few weeks' time, Atsushi will have been stuck with me for exactly five years. Not even by being transferred to another island has he managed to escape.

And--I don't know what precisely jogged my memory of this, except possibly the general reflections one does on the passage of time during the holidays--it's ten years ago today that I came out to my parents.

They were still officially living in their old place, the little rented townhouse they'd moved into after marrying in 1971 and were about to move out of now that my little brother was ready to start college.

The house they'd finally been able to put up a down payment for was a fixer-upper three or four miles down the road. It had been abandoned by tax evaders and left vacant for a few years, during which time someone had broken in and defaced it. The master bath was sooty with the remains of a fire in the shower. There were holes punched or hacked in some of the walls. And others had been spraypainted: "This is our house." "Satan lives in this house." The former message made my parents say that the malefactors had probably been the former owners' much-tried children. The latter message, which was accompanied by a point-up star inside a circle, made a college friend of mine [from McKean County] roll her eyes and say, "Trust rural Pennsylvania Satanists not to be able to draw a freakin' pentagram right."

I was home from New York for the New Year. My parents were full of talk about wallpaper patterns and rented floor sanders and other sweat equity stuff. Dad makes wooden furniture as a hobby, so Mom was coming up with all kinds of elaborate cabinets that could be contrived for this or that odd space. I'd been dating a man for over a year and out to myself, in that final way, for a few months. My only vague thought about telling my parents had been that it might be a good idea after I'd been in grad school for a few years, when I was twenty-five or twenty-six and my having lived in the City for a while had gotten them used to the idea that my life was not going to be the return to the hometown that they'd envisioned for me. After all, lots of gay men and women with conservative Christian families found ways not to break their parents' hearts without lying to them.

And then some time during those last few days of December, the thought creeped up on me that I had an opportunity that wouldn't come up again. The house was a project that would be occupying my parents for at least a good year; it was something ready to hand that they could throw themselves into if they were feeling distrait. The room I'd slept in for eighteen years before college wouldn't be down the hall every night. Everything at the house on Broad Street was going to be packed away and removed, anyway; if they decided they had to cut off contact with me, I could get whatever stuff I needed and leave without its being the only such Event going on.

I also knew that they were not the sort of parents to go to their grave resolutely believing that their son wasn't a homo but just a workaholic who hadn't found the right girl. I'd had the usual frictions with them as a teenager, but we'd always gotten along well and communicated frankly. Eventually, I'd be thirty-five years old and home for dinner, and Mom would deposit the platter of Swiss steak on the table with a clunk and demand to know just what was up with me and that long-term roommate of mine. Or Dad would hand me a cup of coffee one morning and ask, once I had a good mouthful, whether I really expected them to believe I'd been sleeping on a couch for six years. My parents have a talent for delivering a zinger when you least expect it.

Of course, this was going to be my zinger, and I knew that if I started trying to plan it, thinking about all the possibilities--I should probably have bus money in my pocket in case they throw me out right then and there--would make me lose my nerve. So I decided to wait for a good break in the conversation and improvise, but not to think too much about it until then. (That actually wasn't all that hard; we were really busy entertaining friends and running around and stuff. I was too exhausted at night to lie awake being anxious.)

Straight readers may find this surprising, but I honestly don't remember clearly how the actual conversation went. Not really. Not the way, with my lit-major brain, I can often replay other memorable scenes word for word in my head for years afterward. I know I said everything I thought I needed to say, without being halting about it they way I'd been afraid I'd be. I know they assured me they weren't going to disown me and then, after the inital shock wore off, qualified that by suggesting all the things you can imagine conservative Christian parents' suggesting.

And a few days later I was back in New York, and my parents were moving. And things were okay. That much I do remember clearly.



* お餅 (o-mochi: sticky rice, often cut into cakes of approx. 1 cm * 4 cm * 5 cm that are toasted and eaten wrapped in sheets of pressed seaweed). The Japanese can make deadly foods out of not only poisonous fish but also rice--that's how bottomlessly resourceful they are. It fills you with a kind of awe.

Added on 4 January: As a friend just pointed out to me, o-mochi is also often served in soup, which makes it more stretchy.