Michigan with a side of Cleveland

If you’ve ever read the newspaper series called “Three perfect days in —,” you might not think that Ypsilanti, Michigan, and Cleveland, Ohio, would ever make the cut. But with just the right combination of events...

It all started with an invitation to a party in Ypsilanti, where we earlier spent a less-than-thrilling year. A former student of my partner’s was getting her doctorate and sent us an announcement of a celebratory party. The three of us had done some fun research and speaking together, and we had become good friends as well as colleagues. We have often said that we came away from Ypsi loving two things: this woman and the flan at a tiny Mexican restaurant there. (The two were not, of course, in the same category of “love.”) A chance to share in our friend’s celebration seemed like a good reason to go back for a visit. So there we were, against all odds, headed back to Ypsilanti.

We flew into the Detroit airport, which set me thinking. I’m always struck by the contrast between this expansive, modern airport and the sorrowful recent history of the “motor city.” Living here just before the recession officially arrived, we saw a small sample of the economic downturn of southeastern Michigan. We also got a big hit of how much that corner of the state is identified with what they call simply “automotive.” The sense of a nearly universally shared economic/vocational identity was so strong that even people whose work was only very incidentally related to cars thought of themselves being in “automotive.” The allegiance to this industry as the go-to job-maker persisted even when automotive seemed to be leaving the state high and dry. When we lived there (2004-5), sales of American automobiles were already on the skids. Plants were laying off, even closing, with whole sections of towns like Flint simply shutting down as a result. Yet, when the state had some money designated for development, they chose to invest in another car manufacturing plant instead of diversifying an economy that looked to be in death throes even then. The automotive industry has seen a bit of a resurrection of late, although the airport still seems deserted, way too big for the volume of passenger traffic it carries. Maybe the city will come back, grow into its airport.

Anyway, back to our “three perfect days …” After a grand, long, leisurely dinner with our friend on the evening we arrived, we were footloose until her party. My partner was trying to arrange a research interview in the area, and once that was settled, we headed off on a field trip to Cleveland.

“Cleveland?” you ask. 

Yup. 

Just three hours down the road and home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

It was a nice day trip, three hours of rolling through the farms of the heartland. The radio stations we happened onto offered the latest hog prices and wheat futures, interspersed with country music, religious programming, some contemporary stations, and even an occasional hit of the rock and roll whose story we were about to explore in depth. It was a lovely spring day, the fields were beautiful—dark, damp soil (though without the red of Colorado fields) just showing green shoots. Cows, horses, and sheep were scattered in the fields and barnyards—though we didn't see any of those hogs they mentioned on the radio.

We cruised into Cleveland late in the morning, thinking this would give us plenty of time before the museum closed at 5:30. Wrong. You know how museums are—especially for a deeply devoted music aficionada like my partner and a curious neophyte like me. Except for a very short lunch break, we perused exhibits and watched documentaries (with lots of music included) right up to closing time. I was especially intrigued by a short documentary that sketched the evolution of R & R. It showed post-WWII “American” music—i.e., the music of white, middle-class America, Perry Como, Doris Day, “Your Hit Parade”—juxtaposed with the less visible (to most of us) genres of Black music, jazz, the blues, the spirituals, and white country and bluegrass music—a combination of which gave birth to rock and roll. 

I knew virtually none of this, and now my curiosity is piqued. In order to see the half of the museum we missed entirely or skipped over far too lightly, we’re hoping for a return trip—she for further immersion in an art form about which there is always more to learn and plenty to appreciate; I for another introductory lesson.

Ypsilanti Water Tower, 1890

With the time we had left before the big event, we actually hung out. During these "perfect days," we slept in, with the “Do not disturb” sign on the door. Then, we filled our time with gentle meandering. We cruised around Ypsilanti, driving past our old house and snapping photos of the water tower, pictured here. (Not surprisingly, this water tower has been the brunt of many a joke. It was once draped in a very large sheet of plastic for World AIDS Day, and a nearby pizza shop named “Dick’s” uses the tower for a logo.)  We hung out in coffee shops, my partner working, as is her wont, and I reading We Need to Talk about Kevin—excellent and disturbing. We ate at favorite restaurants: the vegetarian restaurant in Ann Arbor remains superb; the Mexican restaurant in Ypsi was out of the flan we love, a deeply disappointing moment. 

And we serendipitously happened onto the Ann Arbor film festival and grabbed tickets for “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” at the Michigan Theater, one of those old, refurbished theaters that grace many towns—this one comes complete with an old organ and live pre-show organ music. "Marigold" is a must-see film, especially for people who are old, people who feel uncomfortable about old people, and people who will someday become old.

The three perfect days closed with a really nice party for our friend, hosted by her mom and attended by about 70 of her closest friends, plus her two kids and her husband. She’s a wonderful person, so the number wasn’t surprising, and the energy was proportionally high. We got to watch her older son and 8 or 10 other kids playing everything from “perch too many kids on the plastic climbing structures” through “see how much pizza you can fit in your little mouth at once” to “pound each other on the back and see who complains.” The adults had their own pastimes—talking in little knots or around large tables, sipping wine and munching on nuts or balancing plates of food on their laps, firing up the karaoke machine for some homemade entertainment. Another form of music I know too little about.

Now, this may not sound like an exciting vacation, but it was, in fact, perfect. A delightful combination of good friendship, a fun and educational field trip (with bonus information on agricultural prices), good food, a chance to catch up on sleep, a spontaneous movie, and quiet, unencumbered leisure time.

Three perfect days in Ypsilanti, with a side of Cleveland.

The eclipse ...

... through regular sunglasses

... and through heavy-duty eclipse-protector sunshades

The first one is more glorious, but the second is so cool! We watched part of it from in Boulder and part from atop Davidson Mesa in Louisville, along with scores of other folks and a very sweet yellow lab. Ten thousand people watched it from the CU stadium. The Camera story about that has a wonderful picture - as glorious as the first one here, as cool as the second. Check it out.

A chance to channel Margaret Mead

During the past week, I’ve attended two public meetings about the proposed Boulder Valley School District (BVSD) budget for the coming year. I don’t have a child in the schools—except insofar as we all do. So why was I there? First, because I’m an avid supporter of public education. We all have a stake in quality education for children, both for the sake of the kids themselves and because the future depends on it. And second, because I was outraged by this budget proposal.

As you may have heard or read in the newspaper, BVSD is facing the same sort of dilemma that many school districts are facing: so much to do, so little money to do it. In response to this dilemma, BVSD’s new-this-year superintendent, Dr. Bruce Messinger, has proposed a budget that, predictably and somewhat understandably, slashes programs to cover this deficit. What’s so very troubling is that the programs threatened with the deepest cuts are literacy programs and support for Title I schools, the schools that serve disadvantaged kids. In short, it appears that the budget is being balanced, as some have said, “on the backs of the neediest children.”

I am horrified and furious about this proposal. So I went to some meetings to listen and to speak my piece.

At these meetings and others, lots of folks, mostly parents and teachers, have spoken against this proposal, arguing from personal experience, from hard data, and from their hearts [read about some of these comments here and here]. I heard a woman who served for many years as a teacher and administrator in BVSD say that when she learned of this proposal, her first response was shame. She was ashamed that her beloved school district was considering a proposal that specifically and explicitly slashes funds for programs that serve kids who are already marginalized. Some parents were near tears as they described how these programs had helped their kids or other kids they knew and what they fear will be lost if these programs are cut. Teachers pleaded for reconsideration, describing case after case of individual children and whole schools that had turned around because of these programs. One mother, who moved here from New Orleans, begged that this moment not become her child’s next Katrina, where people she trust fail her, again.

The rationale for these cuts goes something like this: BVSD is doing a “reset.” The plan is to cut all “extra” programs until all schools have equal funding and then decide what’s worth restoring. Sort of like resetting the computer to factory settings and then reconsidering which programs to reinstall. 

I have three problems with this plan, all interrelated. First, we’re talking about children, families, and teachers here, not hardware and software. Ending educational programs, even if some are later reinstated, leaves at least some kids high and dry, some teachers without jobs, some families without the support systems they rely on for their kids. It leaves real people lost in the gap between what was and what might (or might not) be "reinstalled." You just can’t do that to children, their families, and their teachers and expect everything to “reset” on cue.

Second, based on my training in developmental psychology, one thing I know for sure is that children are sponges. They learn all sorts of things from the world around them, whether or not we intend for them to. For instance, they learn about the social world—about who belongs to which category (teacher vs. pupil, girl vs. boy, white vs. person of color, rich vs. poor, etc.), about who “should” like whom, and about how those groups rank in their particular social environment. In short, they learn about who is valued and who is not. And the lessons that they learn early on—not so much through direct teaching as through osmosis, just by watching and listening—are remarkably lasting. In part, they’re lasting precisely because they’re learned that way; they sort of get into your cells. So I’m thinking about what children might learn from cuts like these.

The third part is the issue of equity. I've mentioned before my involvement with the Boulder Valley Safe Schools Coalition, which works to make the schools welcoming and supportive for LGBT students, parents, and staff. But my commitment to equity extends far beyond LGBT issues and includes all marginalized groups. There are many differences among the groups who stand outside the mainstream for one reason or another. But there is stark similarity in the means by which those groups are kept out. Institutional structures that fail to recognize the distinctive needs of particular groups are among the most powerful—and often insidious—of those means.

The tagline on the BVSD logo is “Excellence and Equity.” I am stunned by the total absence of any concern for equity here. I learned long ago that “equitable” does not mean “identical.” A simple “reset” that makes all schools “equal” (i.e., identical) does not constitute an equitable adjustment. If we offer all children identical resources, we are unavoidably mistreating many of them. The reality is that poor kids, kids of color, kids whose second language is English, kids with learning deficits have distinctive needs, and these needs demand differential programming—equitable programming that recognizes their particular strengths and challenges. Some reassurances are now emerging that some of these programs will be reinstated … at least in part. But the “improved” funding for literacy programs is still about half what it was last year. And I still insist that is not OK. In his response to some of these critiques, Dr. Messinger even acknowledged that it is not OK, but (I imagined a shrug), there it is. As if meeting the needs of half of these kids or meeting them half as well would just have to do. 

I repeat, the tagline is “Excellence and Equity.” The two are inseparable. Our treatment of people is part of children's education, just as the formal curriculum is. When we diminish precisely those programs that serve this particular set of children, we teach all children something: equity matters until there’s a budget crunch; then, not so much. 

To these particular children and their families, we’re saying, “When push comes to shove, when budgets come to the bottom line, your needs are expendable.” How else can they understand the fact that the proposed cuts slice away at programming intended to help them succeed in school—and, I might add, in life? And to everyone else—including the kids and the adults who may seem to be unaffected by these cuts—we’re saying, “When the going gets rough, you can just look the other way. As long as you are personally safe, it’s not your worry.” What an awful lesson for our schools to teach us.

I’m not totally oblivious to the budgetary dilemmas facing BVSD. Finding the money to continue providing excellent education and also to reimburse teachers at an honorable level is a daunting task. I don’t pretend to know the details of that process or the answers to those dilemmas. However, I find it impossible to believe that no better options can be found to balance the budget than to cut programs that serve the students who most need BVSD’s full support.

So, I have to wonder why these particular programs were targeted. Here is my (no longer secret) fear: The children who are directly hurt by cuts like these represent families and communities who make up a relatively small, mostly invisible, and not very powerful portion of the BVSD community. My fear is that these are simply the “easiest” places to cut, the “low-hanging fruit,” precisely because the groups most greatly impacted are less visible, less powerful, and less outspoken than other groups might be.

The budget shortfall is around 2% of BVSD’s overall budget. There simply have to be better ways to deal with this than selectively cutting these particular programs. How about cutting funding for interscholastic athletics? How about reconsidering the administrative structure? How about an across-the-board 2% cut in all programs?

I honestly don’t know the answers. But a lot of folks are working on this budget, and they all serve at the pleasure of the public. Enough noise from “out here” may just echo enough “in there” to trigger some re-examination of priorities. Of what this community stands for—or hopes to stand for. Of the meaning of “Excellence and Equity.”

Please add your voice to the mix. Email the BVSD school board, email Dr. Messinger, write a letter to the Daily Camera. While you're at it, write to your state representatives and senators, since part of the problem is that Colorado’s state funding for education is pitifully low (use this interactive map to find them). Help make some noise. We may or may not change what they do, but we can sure make them aware that this particular approach is not all right with us. Heck, maybe it will make a difference. As Margaret Mead famously said,

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed individuals can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

Cabin Fever, Coffee Shops, and Bookstores

I don’t do well when I spend too much time in the same place. Borrowing from some ancient pioneer lingo, I refer to this condition as cabin fever, and I attribute it to my need for intensity and change: I like my coffee super strong (too strong for most folks), I prefer desserts that involve intensely deep, dark, rich chocolate (too rich for most folks), in my running days, I had to run a marathon for it to “count,” and I like my life to involve change, all the time. That means a day spent indoors in the same place turns deadly long before night falls. Cabin fever. 


Usually, I plan things that get me out of the house each day: errands, volunteer work, a walk or the gym, lunch with a friend. But some days, that’s not enough to settle my itchy nerves. For those days, I've lately discovered the healing power of hanging out in coffee shops. It’s especially helpful now that the weather is nice and I can sit outside for the cure. This means packing up my work or some leisure reading and trundling off to someplace with tables and an Internet connection for an hour or two of cabin-fever therapy.

My favorite spots are locally owned coffee shops: Paul’s, Vic’s, Folsom Street, Ozo’s. Recently, since Starbucks took a courageous position on behalf of LGBT rights, which earned them a boycott by conservative groups, I've added that to my list. And then there are always bookstore coffee shops, which have the added value of great atmosphere and opportunities to browse for more stuff to read. Not Barnes & Noble, which is far from “locally owned,” and which has not, to my knowledge, taken any risky political positions.

And this leads me to an entirely tangential topic … bookstores and their discontents.

Thinking about bookstore coffee shops brings to mind the dilemma that bookstores—especially independent, locally owned bookstores—are facing these days. Brick-and-mortar bookstores have struggled to survive in this Internet age, with behemoths like Amazon for competition. The big national chains have probably done best—although Borders recently bit the dust, leaving B & N as the remaining chain mega-bookstore with enough volume and enough advertising clout to slash prices and get folks through the door. But independent bookstores have fallen like flies.

When we first moved back to Boulder about 6 years ago, I volunteered for a while at Boulder’s locally owned combination women’s and LGBT bookstore, “Word Is Out.” The store closed in 2008 (although it’s now “open” online), victim of the trends that are closing independent bookstores, especially specialty stores, all over the country. In their heyday, women’s bookstores doubled as community centers for the burgeoning feminist and LGBT movements. They were the go-to source for the books, fiction and non-fiction, that fueled the movements. They were also the site of political meetings, book signings, teach-ins, informational sessions, consciousness-raising groups, and just plain hanging out together, building community.  

When these movements began to make some real gains, folks developed other community sites, new centers of activities and resources, and the movements shifted outward from the bookstores. With them went many of the events that had nourished these gathering places, and the shops increasingly became “just” bookstores. Over time, even these have become more and more scarce. These trends overlapped with the decline of independent bookstores in general, with results like we saw with the closing  of “Word is Out.”

It’s not as simple as good vs. evil, of course. There’s lots of talk about what’s lost when we buy books online instead of meandering through rows of shelves and about how meager is the expertise and how poor the service in megastores. But on the other hand, there’s also something to be said for the value of online access to a wide range of books for folks who otherwise wouldn’t have access to books at all—think of rural folks, people who are isolated for medical reasons, older folks who can’t get out, youths who could never get a ride to a queer bookstore. And megastores do make books more affordable than indie stores can.

Also, some folks—including some owners of independent bookstores—argue that indie bookstores are making a comeback, partly by becoming “community centers,” sort of like women’s bookstores used to be. We are lucky in Boulder to still have some independent bookstores, Boulder Bookstore and Left Hand Books best known among them. Conveniently, Boulder Bookstore is also adjacent to the Bookends coffee shop, so that solves my dilemma about finding a coffee shop in an independent bookstore. In Denver, the Tattered Cover thrives, and it also has coffee shops in all its branches. So I have a hangout in Denver, if I have reason to be down there.

That whole digression—from cabin fever to coffee shops to bookstores—finally brings me back to my original point. Coffee shops, especially when attached to bookstores, are a great antidote for cabin fever. If, that is, you are (a) prone to cabin fever and (b) lucky enough to be retired so you can go hang out at a bookstore coffee shop to treat it.

Evolution

I've been fascinated by evolution, in all its forms, for a long time. The evolution of the natural world is just mind-boggling. How did the forget-me-not evolve to have that beautiful, precisely drawn face? Why do turkeys have a wattle—what possible purpose might it have served in getting them here? Equally fascinating is the evolution of human thought. I wonder where consciousness itself came from, what were the tiny steps that led to its emergence as another function next to, say, the opposable thumb or the ability to digest whale blubber and cactus leaves. And I wonder about the “evolution” of a society’s worldview or an individual’s thinking over time.

For the past year and a half (or so), President Obama has said his ideas on same-sex marriage were “evolving.” This week, that evolution reached a new level, as he declared in a televised interview that his now-evolved belief is that same-sex couples should be able to marry. Other parts of that interview showed up on a morning TV show the next day. This is a particularly striking example of “evolution.” The topic is contentious enough even without the storm often stirred up by the mention of “evolution.”

In its basic form, evolution occurs when organisms change over many generations in ways that help them adapt to their environment. This happens, as far as we currently know, when particular variations in a trait prove useful in adaptation. So, the organisms that have this trait live longer, reproduce more, and pass it on. Their offspring are then more likely to have the same trait, so they live longer, reproduce more, and pass it on … Think of giraffes with longer necks who can reach the high leaves when drought has thinned the trees.

If we translate this idea directly to human thought, it seems like our ideas would change when having a different idea would help us get along in the world. In the case of Obama’s evolving ideas, some might say he did this for political gain (which, as many commentators have noted, is not a likely outcome). His own explanation is that he’s gradually shifted as he’s gotten to know LGBT people, has talked with his kids about their friends’ families, and has reflected on principles taken from his faith, especially the “golden rule.” Either of these interpretations suggests events in his world that might encourage him to change his position—to adapt to this new world we inhabit.

Follow me on a short digression:  

A couple of years ago, we visited the Galapagos Islands, the place where Darwin famously made the observations that helped him formulate the principle of evolution through natural selection. The animals were amazing in their variety and striking uniqueness. What ever benefit would blue feet have for a bird? And how long did it take for the tortoises to develop  different-shaped shells on each island? 

They were also remarkable in their indifference to humans. With no predators, they've never developed the escape behaviors we’re used to seeing. So it’s actually possible to stand within a few feet of a nursing sea lion pup and have neither mother nor child so much as raise a flipper ... not to mention the over-sized father napping next to them.

But maybe even more fascinating to me was my awareness that we were standing on the same ground where Darwin made his famous observations. “He walked right here,” I thought to myself. “He saw these birds, these tortoises, these plants, this lava field.” It was here that Western thought spun off in a direction that would change our understanding of virtually everything. The mechanism that makes change happen was suddenly sketched in systematic terms. It made sense of aspects of reality that had been shrouded in mystery. Like how organisms change—and maybe, how societies change.

So, to get back to Obama's "evolution" ... Darwin was exploring physical evolution, and the physical environment was the “tool” that shaped these changes in organisms. But human beings have this other dimension. Call it reason, call it a moral sensibility, call it a soul or a spirit, call it a cerebral cortex. It sets human experience apart, and it also allows, even demands, new kinds of evolution. This dimension, like long necks or opposable thumbs, has evolved over time because it helps us get along. It helps us live in the social, moral, self-aware human environment that is our "Galapagos." 

Somewhere in that sensibility is the invitation (if not the imperative) to “do the right thing.” My own preferred interpretation of Obama’s move lies here. Whatever other factors impinged on this evolution in his thinking, I believe he took this final step because he decided that it’s the right thing to do. His kids are telling him, directly and indirectly, that this is the morally obvious path to follow, and he’s listening to them. He’s getting to know and care about more and more LGBT folks, and that humanizes them, individualizes this often-vague, impersonal morass of “LGBT people.” He sees that the arc of history is carrying us (if with some painful setbacks) toward full equality for LGBT individuals, and his belief in equality makes this seem right to him. His own rhetoric of integrity and hope urge him to take the high road.

Sure, his evolution was much slower than many of us would have preferred. Sure, you can argue that he’s simply reacting/adapting to the historical, political environment. That’s a fair interpretation. But maybe his finally coming to this point reflects the most human, though not the easiest, of adaptations: he changed his mind. His view broadened, his choices became clearer, his sense of who he is and who he wants to be, perhaps especially in his children’s eyes, urged him to dare this position. Gradually, to be sure, but in the end, he found the courage to change his mind. That’s hard for any of us to do, especially in public and facing inevitable criticism. Especially in an environment where changes of mind are regarded as “etch-a-sketch” maneuvers. A change of mind as fraught as this would be hard for any of us, just trying to get along in our own small worlds. Imagine how hard it is for the President, who's doing it on the world stage and for the history books.

It makes perfect sense that this evolution actually took time. Evolution in its truest form always takes time because it’s foundational. In truth, this is precisely the path that most of us follow when we change our minds about complex and thorny questions: if we do it from our core, it takes time.

Watch the videos. Obama invited this interview. He was clear that it was his time to take a stand. He looks completely at ease with his position. It looks to me like he’s found his moral ecological niche.

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. 

♪ ♫ Summertime, summertime, sum- sum- summertime! ♪ ♫

A while ago, I was (admittedly unrealistically) hopeful that spring was on our doorstep … and then I was certain that spring had arrived. Now, all of a sudden, it’s summer!

Is it really true that time has sped up? Is it aging or is it this crazy weather that makes it seem like seasons are now about a week long? Or will this lovely summer weather disappear while spring (or winter?) takes an encore bow?

Whatever, for today, it’s summer! There are signs everywhere.

The cottonwood trees are doing their cottonwood thing.

 I wrote an ode to a cottonwood a few months ago, and I mentioned this infernal fluffy stuff. That was mid-winter, and the trees weren't doing anything fuzzy. But they’re starting to do just that now. Allergy alert!

The yucca are starting to bloom. 

Pretty soon, thee yucca stalks will sprout beautiful, waxy flowers—but right now, they look like huge asparagus spears. Actually, it turns out they are kin to asparagus. They’re also cousins to the agave (aka “century plant,” so called because it blooms one in a lifetime, which can be very long, and then dies). And to aloe, of medicinal purposes fame. What’s really surprising, though, is that they’re also related to lilies. Who knew? I guess the long pointy leaves and single stalk are similar …

(BTW, lest there be any doubt, I know virtually nothing about plants. Just a few fun tidbits tucked away in the recesses of my brain just waiting for an opportunity to be forced into a blog. Oh, yeah … and I have Google to fill in the missing bits.)

At least some of the trees that had buds in my earlier pictures are now beyond the flower stage and have tiny fruit. These particular fruits are looking pretty withered. Not nearly enough precipitation this spring. 

The cottonwood are faring much better, but then, they’re natives, adapted to this dry climate. Someone had better water this little fruit tree, I think.

The evergreen trees are showing their early-summer “candles,” growing heartily even with the dry spring we've had. 

For no good reason, seeing these candles reminded me of bristlecone pines, a rare-ish species that I've had the good fortune to see a few times. (See what I mean about facts looking for a chance to get some air time?) They grow in a few sort of remote places in Colorado and elsewhere in the west.  They get to be really old (I mean really old, older than any other known living organism – up to nearly 5000 years of age!) They grow very slowly, so they’re not known for big candles. But they do have unusual small, purple cones. Maybe that’s the connection. Candles … cones …

So, now that I've settled into the arrival of summer—it was 92° today, for Pete’s sake!—we have cold, rainy weather in the forecast.

I love Colorado weather.

Saturday morning addendum:


I just saw the greatest sight. This redheaded kid, her hair pulled back in dual ponytails, climbing out of the (currently empty) irrigation ditch near the bike path. She had been called from a nearby house to say goodbye to a visitor, and here she came. Her hands covered in mud, carrying a bucket, clambering up through the willows. It made my heart smile … I was that kid. I suppose she’ll have to clean up for school on Monday, but soon, summer will stretch out ahead, full of adventures. Who knows, maybe she’ll be in ballet camp and fashion camp, but for now, the mud beckons.