These Few Words are Enough

Joe had been sick for a long time. His multiple myeloma had already required one bone marrow transplant and several rounds of chemotherapy. Eventually, doctors took the plans for a second transplant off the table because he just wasn't strong enough to undergo the procedure.

Although Emily and I wouldn't have described ourselves as part of Joe's inner circle, we were among those who kept up with how he was doing, visiting him during his many hospital stays, checking if he needed assistance getting to his appointments, bringing him the occasional 4-pack of bottled root beer -- one of the few things he'd ever taken us up on when we asked if he wanted anything. Emily in particular was great about calling and texting him -- she always had a sense of when he might need help. More than once, she'd call his cell phone and if he didn't answer, she'd hang up, call the UCSF hospital, and find him there.

We knew Joe from the bisexual community here in San Francisco. We first met at the weekly bi brunch that happened for years. Even when he was a more occasional visitor -- putting in a special guest star appearance, as I liked to say -- he was as friendly and personable as ever. He had a naturally cheerful demeanor, and even his sarcasm came with a playful smile. He could also be counted on as a dapper figure in the bi contingent in the Pride Parade, sporting a porkpie or fedora on his clean-shaven head. His grounded presence and genuine curiosity about the people around him always made me glad to spend time with him.

Joe was also extraordinarily generous with his time and resources. Until he got too ill, he hosted and moderated the listserv for the Bay Area Bisexual Network (BABN). These chat and event email lists are a major way that bi folks in the Bay Area find community online -- and frequently offline as well. Countless people have shared stories of feeling like the bi community was the first place they'd felt at home and how grateful they were to have found the chat list. It was a thankless task, but it was a way Joe felt he could contribute and so he did. (Happily, many folks on the BABN list did recognize his role and thank him over the years.) Joe was also a generous donor, quietly sharing his support with different causes.

Thankfully, before he died Joe was well enough to make the trip back to Indiana to be with his family, as he'd wanted. He got to see his mom, who had also been ill, as well as meet his new two and a half month-old nephew named Luke Joseph in his honor. He was an incredibly sweet, warm, humble, giving, good-hearted man who made a difference in the world -- can any of us hope for more? I feel honored to have called him my friend.

~ ~ ~

Gentle slip to sleep
Skin tightly fit over skull –
Still the bamboo grows

As Joe's time wound down, I was shocked to realize that despite my sense of not being a close friend, I was still probably closer to him than many others in San Francisco. Certainly, he had good friends like Jon and Jack around, and most likely others I don't know about. At the same time, a theme emerged over and over in talking with people or in messages sent to the BABN list: "Even though I didn't know Joe very well, he always seemed like a great guy, and I always appreciated everything he did for the bi community." I know he was tight with his family, but his circle of friends seemed inexplicably small.

This was difficult to get my head around. Why did so few people feel connected enough to this universally liked man to visit him in the hospital? Nearly a decade ago, when my roommate Laura was dying, we had a list of volunteers alone with at least 40 names on it. Did Laura just share more about the seriousness of her cancer? Joe was no less kind or deserving of support. I do know he never wanted to be a bother, even when friends were eager to help. Emily and I made sure to call him regularly in the hope that an active offer of assistance might minimize his sense of imposing.

Even in the week before Joe died, the only reason we knew how sick he'd become was that Jon stopped by his hospital room. Joe had assured him over the phone that he was "fine," but Jon felt something was up. After one look at him in person, Jon sent out word that people needed to come say their goodbyes.

I was at work when Emily called me about Jon's message. At that point, I didn't know whether Joe's remaining time would be measured in hours or days, so the 30 minutes it took me to wrap up some critical loose ends was agonizingly slow.

As soon as I walked into Joe's room, I knew he wouldn't recover. He was asleep with eyes half open, his chest seeming to climb boulders just to rise and fall, his upper lip pulling back over his teeth, and the contours of his skull far too apparent beneath a thin layer of skin. I'd seen that look before: when my Aunt June was dying in hospice and when I found our cat Jonathan already wearing death's grimace. Given that Joe was still able to be alert and talk, I expected he'd live several more days, but I knew the arrow wouldn't shift direction this time.

So we sat and chatted with him, talked with his cousin about training guide dogs, and made our way to the solarium when Joe wanted some time alone. Later, we'd compare notes with Jack and Jon, entertain our niece while her parents visited inside the hospital room, and coordinate with another friend trekking in from the North Bay to say goodbye. The next day, Joe's dad would fly in from Indiana and start to figure out how to get him from a hospital bed in San Francisco to their living room in Terre Haute. Three days later they'd get on a plane. Five days after that, on July 9, 2009, Joe Dale Holt died peacefully, with his brother by his side. He was 47.

~ ~ ~

Enough.
These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
~ from "Enough" by David Whyte

I've been processing Joe's death for a little while now, alternating between an image of his withered body lying in the hospital bed and another of him smiling and laughing at brunch.

The last time I saw Joe, the day before he left for Indiana, there was no opening to say goodbye in any meaningful way. I had to learn to respect his process, which did not include delving into the serious issues of life and death (at least, not with me or Emily). I was prepared to dive as deeply as he needed to go -- I pictured myself decked out in scuba gear, fully charged air tank strapped to my back -- but he remained closer to the surface. And since what I really wanted was to be present with him and for him, I stayed near the surface, too. I had to trust that my presence was enough. His last words to me? "Have a good rest of your day." Mine to him? "Safe travels."

In trying to make sense of this loss, and the void where I expected more people to be, I realized that Joe was just more reserved and private than I usually associate with such genuine friendliness. Given that he lived in San Francisco for 20 years, he must have found a measure of satisfaction in the life he'd built here. And he had to have wanted to keep that inner circle small because as far as I can tell, everyone who met Joe truly liked him. It's just that few of us had the privilege of knowing him well.

In that hospital room, my questions about why there weren't more people around had nothing to do with Joe. They grew out of the sadness and confusion I'd feel, because I want to make a different choice for myself. I want the people around me to know me. I want to share my whole self -- the thoughts and emotions and creativity and goofiness and insights that combine to become me. I want to draw people near and be present enough to know them, too. I've been doing this, but now I understand how committed I am to building that life.

I'd wanted to send Joe a card with the things I didn't get to say in person -- my gratitude to have known him, what a warm and giving person he was. I thought he might be better able to take in the words without me standing there. Ultimately, I didn't want to leave anything unsaid for my own sake, so I let go of any attachment to the exact form this deeper goodbye took. But the text I put together seemed stunted. I didn't have his family's address. I thought perhaps I'd send an email. And then Joe died before I could do any of it.

So the form has adapted once again. I drafted this tribute to him in a coffee shop eight storeys below his condo. I'm sharing the facets of him I did have the chance to see and honoring his considerable generosity. Most of all, these few words are a way to thank him for helping me clarify the life and death I hope for myself by allowing me to witness his.

Whatever the closeness between us, his friendship has given me the profound gift of drawing me closer to me.

=================
Please join me in making a gift in memory of Joe Holt to one of these organizations:

Bay Area Bisexual Network
Attn: Joe Holt Fund
1800 Market Street, PMB #101
San Francisco, CA 94102

Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation

American Civil Liberties Union of Northern California

Putting Our Money Where Their Mouths Should Be

UPDATE: While the number of states with marriage equality has changed since I first posted this, and other LGBT issues are claiming headlines, the need for greater inclusivity remains (unfortunately). ::sigh::

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

With multiple victories for marriage equality in the last week -- including Iowa, Vermont, and Washington, DC -- many LGBT organizations sent out a flurry of emails and press releases about all the progress our movement had made.

Some, like NGLTF, used wonderfully inclusive language, hailing the various events that granted "the freedom to marry to same-sex couples."

Others, like HRC, continued their spotty and inconsistent (and frankly, inaccurate) language expressing excitement for all the "loving, committed lesbian and gay couples" who can now marry. Particularly disappointing is GLAAD, an organization that's supposed to be a watchdog around language for the LGBT community.

What's frustrating is that it isn't difficult to do it right. "Same-sex couple" is both more inclusive and more accurate, because two women in a couple are not always lesbians or in a "lesbian relationship." Ditto for men and "gay." Heck, for that matter, not all different-sex couples are heterosexual. (Depending on the gender identities of the people involved, "same-sex" and "different-sex" may be no more than approximations -- but these terms get closest to the crux of the struggle and are the best we have right now.)

Countless letters and phone calls and personal interactions and educational sessions and explicit non-donations and behind-the-scenes pressure over many, many years have done little to change the institutional culture wherein such exclusive language is acceptable. For whatever reason, too many supposedly LGBT organizations just don't get it -- it's not about throwing the occasional B and T into the mix. It's about standing up for us as integral parts of the queer community, all the time and every time.

This week, my bisexual wife and my bisexual self had had enough. Again.

She suggested and I created "checks" that you can fill out, print, and mail in (see below). It includes a note underneath: "This might have been a real check if you had been more inclusive." They are brought to you by the "bank" of BiPOL, a bisexual political action group.

Bisexual check (single) [PDF, 157k]
A single check, with plenty of room to write a note, if desired

Bisexual check (multiple) [PDF, 179k]
Three bi checks on one page, for efficient printing if you don't need the blank space

Transgender check (single) [PDF, 157k]
As above, but focusing on transgender exclusion

Transgender check (multiple) [PDF, 258k]
As above, but focusing on transgender exclusion

Our goal is to drive home the point that excluding bisexuals and/or transgender people is not only unacceptable, it costs the organization donations.

I should mention that there are many, many LGBT nonprofits out there doing fantastic work on behalf of all of us, and they DESPERATELY need -- and richly deserve -- our support. (In fact, only about 5% of LGBT people give to LGBT causes. We need to do far better.) That's why it's all the more important to let groups like HRC know that we're being strategic with our bi/trans/ally dollars and not rewarding them when they can't even remember to talk about us (much less address our most serious issues).

So download the files, link to them, share them with friends, invest in a few stamps, and demand that the organizations supposedly representing YOUR community do better. In this economy, perhaps we'll have enough leverage to institute lasting change.

Call for Personal Stories from Bisexuals (San Francisco Human Rights Commission)

From the LGBT Advisory Committee of the San Francisco Human Rights Commission:

CALL FOR PERSONAL STORIES FROM SAN FRANCISCO BISEXUALS

Too often, bisexuals are ignored, demonized, or rendered invisible by both the heterosexual world and the lesbian and gay communities. Too often, the entire sexual orientation is branded as invalid, immoral, or irrelevant. Despite years of activism and a population twice the size of gays and lesbians, our needs still go unaddressed and our very existence is still called into question. This erasure has serious consequences on our health, our incomes, and funding for our organizations.

The Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Advisory Committee (LGBTAC) of San Francisco’s Human Rights Commission is currently working on a report that will address the issue of bisexual invisibility and recommend changes that the city can implement. Past reports include groundbreaking work on issues such as transgender discrimination, LGBT aging, and the medical “normalization” of intersex people. (For more about the Human Rights Commission and the LGBTAC, go to www.sfgov.org/sfhumanrights.)

As part of the “Bisexual Invisibility” report, we’d like to include personal stories from bisexuals to give a voice to a population regularly left out. Please note that because the LGBTAC’s official scope is limited to the City and County of San Francisco, we’re looking for authors who live, work in, or spend significant time in San Francisco.

Submission guidelines:
~ Stories should be 500 words or less. Your entry may be edited for length, grammar, or clarity. Even if you don’t consider yourself a “writer,” we want to hear your story, too! (Please note that we may not be able to include all entries in the report.)
~ Authors should identify as having attractions to more than one sex (whether or not you call yourself “bisexual”).
~ Stories should be grounded in personal experience rather than focusing solely on philosophical or political analysis.

Possible topics (you do NOT need to address all of these):
~ What do you feel are the particular gifts, perspectives, experiences, etc. that bisexuals bring to the broader LGBT community?
~ When did you come out as bisexual? Have you ever identified as lesbian or gay?
~ Have you ever felt excluded (or welcomed) specifically because you were bisexual?
~ Do you feel your healthcare needs as a bisexual are taken into account by mainstream health services? By LGBT-focused services?
~ In your experience, how well do LGBT organizations that include the “B” in their names also address the needs of bisexuals in their programs? Does a particular experience stand out?
~ How/when do you disclose your bisexuality when dating? Do you choose to talk about it at all? Why or why not?
~ Does your bisexuality conflict with other aspects of your life? Would you choose a different orientation if you could?
~ What is your relationship to the label “bisexual”? Why do you apply it to yourself (or not)?
~ How does bisexual space differ for you from mixed settings or primarily monosexual spaces?
~ What is the best part about being bisexual? The most difficult part?

Submission contact information:
Please send your piece to bivisibility@gmail.com with the text IN THE BODY OF THE EMAIL ONLY. (To protect against viruses, messages with attachments will be deleted.) Please include your name, address, email, and phone number.

To ensure that we can include stories from a diverse cross-section of bisexuals, please include the following information:

Age:
Race/ethnicity:
Gender:
Are you a parent?


Entries are due no later than FEBRUARY 15, 2009.

If you have any questions, please email bivisibility@gmail.com.

No Unalloyed Joy

For many queer people and our allies, November 4th was not a day of celebration. For brief moments, sure, when the presidential race was called for Obama and as he gave his victory speech. In the latter, there was an entire 20-minute period when I was able to focus almost exclusively on that galvanizing moment in our country's history and witness a new page turning in American politics.

The glow faded back into anxiety within 30 seconds. The results of Prop 8 - by far harder to predict - were yet to come.

When the first vote tallies did come in, the news was bleak. The gap would narrow slightly before exhaustion drove us home (we'd been up since 5:00 that morning working on No on 8 visibility), but I felt isolated from the crowds of revellers we passed cheering in the streets.

As the passage of Prop 8 became official, I couldn't access much excitement about Obama's election. Relief I had big-time - McCain would've been disastrous - but sadness and grief were my constant companions. Having married my sweetie for yet a third time just weeks earlier, I took Prop 8 very, very personally. Not only had its passage snatched away my rights, but I also felt robbed of the joy that was rightfully mine on the occasion of Obama's historic election.

That's a big part of why Rick Warren's presence at the inauguration is so painful - once again, I can't simply celebrate Obama's victory. But this time, the joy thief is Obama himself.

I never expected our new President to be perfect, nor did I have any illusions about him being more progressive than he is. I just thought...for a few brief months...that this time, LGBT people wouldn't have to live with our dignity and hope and humanity in a lockbox for safekeeping.

You've wounded us deeply, Mr. Obama. I'm not sure you even understand how much. You've taken our sacred trust and shoved it down the back of our throats. You've sucker-punched us in our souls.

I was ready to heed your calls for sacrifice, and step up my public service even more, and give you enormous leeway because the mess left by your predecessor is unfathomably deep and wide.

Instead, I now feel I've pretty much done my part sacrificing on behalf of my country. I live openly as a bisexual woman with my openly bisexual wife - our very lives are a public service to this country, even before you get to all our other do-gooder work. And clearly, anti-LGBT bias is the one form of discrimination that's still acceptable (no proud anti-Semite or racist would ever have gotten the call Warren did), so we have our work cut out for us as it is.

Mr. Obama, the LGBT community was poised to stand by you as one of your staunchest allies. I understand all your reasons for inviting Mr. Warren (reaching across divides, you're everyone's President, etc.), but you could have expressed those same ideals with a far less divisive, hate-filled man. How does anyone win by you standing up and saying, "Even virulent homophobes have a place of respect in this country"?

Let me be clear: this isn't okay. A batterer may feel genuine love for his wife, but it's unhealthy for her to stick around after the first smack. The only way she'll return (assuming her self-respect was intact enough not to believe the abuse was acceptable) is if he does some serious soul-searching, gets help, demonstrates genuine remorse - and never, ever, ever treats her that way again.

Consider yourself being held accountable, Mr. Obama.

Words Matter

“Words matter. Names matter.”

These sentences set the stage for a powerful and eloquent statement by Deputy City Attorney Therese Stewart as she argued before the California Supreme Court for the right of all people to marry the person they choose.

I couldn’t agree more. Words shape our thoughts and give form to reality. They are the vehicles through which we engage in the profound and magical act of communication.

Words do matter. Which is why, as a bisexual woman, I find the current celebrations on behalf of “gay and lesbian couples” profoundly painful. Each time I hear that phrase, I feel physically stabbed.

My partner and I are both bi. As a same-sex couple, we’re subject to the same injustice and legal complexity and potential violence as any lesbian or gay couple. Our excitement in 2004 was just as palpable as we stood in line for our marriage license at San Francisco City Hall, and our relationship was just as diminished by the state’s subsequent annulments. We are just as threatened by Prop 8, the ballot measure this November that would define marriage as between one man and one woman.

The language of California law had left us out of the right to marry until the victory on May 15th. But the language of LGBTQI organizations and the media has robbed us of this moment’s joy. I can’t get my heart to stop hurting.

What’s shocking is that this non-inclusive language isn’t entirely random. Because some focus group data found that “gay and lesbian” was more palatable to undecided moderates than “same-sex,” there has been a strategic decision by key lesbian and gay leaders to use it through November. The goal is to win the fight against the ballot measure and secure marriage equality once and for all in California.

We could argue about whether the ends justify the means. We could argue about why the language is being used so broadly rather than just with the straight voters we’re trying to persuade. What’s not open for discussion is why no bisexual leaders were in on the conversation. No one asked us whether we were willing to make this sacrifice. We didn’t even get the courtesy of an acknowledgment that this strategy would take a toll on us. No one prepared us to have our hearts broken over and over for months.

Words matter. Not just some of them, and not just some of the time. Just as marriage is not the same as domestic partnership, bringing the entire queer community along is not the same as throwing some of us under the bus.

Names matter. I have chosen to name myself “bisexual” as a political stand for all people whose attractions span beyond one gender. Even as I acknowledge the word’s limitations, I also understand its rich history and its role in determining our real allies.

During last year’s fight over the non-inclusive ENDA, the queer community came together in extraordinary fashion and true solidarity with transgender and gender-nonconforming people. Organizations and individuals across the spectrum expressed justifiable outrage that some of us were being left by the side of the road, with only vague promises of getting picked up at an undetermined later date.

During this season of celebration, where is the outrage on bisexuals’ behalf? My gay and lesbian colleagues didn’t even notice that fundraising emails from nonprofits fighting the ballot measure kept talking about “gay and lesbian” couples. Why didn’t they get angry for me? If people I consider good friends and allies don’t even have my back, who will?

At the time of the ENDA fight, I suspected that if bisexuals were the ones left to wait at the side of the road, we would never have received the same outpouring of support. Sadly, I couldn’t even imagine it. Even more sadly, it turns out I was right.

Rigoberta Menchu Tum once said that any erasing of differences is an act of violence. And because words matter, I’ll name this pervasive “G&L scandal” for what it is—violence.

Shocked to hear that word applied here? Think I’m overreaching? Climb inside my heart these days. You’ll feel just how deeply words matter.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

POSTSCRIPT:
Last night (July 3rd) was the first in a series of town hall meetings for the Equality for All campaign (the coalition fighting Prop 8 in California). My partner Emily and I, along with bisexual activist Lani Ka'ahumanu, put together a handout, press packets, and a silent protest we called "unVEILing injustice" -- Emily, I, and several other bisexuals and allies walked into the standing-room-only crowd at the San Francisco LGBT Center wearing white veils to symbolize how bisexuals have been rendered invisible in the marriage equality movement. We even brought a cake, which read, "Having our cake and eating it, too -- Bisexuals exist!"

I'm delighted to report that the very first words from Kate Kendell (Executive Director of NCLR) -- before anything at all about Prop 8 or the campaign -- was an extended and heartfelt apology to bisexuals for leaving us out, and a sincere promise to use inclusive language in all communications going forward (as well as an invitation to contact them if they slip again).

The proof will be in the pudding, of course, but I couldn't have been happier with the outcome at this stage. I'm confident that marriage equality efforts in California will begin to include all of us.

Special thanks to Kate not only for working so hard to win legal protections for LGBT people, but for stepping up to the difficult task of saying publicly, "I'm so sorry. We'll do better."

To donate to the campaign to defeat Prop 8, go to www.equalityforall.com.