The Pride and Prejudice of Challenging Anything Gay
I fully support gay rights–not just marriage. Spousal support, insurance claims, disability payouts, medical and employment benefits and the like. All of it, everything. I always have. I never saw it as anything different than supporting their right to live as free with their partners of choice, as I did with whichever woman I was with at the time.
I’ve never veered from that. Nor will I.
When my children were old enough to understand the difference between straight (oh, how I despise that descriptive) and gay, I explained those differences, delicately, and left it at that. My eldest daughter is classmates–and friends, with the loveliest little girl, whose high profile mom and other mom are equally terrific. Two of my son’s favorite teachers are gay. My youngest daughter, who just turned seven, once explained that her new friend at school had “two dads” and that she wondered if that was okay with me because it was certainly okay with her. I smiled and nodded approvingly.
They are friends to this day. One of the dads and I occasionally pistol shoot together at the same range.
Exposing my children to another way of living, never affected their own, now obvious feelings. It only provided them with a mature and encouraging perspective–theirs, since none of them appear to be anything but extremely interested in the opposite sex–yes, including the little one.
Perhaps as adults, some of us could learn from this. Some of us…and awfully quickly, before the riots begin.
I guess I’ve never been able to fathom why there is this big issue with those that are no different from me, except that they like to share their affections with same sex partners.
A group of us, all former classmates at UBC, lived with a gay friend back in the 90s. We celebrated life together–and often. We were great pals. Terry came out just after we all moved into a house off Harwood in the West End, and, devastatingly quickly died of AIDS soon after informing us of his illness. This was in an era when fear and loathing of ‘alternative lifestyles’ (I can’t stand that phrase) was at its zenith. HIV/AIDS was an opaque killer, with victims dying in a year, while others over several. Magic Johnson’s plight was fresh in our collective minds. Utterly despicable human beings like Anita Bryant and that miserable cretin Jerry Falwell were still part of the public consciousness and the future successes of drugs like Interferon were as murky as the planet’s future.
We were all dying of a ‘gay disease’. Head for the hills! They must be stopped! It’s God’s will!!!
You’ll remember the nonsense, I’m sure.
I didn’t get it, and I still don’t get it; perhaps I’m naive or just plain dumb, but I’m as perplexed today as I was when I was holding Terry’s hand at St. Pauls, while he gently slipped away. None of our other roommates were there. They were afraid. In fact, Terry’s AIDS ruined the living arrangements–according to yet other friends, who didn’t give a sniff about understanding the pandemic. Terry’s very wealthy and venerated father, now deceased, and a former Ontario judge, refused to come to the funeral. He was ashamed, and wrote me acordingly in the first of his two letters. The second, not anywhere near nasty–or confused as the first, he penned one week before his own death; thanking me for not letting his son die alone.
Terry died, indeed, with no one there–except me. I didn’t want him to be alone. And he wasn’t.
I still miss him: the big laugh, the gentle way, his deftness at sensing my pain. He never once even joked about being anything but friends. I was never threatened, he was never anything but respectful–and respected by me and anyone that saw him as a man–not as gay.
Wouldn’t the world be better off if the gay community didn’t begin any introduction with the verbiage of marginalization. We are men and women, first. With values and feelings. We love, we care. We cry, we laugh.
To this day, I’m at a loss as to why there is still this incredible hatred against the very pertinent LGBTQ community, regardless of self-defeating monikers against their haters, like ‘homophobia’ (a contrived slander, which remains factually incorrect). I’ve never seen anyone running in fear (phobia is from the Ancient Greek meaning “fear”) from anyone gay. However, in the latter years of their struggle for legitimacy and respect, I find myself equally alarmed at the rapidly growing hatred by the gay lobby (not to be confused with gays themselves) who truly hate non-supporters–blind supporters, with equal venom.
I will NEVER understand the haters–on either side. Why must everyone be fully supportive of anything and everything gay? We certainly don’t support everything heterosexual.
In America, the President of the restaurant chain Chick-fil-A, Dan Cathy, has been under fire recently, for having the gall (insert cynicism, here) to suggest his support of traditional marriage. Perhaps not the swiftest move when you’re a national ambassador for a restaurant chain, but he was firm.
What’s the problem? He wasn’t like Rev. Phelps and the obliviots of the Westboro Baptist Church. He didn’t proclaim that “God hates fags.” He didn’t announce that the Lord created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. He simply offered a polite opinion that should offend no one. That Chick-fil-A’s charities might send SOME money to charities that POLITELY support traditional marriage, is as meaningless as the millions Brad Pitt sent to support the failed California proposition in support of same-sex marriage. Should we stop going to Pitt’s movies?
But the haters came out in full force. The daftness of political correctness in full bloom. Calls for Dan Cathy’s head on a stick, bellyaching for retribution against the restaurant chain (if you’ve never eaten there, I highly recommend it–try the Chicken Club, very tasty). Even demands to know where the man vacationed and lived!
Only in America…NOT!
The Pride Parade–with its completely false and embarrassing attendance claims (never challenged by any media) ran through town this weekend. And Charlie Smith, of the ever-gay pandering Georgia Straight, decided to go on a tear–even before the parade.
LEt me sum it up for you: Gregor Robertson used the gay community and because he won’t appear, this is a slight against the community. Cue the deflating balloons, please. Oh yes, and Christy Clark wasn’t going to appear at the parade, but make an appearance and boo-hoo.
Setting aside the obvious, transparent usury of anyone and everything to get re-elected, Robertson somehow matters? Really? He’s just the convenient suit, a puppet for wild-eyed left wing American trust funders that demand we all be punished because we drive cars.
The parade was missing a vacuous, spokesmodel and this is somehow bad?
And let me get this straight (pun intended): A woman who is routinely (and appropriately) excoriated by Smith and his colleagues of the same paper for shameless photo ops, all of a sudden should be turning out for precisely that??? What else would you call the Pride Parade? A celebration of what? Skin tight undergarments, nudity, open-drug use and simulated group sex–the last, being the identical activity that some mile down the parade route they all stop, to essentially decry, while commemorating the lives of those who engaged in the real thing?! This isn’t irony thick as a brick of Dubliner? This isn’t brazen hypocrisy?
Gimme a break!
But again, the comment section of almost all west end publications, railed against Clark before she even appeared. Now, as the Premier’s biggest critic, far be it from me to defend her stupidity of even showing up. She should have stood her ground but didn’t (sound familiar?). She was on vacation and the Pride Parade isn’t being held in the Gulf Islands. She couldn’t make it. So what? She was with her son.
However, what if she didn’t agree with that ‘lifestyle’ or form of love? What if Clark wasn’t comfortable? What if she was pandering to the three conservatives still mindless enough to support her? Whatever the reason, does this mean she’s a hater? Of course not.
In other words, Charlie Smith, whom I’ve learned to appreciate, and others, mean that without appearing for the Parade, we’re all anti-gay?
America’s civil rights movement, in more complicated and violent times, was never this stupid. I’ll spare the feminist movement the ignominy of pointing out just how badly and swiftly they became irrelevant–for employing precisely the same line from the most recent ‘Bush Doctrine’ that the hard left live to excoriate: “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”
Have we not learned anything from these failures? And why do the gay community leaders in this gin joint still insist on using the word ‘tolerance’ to describe how we should all feel about our gay friends?
I didn’t need to tolerate Terry. I loved him no differently than any of my closest male friends. We were pals.
I tolerate the flu (I am an incessant whiner when I’m sick, even though it doesn’t happen often). I tolerate a rash (on the rare occasion when I suffer through one). I tolerate (and vehemently object to) ‘Real Housewives of Vancouver’ as its degrading and nonsensical plots beam from the master bedroom TV in my home once a week (I usually leave for an hour’s walk and chuckle that there is just as much plastic on my running shoes as there are in their faces–and in their souls).
But why must I ‘tolerate’ anyone gay? Why not ACCEPT them for who they are and embrace them, too. I’m not splitting hairs. You see, the gay community leaders do this to themselves. If they really want on-par relevancy, act like you deserve it. EARN IT. Flamboyancy is one thing, idiocy (and bellyaching) is quite another.
Nevertheless, hate should never be endured, or even allowed, but if we deny respectful people the polite manner with which they express their opposition to homosexuality–and label them prejudiced and haters, then we deny the rest of us the right to appreciate that being gay is a wholly real form of love, which we should absolutely embrace no differently than our own heterosexuality.
I live in hope.