Sending light to North Carolina

Today, the citizens of North Carolina are going to the polls to vote on a constitutional ban against same-sex marriage—which is to say, an amendment prohibiting marriage equality. The amendment is expected to pass.* There’s been lots of coverage of this as a political issue. But I’m thinking today about the LGBT folks and their allies in that state. I’m thinking about how this day feels to them—the day when their rights are being put to a popular vote. And about how tomorrow will feel, the day when they wake up wondering who voted to deny those rights. It takes me straight back to 1992.

I remember waking on the morning after Amendment 2 was passed by Colorado voters in November 1992.

For those who don’t know about Amendment 2, a short primer: A2 was a citizen-initiated ballot measure that would overturn all existing legal protections for LGB people and prohibit the passage of any such protections in the future. Simply, it would legalize discrimination against LGB people. A2 was ultimately declared unconstitutional by the US Supreme Court—but not before it had profound effects on LGB individuals and communities and their allies. (My apologies for the absent “T.” We weren’t addressing trans issues at all at this point.)

Like lots of other folks, I believed the polls that said A2 wouldn’t pass. I was prepared to be outraged that many of my neighbors, co-workers, even my family would have voted for it—and against me. But I expected it to fail, and I expected my life to go on as it had, with barely a ripple of notice given to the issue.

Then I heard the morning news on the clock radio by my bed: A2 had passed. Tears sprang to my eyes.

I hadn’t given the amendment much attention, hadn’t been at all involved in the campaign against it, wasn’t at all prepared for this moment. The truth is, in my contented, complacent, comfortable life, I didn’t give much thought to LGB issues at all. I was generally pretty closeted—totally so at work, although out to my family and close friends. I had a wide circle of lesbian (and a few gay male) friends, occasionally went to LGB events. I was content with this. I knew A2 was on the ballot and had vaguely noticed the campaign ads—especially from A2 supporters. I’d wanted to scream at the radio as I heard the lies being told about me and my life, but I didn’t actively do anything about it.

And then, on Tuesday, November 3, 1992, people in my state voted to actively prohibit all guarantees of legal protection for me and my community. I was stunned, hurt, angry, dumfounded, tearful. And frightened: would this grant permission to people (who might have held back out of social propriety) to see us as legitimate targets—of discrimination, harassment, or worse? I was also confused and outraged: How could they? Do they really hate us that much? How can they misunderstand us so badly?

After the tears stopped that morning, I resolved that I had to do something about this. I couldn’t just retreat farther into my closet (which some folks assure me was a glass closet anyhow). For my own sanity, as well as my wish to single-handedly change the world, I had to act. I have to admit that I didn’t suddenly wrest control over all I was feeling. The hurt and anger and fear remained in silent ways. I started to wonder, “who?” Who voted against my rights? Was it that neighbor I see walking up to his mailbox—did he vote against me? Was it my colleague in the next office? I had never talked to her about this, did she …? Was it the guy in the car next to me at the stoplight? My doctor? The announcer on the radio?

Still, even with this private backtalk, I realized that I was in a great position to do something active. I taught at a state college and I had tenure, a good reputation as a teacher, and the broad support of my colleagues (although I wasn’t certain it would extend to this domain). So I began a two-pronged personal campaign: I got active politically, and I turned the emotional intensity of my response to A2 toward educational ends. Eventually, I created a course in LGB psychology, which I taught to a full classroom several times a year, every year until I retired. I wrote a textbook to use in the class, because there was none available. And I began professional writing and research in this topic area, which remained my area of focus until I retired.

In this process, I also met my partner. She had actually worked (hard!) on the “No on 2” campaign, so she had been very directly in the line of fire from the “Yes on 2” folks. Also, she’s a therapist, and when A2 passed, she had seen its impact on LGB people and their allies among her clients. So she did a major research project to figure out what this had done to folks. From her, I learned that my response to A2 was not unique. Many people felt what I felt: stunned, angry, hurt, fearful, alienated, lost. And many turned those feelings into activism of some sort. Painful though it was, in the long run, the LGBT community and our allies used A2 as a springboard to amazing progress. In fact, the ultimate US Supreme Court ruling overturning A2 has served as a model for many pro-LGBT victories in the years that followed.

All of this comes to mind as I think of the folks in North Carolina. Today will be hard—hard, last-minute work to get LGBT-positive folks to vote, mustering volunteers to go door to door, to give folks rides, to make last-minute phone calls. And then the long wait … and finally the results, heard in campaign headquarters, seen in banners on evening TV, or heard on the morning news.

LGBT rights are expected to lose in North Carolina today. That means that tomorrow, lots of folks will be feeling what I felt that cold morning in November 1992.

In my days of learning everything I could about LGB psychology, I came across this notion that has stuck with me. It’s called the “affirmative assumption,” and it says this: if we look at LGBT people (or insert any other devalued group) from the perspective of what’s great about us (the affirmative view) instead of what’s damaged (the deficit view), we get a very different picture of who we are. LGBT people have faced so much awful stuff over the years—individually and as a community—and yet most of us turn out to be fine, healthy, normal, typical human beings. This suggests that we can be remarkably resilient, can have really excellent coping skills. The fact that A2 led not to the demise of Colorado’s LGBT community but to its growth and empowerment is a case in point.

Today, I want to send the LGBT/ally community in North Carolina a dose of faith in their own resilience, a hit of the affirmative assumption. A win would feel much better tomorrow morning. But, as we learned in Colorado, a “loss” can lead to great outcomes in the long run. Even though this doesn’t make it not hurt in the moment. Oooof.

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* There’s also a bill moving through the legislative process in Colorado that would endorse civil unions for same-sex couples. That bill has to get through the legislature by Wednesday, or it will die for this year … again. I’ll comment on that another time. Today, folks in NC are on my mind, probably because their situation seems so similar to ours in 1992—a citizen-initiated constitutional amendment limiting LGBT rights that has been put up for a popular vote.