Late summer, comin' on fall

I love this time of the year. Cool mornings and evenings, super-hot days mostly gone, the smell of vegetation reaching the end of its summer cycle. The prairie dogs look fat and happy, their coats starting to lose the darker summer color and morph into the winter version. You know it could, hypothetically, snow any day, but the feeling in the air is more like this will go on forever. Late summer, comin’ on fall.

Every year around this time, my partner and I are all excited about how colorful the meadows get during this season—tapestries, we call them. I was taking some pictures of those for a project of hers, and that started me noticing all the distinctive things that happen in the world in late summer. Here’s a smattering of snapshots of such things: tapestry meadows, late summer grasses in mowed fields, cottonwood turning gold—branch by branch, thistle going to seed, late summer flowers surrounded by summer-dry grass, branches weighed down by seedpods, green apples, ripening tomatoes … and a couple months’ growth in one corner of my spectacular new maintenance-free garden!

                        

    

  

       



 

Worth a leisurely walk, for sure!

Natural consequences

Over the years, conservative politicians, especially those of the religious right ilk, have insisted that large-scale tragedies are God’s way of punishing sinners. Especially popular have been claims that terrible events are a result of “the homosexual agenda,” the “gay lifestyle,” gay marriage, and the increasing visibility and acceptance of LGBT people in general.

For instance:

·        Rev. Jerry Falwell blamed the attacks of 9-11 on “the paganists, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians…” who have caused God to stop protecting America. 

·        Repent America, an evangelical group based in Philadelphia, and Rev. John Hagee, well-known pastor of a Texas megachurch and famous McCain supporter, blamed Hurricane Katrina on the “Southern Decadence” party that gays were planning in New Orleans the day Katrina struck. Evangelical Christians weren’t alone in this belief. An Austrian Catholic pastor made the same argument, and was promoted by the Pope shortly thereafter to the position of auxiliary Bishop.

·        Going the hurricane story one better, Rev. Clyde Higgins, writing on the evangelical website Christwire.org, blamed both the August 2001 New York earthquake and Hurricane Irene, set to hit NYC just days thereafter, on gay marriage: “You have betrayed America’s duty as a Christian nation to make homosexuals miserable in their sins. You have allowed the biggest city of America to be a modern Sodomy Megalopolis.”

·        Rev. Pat Robertson, founder of the Christian Coalition, insisted that Orlando, Florida, risked hurricanes and other assorted disasters, up to and including terrorist bombings, because Disneyland hosted a Gay Day, and the city had gay pride flags along its streets. "A condition like this will bring about ... earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," according to Robertson.

  

So, now the Republican national convention is scheduled in to meet in Tampa Florida starting tomorrow, Monday, August 27. But the Republicans have decided to cancel the first day of their convention, with plans to resume with a shortened schedule starting on Tuesday. The reason? Tropical Storm Isaac is set to hit the Florida coast today (Sunday), and they are concerned about everyone’s safety.

I wonder how long it will take the LGBTQ blogosphere to saturate the Web with the obvious question: Is Isaac a punishment for Republicans’ sins against poor people, people of color, women, seriously ill people, aging and old folks, people with disabilities, immigrants … heck, against us all?

Not to be partisan or anything. Just sayin’.

About that summer pledge ...

As I mentioned a while ago, I promised myself that this year, I wouldn't let summer slip by without noticing it. Which is to say, I promised myself I’d do a lot of totally summer-like activities. After last week's immersion in heavy issues, this seemed like an excellent time to pay attention to the summer side of my life. And this was the perfect week for it. 

To start the week, I went for a walk with a friend in Eldorado Canyon State Park (which is most famous for rock climbing). We had lots to talk about, but that didn’t keep us from appreciating what a swell walk it was. We saw great scenery—we were in the woods for part of the trail, in meadows for other parts, overlooking Boulder valley in yet other sections. Along the way, we also saw a few late-summer flowers, some early fall berries, and a lot of dry grass. Then, we were walking along the edge of a meadow when I spotted a doe lying in the grass maybe 50 yards away (or less?). As we were watching her, we caught sight of two fawns. They all watched us, ears alert, as we walked by. I wish I had a picture to share—this is the one problem with cellphone cameras: feeble range. 

Along the way, the trail passed through several cuts in the hills, presumably made long ago for railroad lines or wagon roads. They had clearly been blasted out, leaving the many layers of uplifted rock exposed. For those of you who aren't familiar with this area, Eldorado Canyon slices through the formation that makes up the flatirons, Boulder’s iconic rock formation. All along this formation, which runs north to south just in front of the Rocky Mountains, the rock is tilted steeply upward. (Red Rocks amphitheater west of Denver and the Garden of the Gods west of Colorado Springs are also part of this formation). So these cuts we walked through exposed now-tilted layers of rock that were initially laid down horizontally. A while ago, I had a great (totally amateur) interest in geology, and I learned just enough to spot some interesting patterns here. Like layers that had once been mud—probably a shallow sea—interspersed with much thicker layers that likely had been sand. Other sections revealed what had probably been sand, layered in opposing directions (called “cross bedding,” at least in Utah), suggesting shifting winds or a changing landscape a few geological eye blinks ago.

When we were almost back to the car, we chatted for a while with a park volunteer. He seemed especially eager to assure us that it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the signs made it seem. We had noticed (but hadn’t given much thought to) signs warning of the possibility of bears and mountain lions in the area, and just behind this volunteer stood yet another, warning us of rattlesnakes. In truth, neither of us was particularly worried. I’ve hiked in Colorado my whole adult life, and I’ve seen only one black bear (running away). I saw a rattlesnake once in Texas and once in Utah. I’ve never seen a mountain lion, although after reading The Beast in the Garden, I admit to some trepidation when I’m walking alone in rocky, brushy terrain. All in all, a great walk, totally befitting my vow to myself to enjoy the summer.

A couple of days later, continuing this week of outdoor fun, I went with another friend to the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keensburg. We knew from the website that the animals sheltered here—large carnivores, mostly—have been rescued from an assortment of abusive situations. Some are from circuses and carnivals where they were kept in small pens or trailers and let out only to perform. Some were owned as “pets” and chained in backyards or kept in small kennels until they got too big and were at risk of being killed. Some were raised to be killed for their fur or as "trophies." All of them have lived their lives in confinement and couldn’t survive in the wild. The Sanctuary likely saved their lives, and it then became their lifelong home. 

Arctic wolves

The sanctuary wasn’t quite what I had imagined—although my expectations actually made no sense under the circumstances. I once visited the San Diego Zoo, where the animals are kept in vast tracts of land with hills and trees and flowing streams, and the humans view them by riding in small trains around the property. That’s sort of what I had in mind. But this is the Colorado plains—flat, dry, short-grass prairie, toward the end of an exceptionally hot and dry summer. So, instead of trees, streams, and rolling hills, we saw flat, dry land with stubbly grass and a few cottonwoods. The enclosures, though, are acres in size. They're definitely small compared with running free on the Serengeti. But these animals hadn’t been captured on the Serengeti. And these creatures couldn't survive there anyway. I reminded myself that compared with where they'd spent their earlier years, this space was expansive and amazingly free. Given a choice, I’m guessing these creatures would pick this place in a furry heartbeat.

A pack of eastern gray wolves

The enclosures are really thoughtfully designed. Each one has several dens dug deep into the ground. The tunnel into each den is designed with a hump—it goes down, then up a bit, then back down before reaching the den. This up-and-down design creates an air lock so that cold air doesn't pour down into the den in the winter. Since the dens are buried about 6' underground, they stay at about 60–65° summer and winter—a necessity out on the plains where it can get well below zero in the winter and up to 100° in the summer. You can see the animals by walking along an elevated walkway that stretches about a mile from the visitor’s center, skirting large enclosures for black bears, grizzlies, cougars, wolves, tigers, lions, and some other creatures that we didn't see (they were probably inside; it was really hot out), like porcupines and foxes.

A lion family rescued from Bolivia

The family of six lions pictured here had all been kept in a 6 × 12’ trailer. The youngest, the small male closest to us in the picture, has deformed legs because he grew up unable to move around. Now they have acres of open space. Or, when it's hot, they can lounge around inside, like they're doing here.  

In a shelter at the end of the walkway (where we saw these lions), we had a long talk with a volunteer. We learned about what they feed the carnivores (frozen raw meet mixed with eggs, vitamins, and green algae); about how hard it is to get water for the animals and for the few “water features” they have around the place; about the dental and veterinary care the animals all get on a regular basis; about their funding, given that their annual budget runs in the millions (mostly small donations); and about how they introduce the animals gradually from solo pens to group pens to larger social groups, the packs or prides. 

Here’s one particularly interesting tidbit: Obviously, it’s important that these creatures not reproduce, so all of the males are neutered. All, that is, except for the lions. It turns out that neutering lions ruins their manes, and the mane is an important signal in the social organization of the pride. So to protect their social structure, instead of neutering the males, they put all the female lions on birth control—the implanted version, that is. Not a daily pill.

As I write, I realize that I had mixed feelings as I wandered around this place. It seemed, at times and in spots, sort of zoo-like, and I can no longer stand to go to zoos. Still, I do believe they are doing marvelous work, rescuing these creatures from the sort of awful treatment that results from our completely imperious view of animals. Some of the stories of creatures’ past lives are heart wrenching. It’s hard not to celebrate a program that puts an end to that. Even if it's not the Serengeti. And even if they can only do it for a few animals.

Which reminds me of a familiar old story, apparently based on the writings of Loren Eiseley, that seems like a fitting closing for this tale. This guy was walking along the shoreline, picking up starfish and throwing them out to sea. After watching him for a while, another beach stroller approached him to ask what he was doing. “Saving their lives,” he said. The watcher said, “there’s no way you can save all the starfish that wash up on the shore.” “No,” said the star thrower, tossing another starfish beyond the breaking waves, “but I just saved that one.” 

Thoughts from the think tank

Over the past few weeks, I’ve found myself immersed in a virtual progressive think tank. Well, not exactly. In a think tank, you’re supposed to contribute something novel to the tank. Mostly, I’ve just been soaking up other people’s ideas and letting them swirl around in my brain. I guess that makes me a think tank lurker. This may seem like a bit of a rant. But there you have it: my lurking mind in overdrive.

Most recently, I spent several days at the national conference of the Society for the Study of Social Problems, which, happily, met in Denver this year. My partner and I refer this group as “the radical sociologists.” My kind of people! I attended a bunch of sessions that renewed my hope that progressivism lives on in up-and-coming scholars and that academics can also be activists (and be proud of it … at least in this circle of like-minded academics). Among other topics, I dipped into discussions of the meaning of the concept of “social problems,” the subtle meanings conveyed by chat room conversations among butch- and femme-identified queer folks, the meaning of community recovery following a deadly mudslide in the Philippines, and changing meanings of “acceptance” of LGBTQ folks in religious settings (the last was our own work, presented by a couple of students we’ve been working with). A meaning-full several days, for sure.

The conference found me already in a reflective mood about things sociological, since I had spent considerable time over recent weeks hanging out with such topics here in Boulder. The focus of this year’s “One Book, One Boulder” program is Chief Niwot, also known as Chief Left Hand. The book, Chief Left Hand, is a biography of this Arapaho peace chief and the story of white people’s theft of Indian land in Colorado. In recent weeks, I attended two events in the “One Book, One Boulder” program series, and also visited the Boulder History Museum’s exhibit on the same topic. My first foray into this program a few weeks ago was the multi-media performance, “Rocks, Karma, Arrows.” I left that performance slightly stunned. I’ve known about how badly white “settlers” (a.k.a., invaders) treated the Indians living on the continent as we claimed (a.k.a., stole) more and more land and resources. But the explicit deception and cruelty of that period of history was sort of pinned to a bulletin board in my brain. During this performance, it was pulled down and examined in detail and with an immediacy I’ve rarely experienced.

Then, with that performance as a backdrop, I saw two segments of the film “Race: The Power of an Illusion.” This movie details how “race” became an identity category, which it hadn’t been one before we invented it (“constructed it,” as the scholars say). And then, how the stereotypes and degradations visited on non-white people were systematically shifted from one group to another as we (white folks) decided we wanted the land, the cheap labor, and/or the resources of yet another group. First, we wanted free labor from African slaves, so we created, step by step, a story that made them not just different in skin color but also deficient in mental and moral status. Using the wonders of newly emerging science, we even created (and I do mean created) biological proof of their inferiority. Then, the very same arguments were used to prove that other groups—Indians and women, Eastern European, Italian, Chinese, and Japanese immigrants, among others—were inferior. Funny … these arguments were pulled out just when each of these groups had something whites wanted or risked taking something only white men had.

Maybe the most powerful point in this movie for me was this suggestion: White people could have just acknowledged that we wanted free labor from African slaves and their descendants (or land from the Indians and cheap labor from other groups) and that we had the power to demand it. But we had this problem: the Declaration of Independence says, “all men are created equal.” Now, obviously, this excludes women (one of the battles of the 20^th century), but it should include all these non-white men. So, the trick was to justify their unequal treatment. To do that, we created a story about these groups, one that made them less than fully human. That way, they were not really included in “all men,” so we weren't required to treat them as equals.

It’s an amazing paradox. If we didn’t have this wonderful doctrine, "... all men are created equal," we wouldn’t have had to invent these stories of inferiority to cover up our sins against the founding documents. 

But given our supposed allegiance to this doctrine, we had to somehow paper over two conflicting realities: (1) we believe in equality and (2) our actions are rife with inequality. We pulled this off by simply declaring some people less than fully human.

     

And now, we live with the awful legacy of that process: even when the overt racism/sexism/classism waned (e.g., after slaves were freed, when the Indians were granted sovereignty in their “own” lands, when women got the vote, when labor unions gained equal treatment), those old stories about sub-humanity remained. We could free the slaves, but we still “knew” that they were inherently inferior to white people. We could give women the vote, but we still “knew” that they were inferior to men. The task we’re left with now is to figure out how to erase those old stories when the culture is steeped in them, and we’ve all taken them in with the air we breathe since childhood.

After all this, a visit to the Chief Left Hand exhibit at the Boulder History Museum closed the circle. It reminded me of the deep Colorado connection to this story of race. The the ease with which we've denied the humanity of whole groups of humans—and of their leaders, even those who, like Left Hand, craved, worked for, pleaded for peace. We’re walking on the land we stole from them as if it were our own.

This immersion in the reminder that racism isn’t “long ago and far away” but right here, in my town, in my time—in my self—was unsettling. But it was also energizing, a reminder of my own work yet to be done. Folks who live near Boulder still have a chance to join in this remarkable learning process. The museum exhibit is still open, the book is still available, and more “One Boulder” events are coming up.

Check them out here and jump on in. This think tank can always use more folks who believe in community activism—or simply in personal growth. 

Dream on!

This week, students will return to school at Metro, the downtown Denver college (now university) where I happily spent my entire teaching career. For the first time, undocumented students, so-called “dreamers” who were brought to the US as children, will be able to attend college at Metro for a reduced rate. Their tuition will still be higher than that of documented students, but not as high as out-of-state residents.

This action isn’t directly related to President Obama’s recent order granting “deferred action” for undocumented young people, which will let these youth stay in the US to work or study without fear of deportation. Metro’s decision came some time before that announcement. But together, these two actions give these young folks a real opportunity to hope for a life that looked impossible so recently.

This makes me incredibly proud of this school where I spent so many years. I feel honored to be associated with an institution that’s willing to take the heat (and there will be plenty!) to let these dreamers dream. 

“Beasts of the Southern Wild” … including aurochs and a six-year-old

Last weekend’s movie extravaganza, part two: In my last post, I mentioned seeing a bunch of movies last weekend. One of them was the Sundance prize-winning film, “Beasts of the Southern Wild.” To get right to the point, you really want to see this movie!

Hush Puppy is a six-year-old girl who lives in an impoverished and idyllic community (which is her whole universe… she’s six!) at the end of the end of a Louisiana bayou. This is the story of the universe through her eyes. Which is to say, it’s the story of the universe as understood/imagined by a six-year-old mind, with all its egocentrism and certainty, and its confusion of reality and fantasy. The gift to those of us watching is that we get to listen in on her six-year-old musings as she both contemplates and creates her universe. Hush Puppy is, at least in her imagination, a “beast” of sorts, proudly proclaiming, with her father’s encouragement as she flexes her muscles, “I am the man!”

Aurochs in Lascaux Cave, France 

The other beast in this southern wild is the legendary aurochs, an extinct relative of modern cattle famously shown in prehistoric cave paintings. Actually, the aurochs in this case is a beast of Hush Puppy’s imagination, so it doesn’t have to be true to science. And it's not. It looks like a cross between the prehistoric bull and the huge hogs that live in her yard, consuming everything in sight. That’s the license given by a six-year-old mind. So is Hush Puppy’s certainty that her history and that of her community will be the topic of future scientific discoveries.


Hush Puppy’s universe, real and imaginary, is threatened by nature, human intrusion, and human frailty. And it is sustained by her own imagination and the resilience and support of her father and their community. This isn’t your everyday “feel good” film, but it is delightful and uplifting, even as it’s realistically sad and hard. My own feeling on leaving the film was lingering curiosity: What happened next? Who did Hush Puppy grow up to be? What happened to her community? What—or who—will be the next aurochs in her life?

So go. You’ll love it. If you have any doubts, read this New York Times review.

Go ahead … enter the mythic, real world of a six-year-old child confronting the mythic, real beasts of her southern wild universe.

Passion springs eternal

Last weekend, I saw four films. Two were documentaries, segments of “Race: The Power of an Illusion,” that were part of a daylong discussion of race. Two were movie house flicks, “Hope Springs” and “Beasts of the Southern Wild.” All were about folks living on the margins—for reasons of race, age, and poverty, in that order. There’s so much to think about here, I think I’ll tackle one at a time, starting with my own “out group,” old folks.

“Hope Springs,” in case you’ve missed the trailer and the ads, is about a 60-something, empty-nest couple (played by Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones). They sign up for week-long intensive marriage counseling in an attempt to re-ignite intimacy in their marriage. Actually, she signs them up; he is a very reluctant participant.

This film was featured on the cover of a recent issue of AARP, The Magazine, with the headline “Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones on Keeping Passion Alive.” The deeper message would be conveyed by leaving out the word passion: “Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones on Keeping Alive.” Now, it’s true that this movie focuses on passion—specifically, sexual passion. And it is remarkably (some folks might say uncomfortably) frank in talking about and portraying sexuality. But my feeling during the film, and certainly as I reflected on it afterward, was that it was about much more than sexual passion. Early in the movie, the wife says something like, “We don’t share anything except a house.” Later she says, “I think I would feel less lonely if I were just alone.” Beneath the sorrow at the absence of sexual intimacy was a far broader longing for something that's been lost, some passion that goes far beyond sex. Something more than the perfunctory expressions of affection, for sure. But also something more than the everyday in everything … something more than the usual, the predictable, the safe, the comfortable, the familiar, the habitual, the unthinking, the automatic. Figuratively, something more than the house.

This couple was portrayed as boredom walking. It wasn’t just sex that was missing. So was passion of any sort. His life looked like this: breakfast served by his wife … a dispassionate peck on her cheek  as he heads out the door … work from 9 to 5 … dinner at 6 … fall asleep in front of TV … bed (in his own separate bedroom). Hers looked like this: cook his breakfast and clean up … get a peck on the cheek … work in a clothing store … cook his dinner and clean up … wake him for bed … retreat to her own bedroom. For their anniversary, they got each other an expanded cable subscription. Or maybe she made that up because when their kids asked her what they gave each other, the real answer was “nothing.” There’s more missing here than sex.

And this sense that something is missing doesn’t require a relationship that’s gone flat. The same longing is possible for someone living alone. Aging, with or without a primary relationship, is a challenge every day—the challenge of staying alive and engaged in a world that’s really set up to support the engagement of younger folks.

Back when I was studying developmental psychology, one of the main theories/descriptions of aging was called the “disengagement” model. (Granted, this was many years ago. But my point is that this is the model my generation grew up with.) In this view, the task of older folks is to disengage from the world they’ve participated in up to now. Retire from work, move the kids out of the nest, and gradually withdraw from social, educational, and cultural activities as they approach physical decline and death. The message overall is that old people should move quietly out to pasture. In fact, the interviewer in the AARP article revealed a version of this belief: “There is a bit of squeamishness on my part when I sit down with the actors to discuss sex after 60.” The unspoken but obvious message: Sex between old people seems odd, even embarrassing. It makes her uncomfortable. Sex is for young people. Certainly passion is.

There’s a line in the movie “Shawshank Redemption” where our hero is planning to break out of this awful prison. He says to a buddy, “It’s time to get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’.” The culture we live in understands old people as engaged in the latter process, on their way to dyin’. For those of us who grew up in this culture, that’s how we’re likely to approach aging unless something inspires us to get busy livin’.

These days, happily, the old disengagement model vies with a new script for aging. In this version, old folks remain alive. I see people living this out all around me. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard retired people say (and said myself), “I don’t know how I ever had time to work!” or “I can’t always say exactly what I do, but I know I’m busy all day!” As Meryl framed it in the AARP interview, “I see bored 20-year-olds. I don’t see any bored 60-year olds. People may get crotchety, mean, but it’s because they hold life to a high standard. … The older I get, the more intense my appetite for living gets. I think I was heedless when I was younger. I thought it was endless. But I just lost two close friends in the last two years, and man, you realize you’ve just got seconds.”

It’s a great paradox: The possibility for passionate living as we age is rooted in the very fact of aging. It sprouts precisely from our awareness of how short life really is. “As I get older, my appetite for life gets more intense. … You realize you’ve just got seconds.” I’m reminded of Nora Ephron’s comment about  how short life looks from this end. “The time I have left is finite. … We all know donuts aren’t healthy. But life is a crapshoot. I’m saying you should have the donut!”

It seems to me that we have a choice: we can bemoan life’s brevity, now that we see it so clearly, so close. Or we can fill it with aliveness because we know, in a way we didn’t when we were younger, that every day is precious. Not long ago, I wrote about “celebrating oldness,” about finding joy in all the positive things that come with aging. After thinking about this movie and reading the interview, I would add another item to that list: the heightened appetite for living that comes from the up-close realization of our own mortality.

Imagine: Every day is a donut!

Sally Ride and the elephant

Some years ago, my partner and I did a research project with a group of LGBTQ high school youth in Salt Lake City. These young folks had just created a gay straight alliance in their high school, which had caused a huge flap. Eventually, the city and then the state eliminated all non-curricular clubs rather than let this GSA meet. Needless to say, this is a wonderfully complex tale, bits of which will pop up here (in fact, some already have, here and here). This particular piece of the tale is about an elephant.

We were talking with these youth about how many adult LGBTQ people had suddenly sprung from the closet in the wake of these students’ courageous actions. In particular, we were talking about why these folks hadn’t been out and active before. Part of it, we knew, was context. Utah is a very conservative state, dominated by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (the LDS or the Mormon Church), which condemns homosexuality in no uncertain terms. Also, this was 1996, before same-sex marriage was really on anyone’s radar, before the Lawrence v. Texas decision eliminated all anti-sodomy laws (the laws that had made homosexuality illegal). So there was a historical piece to this, too.

But still, there were some adults in Salt Lake who were out, and there was already a fairly strong contingent of allies, including some supportive LDS. So why were so many folks so scared? One of the youth offered this great analogy, which we have used many times since. She said this:

It’s like training an elephant. When it’s a tiny baby, they put a heavy, iron chain around its ankle, and it quickly learns it can’t go anywhere. In fact, it can barely move, so it learns not to try. As it grows larger, they gradually reduce the size of the chain. At first, they exchange the chain for a smaller one … then for a stout rope … then for a lighter rope. By the time the elephant is full grown, it remains basically immobile with just a string around its ankle. That’s how oppression works. It makes the world seem so dangerous, so in control of your life that pretty soon, you stop trying. Even when the chain is gone, you remain frozen on your designated spot.

For years, decades even, now-older LGBTQ people were aware that any exposure of their true identity could spell disaster. Today’s elders (say, those of us in our 60s and older) grew up in an era when we could lose our families, our jobs, our children, our reputations if our identity were known. In fact, we could lose our very freedom, since LGBTQ identity was considered sick (so you could be committed to a mental institution against your will) and illegal (so you could be thrown in jail without recourse). It was a mighty heavy chain we grew up with. And sure enough, by the time we were adults, the world didn’t have to do it to us anymore. Our own gut-level fear—and maybe a belief that we deserved this sort of treatment—was enough to keep us in our place. So in Salt Lake, even though there was some support and there were some models of happy, out LGBT folks, that fear persisted, and folks stayed in their place.

I thought of this story when I read about Sally Ride’s death late last month. And when a friend nudged me with a comment she made, I decided to blog about Sally and the elephant. In case anyone missed this story, Sally Ride was the first American woman astronaut to go into space (“Ride, Sally, Ride!”). After she retired from NASA, she was a professor of physics for a while and then founded a science education program for kids, focusing especially on girls. She died from pancreatic cancer. She was 61.

The official obituary on the Sally Ride Science website ended like this: In addition to Tam O’Shaughnessy, her partner of 27 years, Sally is survived by her mother, Joyce; her sister, Bear; her niece, Caitlin, and nephew, Whitney; her staff of 40 at Sally Ride Science; and many friends and colleagues around the country. [underlining mine]

Here’s the elephant part. Sally Ride never came out publicly, but here’s her lesbian identity, shining out from her obituary. Many folks, including her partner in life and in work, Tam O’Shaughnessy, said Sally was out to her family and friends. She wasn’t more out than this, folks said, because she was basically a private person, and she believed that her sexual orientation wasn’t relevant to her professional life. After Sally’s death, the Web was awash with discussions of her end-of-life revelation—she and her partner had agreed on the language of the obituary before she died. Discussions swirled about whether she should or should not have been out, whether her orientation mattered or not, what a valuable model she could have been for young LGBT folks, the implication in her silence that she was ashamed of being a lesbian, whether privacy requires hiding ones most significant relationship. It was all reminiscent of the conversations when Anderson Cooper from CNN news or Megan Rapinoe from the US women’s (now gold-medal) soccer team came out. But this time, there was a big difference: Sally was not here to talk about what it meant to her. About why she hadn’t been out before. About what toll her secrecy took on her and on her relationship—or what peace it gave them.

Through it all, no one talked about the elephant. But they might have, had they known that story.

Was it Sally Ride’s story? We can’t know, but let’s consider it for a moment as a hypothetical tale. Sally Ride, like many of us, lived right into an era where homosexuality is no longer considered sick by mental health professionals (since 1973) or illegal in any state (since 2003), where same-sex marriage is legal in six states (hopefully more, come November), where gay and lesbian TV characters have become ordinary, and where famous people come out with increasing frequency—and to decreasing fanfare. So the historical context seems safe. She was secure and deeply revered in her career, apparently risked no loss of family (since they already knew) or kids (since she had none). So her personal life seems to have been safe. But still, it’s not hard to imagine that the fear was too great. What if people decide they don’t like me? What if my foundation loses its funding? What if people think of me as lesbian first and scientist second, when I want to be known first as a scientist? What if my stellar image is tarnished by lies and innuendo? What if I really am as awful as they say?

Lots of folks are in this place, and maybe Sally was among them. For some people, there is still a good reason to remain hidden. But for lots of us, the concrete reasons, the chains, are pretty much gone, and what remains is the string. I suspect that string is made up partly of our fear of what could happen, fear left over from ancient realities (even if they are no longer true). Some of it is our own lingering shame about an identity we learned to devalue, even despise. And some is the persistent prejudice out there in the real world. It’s easy to say we should just ignore that prejudice because it’s based on lies. We can remind ourselves that those folks don’t even know us. But the reality is that prejudice hurts, and any of us would prefer to avoid it.

Still, silence is a thin shield, and its price is living within the circle defined by that elephant’s string. I’m reminded of the wise words of a wise woman, Audre Lorde, a Black lesbian poet who knew something about fear and something about prejudice. She wrote, “We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language" … and … “Only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”

I don’t know all the reasons that Sally Ride wasn’t out, and in truth, it’s not my place to guess. But her “at-death outing,” as my friend called it, did bring to mind the story about the elephant. And that’s a good story to remember occasionally.

Epcot, APA, and the unending search for identity

Some time ago, I read about a study where they gave subjects glasses to wear that turned everything upside down. Looking through these lenses, subjects would step up to enter a room, because the panel above the door seemed to be at their feet. They would raise their right hand to reach something that was on their left. At first, folks felt really disoriented. But eventually, it became “normal,” and they were able to master this new view with ease. I think about that study when I find myself making a conscious effort to see things differently. Especially, to shift from a critical perspective (my standard lens) to a more open and positive one (the inverted version). Over the past several days, I had a flock of opportunities to try inverting some lenses. 

I just got back from a trip to Florida. Yup, Florida in August. Temp in the 90s and humidity to match. We went primarily to attend the annual convention of the American Psychological Association (APA), so we had no control over the date. While we were in Orlando, we also visited Epcot, which I had heard described as sort of a science theme park. With lens inversions everywhere I turned, I came away kind of dizzy. 

Epcot Entrance

We started at Epcot, where I had anticipated scientific wonders and fascinating, little-known facts about the earth, space, and the future of both. Instead, we found your basic carnival rides disguised as educational “experiences,” with over-priced souvenirs hawked at every opportunity and mediocre food purveyed in crowded spaces reminiscent of my middle school lunchroom. At least that was my critical, adultomorphic response … perhaps heightened by the visible avarice of small children and the stress levels of their parents. I couldn’t help but wonder, what will these children do with all those mouse ears? And how will their parents pay for this extravagant visit to the county fair on steroids?

But when I managed to apply my curiosity and my education in developmental psychology instead of my skepticism, I saw something quite different. Imagine the challenge of creating experiences that engage the interest of children, tweens, and teens while at the same time teaching them something. Framed in this way, some of the “experiences” were really clever: tests of reaction time and dexterity, opportunities to design a “perfect society” based on personal values, a quick trip through the history of communication (which actually recognized the role of Islamic thinkers in preserving the knowledge lost in the Dark Ages), a ride that simulated the g-forces encountered during blast-off and a slingshot acceleration courtesy of the moon. There weren’t a lot of these, and some lines stretched to almost an hour. But still, the day at Epcot wasn’t, in my mind, a total bust. Besides, the scorching heat and drenching humidity meant that the crowds were relatively light. Can’t complain about that.

Florida has nice skies, too!

Then came APA. I have been ambivalent about this organization and its conference since long before my retirement. It feels sort of stuffy and pretentious to me, with many folks preoccupied with their status and with finding many ways to flaunt it. Also, many of the presentations remind me of the old question about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Scientific psychology is surprisingly able to slice and dice the most intriguing experiences into tiny crumbs that feel meaningless and even absurd in themselves. The idea, of course, is that in combination, they will create meaningful knowledge. But lots of sessions at this conference seem to me to be light years away from any such synthesis. All of this triggers my critical tendencies big time.

On the other hand, I regularly see friends at APA that I don’t see any other time. These are people I really care about, many of whom are doing truly important, socially relevant work. And the simple coming together of thousands of people also often brings surprising interactions. We encountered an old friend from our time in New Hampshire and had a wonderful, extended lunch conversation with her and her friend. We went to dinner with a heterosexual couple whom I had never met before, whose work as allies to the LGBTQ community is informed by broad-based and deeply held social justice values. The conversation was wide ranging and deep, and it left me feeling both heard and educated. A perfect inversion of the invisibility I often feel in the larger organization.

We also went to some really thoughtful and thought-provoking sessions, especially on the role of psychology in informing and shaping public policy. Some sessions were focused on efforts to protect the rights of LGBT folks, and some highlighted other social justice concerns—racial and class equality, prisoners’ rights, support for families facing financial crises, and others. The complexity and sophistication of these public policy efforts are just so impressive. In these sessions, I was reminded how important psychology’s role can be in the world. Seen from this perspective, APA didn’t seem like a waste after all.

Ducks in the hotel lobby fountain. Really!

Then, as if Epcot and APA hadn’t torqued my perspective enough, I ran smack into an old bugaboo: the question of who I am, really, in this setting. The preface: before I retired, I used to regularly present papers at APA. For a time, my work was known and well respected in these circles of folks whom I admire. When conversations popped up, I was an active participant, and I was heard and respected by people I listen to and respect. Now, my place is so much less clear. No one is rude to me. In fact, these folks are very gracious. But I am really aware that I am not, now, “part” of it all. I am on the outside, watching and listening in. My partner, on the other hand, is really churning in her career. Lots of the work she did years ago is increasingly being noticed and honored. She is at the very center of what’s happening in our circle of “homies” at APA.

I know that I chose this position. And I know that I keep on choosing it by not focusing my time and energy on staying in touch with the developments in my field, by not presenting papers at this and other conferences. And usually, I’m quite fine with that. But something hit me this time. My partner was out doing a gig one evening, and I got bored and lonely. I was at loose ends, unable to decide what to do with my time. And sitting in the hotel room, I really saw clearly how different our professional lives are now. How I actually don’t have a professional life, while she has a very vibrant one. Maybe more to the point, I realized that I am at a bit of a loss about how to navigate that difference in a way that joins integrity in my own life and enthusiasm for hers.

So my task now reminds me of that old inverted lens study. I need to find that alternative lens, the one that will guide me to a position of ease and comfort in settings where I used to be, but now am not, in the professional ingroup. One that swaps confusion and discomfort for joy and fulfillment. It’s not unlike the change in perspective around Epcot or around the merits of APA. But I’m guessing this shift will be more difficult—and probably more important.

In truth, this is an old and familiar task, already navigated many times: toddlerhood, adolescence, midlife, and right at retirement. It involves crafting yet another answer to the recurring question: Who will I be now, in this setting?

Today, I’m back home, settling into the pattern of my days. Here, I don’t find myself at loose ends when my partner is busy. I have lots to do, many things I find gratifying (like this blog). But this other issue still itches at the back of my mind. APA and its clones will reappear, and I’d rather not be caught off balance again. So I guess I have to put some thought into this now, while the dust is settled.

Maybe I should buy a bright red sports car or get a tattoo and some piercings instead. It would be easier.