Wednesday Morning Rant

What’s going on here?

Susan sent me Maureen Dowd’s column, which featured one of the creators of “Will and Grace”—which apparently was a television show—as being disgusted and heartsick at the Supreme Court. He felt—didn’t we all?—that we were all in a sort of time warp; five of the justices are all back in the fifties, the rest of us have moved on.

Well, I can see that—but only out of my right eye. My left eye went cloudy, last Thursday, just in time for the Easter weekend. Of course my ophthalmologist wasn’t working, so I spent the weekend being intermittently worried—was it an infection? Cataract? Worse, was it macular degeneration, which had robbed my mother of her vision, and really of her joy in life, those last hard years?

Well, I don’t have to worry, or rather I do. It’s a cataract, and the procedure is simple. It takes ten minutes to do the surgery, 24 hours to recuperate, and no more of those hideous eye patches. Amazing, really, the innovations in eye surgery.

Wait, did I say, “I don’t have to worry,” somewhere up there? Wrong—I do. This afternoon I will spend substantial amounts of time calling an insurance company, trying to figure out how to fund this operation. “Lucky you,” you say, “lots of people don’t have insurance.”

And indeed, I am lucky. But it may be just general irritation or an inbred tendency to see the glass as half-empty, because it does occur to me—I’m somewhere in the middle of the lucky gradient. Other people with insurance simply sail in, flash the card, and the operating room doors open by magic.

I only have insurance, you see, through Raf and his former job. Since his company closed he was allowed to retire, and qualifies for the health plan. And yes, that health plan allows him to put a same sex spouse on the plan. Raf’s current employer does not. So I have an excellent insurance plan that—since the company is located in the US—nobody on the island accepts.

And I live—a bit tangentially, but still live—in the richest nation on the planet. And that nation, currently, has no national health plan, and so throws its marginalized into a terrible position. At 56, with a college education and good people skills, I can easily figure out how to manipulate the system—rigged as it probably is against me. (“It does occur to me,” I said to John grumpily yesterday, “that the insurance industry is the only business I can think of which charges its customers an enormous amount of money so it can pay people to say ‘no’ to its customers….”)

Right, so Canada and Norway and most of the developed world have figured out how to dispense health care—we have not. And in nine states I am legally married, and in 41 states plus the territories I am not. And now, we will have to wait around until June to see what will be, in all likelihood, a half victory.

And yesterday, I read an interesting statement when looking for something to blog about. “The history of farming,” an article stated, “has been inherently open-source.”

Say whaaa…?

Translation—nobody owned, until agribusiness came along, a seed. That was the whole point—you grew whatever it was and ate 80% and saved the rest for the next year and that’s how it was for millennia. Now, farmers are the pawns of the seed / fertilizer / herbicide company, and we are suffering or about to suffer a massive jolt to our health—physically, environmentally, economically.

And the Supreme Court, in one sweeping decision that nobody much noticed, was the body that changed “open-sourced” agriculture to corporate agribusiness.

The Supreme Court, who last week worried that homosexuality was newer than cell phones. And yet these guys, so worried about making a “sea change” socially, had no problem completely shifting the foundations of what we put into our mouths?

I go back to wondering, at times, whether men should really be allowed. Yes, we do some things very well. Yes, I’m a guy myself. Yes, I have worked in almost all-female environments and yearned for a nice, testosterone-driven guy.

But maybe it’s time to recognize—agriculture was for millennia a female activity. The men were out there hunting; the women were in the field. And more than that, they were sharing information, swapping seeds, observing how plants grew and why. The essence of agriculture celebrates some traditionally feminine traits—cooperation, patience, nurturance.

Hunting is a guy thing, as is—let’s be honest—business. I worked in the biggest company in the world, and yes, it paid lip service to diversity. But any woman who was going to get seriously ahead was going to have to have bigger balls—sorry!—than the guys. It was about competition, winning, going for the kill.

You know, I don’t accept the Supreme Court being “behind the times.” Not being able to say the word “gay,” but always using “homosexual.” Asking how many states allowed gay marriages, and comparing being gay to cell phones.

That’s bullshit, and an insult. Dowd’s friend may be heartsick….

…I’m pissed.

A Change of Bastards

It’s a relief, almost, to take a break from wrestling with seriously bad bastards—that would be the National Rifle Association, and do they know, I wonder, that I’m after them?—to deal with another seriously bad bastard.

That would be a little company called Monsanto—which, by the way, my computer seems to know, it corrected me when I spelled it with an “a”--founded in 1901 and located in Creve Coeur, Missouri.

And you probably know that it’s an “agribusiness” and producing genetically modified seeds—indeed, it was one of the first companies to produce and market a genetically modified seed, a soybean that was created in 1983 and tested in the field in the late 80’s.

What you may not know—I didn’t—was that Monsanto started out as a chemical company, and it produced everything from plastics to DDT, Agent Orange, and PCBs.

At about the time that they discovered how to play with genes, they got rid of most of that part of the business. They are still making, however, an herbicide that they tout as “as safe as table salt.” (Or at least they did, until the New York Attorney General got after them. They settled out of court, agreed to drop the slogan in New York, and paid $250,000—small change for them—and denied wrongdoing.)

Roundup is by far the most commonly used herbicide, and its toxicity was for years thought to be low. Is it? As always, it depended on whom you asked—when I was gardening in a public park, I would avoid the garden for days or until a good rain after the city had used the stuff. Oh, and I was growing flowers, not food.

And there is evidence that the studies—funded by guess who!—may have been either poorly done or frankly fraudulent. But two things are known: the stuff is all over the place and farmers who refuse to use the herbicide are at a great disadvantage.

Now then, having created an herbicide of questionable toxicity, Monsanto cooked up a great scheme—create a seed that is resistant to Roundup! This way, the farmer sows the seed, waits around until the weeds appear, and then douses the hell out of his field with Roundup. So Monsanto wins twice, if not three or four times (depending on how often Farmer Jones sprays his field). 

Monsanto wins—but does the farmer? Do we, eating the farmer’s crop? One source reports that over 90% of the soy and canola harvested come from Roundup Ready (as the seeds are called) seeds. Since a lot of soy is used for livestock, nobody knows how high up the food chain Roundup really has gotten.

And Monsanto is not a company particularly easy to like. It tends to go after the people least likely to be disliked—those good farmers out there in the field. Such as the Canadian farmer, who the company charged had a Roundup Ready canola plant growing in his field.

“Hey,” said the farmer, “I don’t use that stuff. The pollen blew in from my neighbors field…”

And are you wondering—how can a company go after a farmer for having a plant in his field?

Because that’s no plant, that’s intellectual property. Yes, in 1980, the Supreme Court decided that the patent laws applied to manmade living organism. So now, 93% of soybeans are from Roundup Ready seeds. Oh, and guess what? The price of seed has tripled since then.

Nor is Monsanto content just to operate this scheme, it is today arguing before the Supreme Court that a farmer violated the law by first buying seeds from Monsanto and then buying seeds from a local grain elevator to plant a second crop. The farmer argued that he had already bought seed for the season, and that the second crop would be less productive, and less profitable. Monsanto said he had no right to buy Roundup Ready seed from anyone except the company.

Can it get worse?

Of course. If memory serves from reading Michael Pollan, Monsanto is now developing sterile seeds, which will have the farmers really locked in a corner. And what will happen if the genes causing the sterility in the seed are transferred to other seeds—not genetically modified? Oh, and what will happen—as it has happened—when the plants develop resistance to Roundup? Already, farmers are told to use multiple herbicides.

Five minutes ago, I decided I was hungry, and so I am eating a peanut butter sandwich. Since I didn’t grow the peanuts, and since the peanut butter in not organic, I am very likely eating a food made from genetically modified seed. Shouldn’t I know? Shouldn’t Skippy be required to label that?

Wanna guess my answer?

Today, Everybody Goes to Their Rooms

It was a time when if you spoke out, you suffered real consequences. There’s Phil Donahue, for example, once at the pinnacle, and the next day in the pit. The Dixie Chicks, whose remarks in London set off a furor. And now we can add Ward Churchill, a professor of ethnic studies at the University of Colorado.

I should have said “ex-professor,” since the university fired him on 24 July 2007.

And why did he get the sack?

For very serious reasons, say his detractors: plagiarism and academic falsification. Not so, say his supporters, he came out and said the unspeakable: the September 11^th attacks were an inevitable and natural result of our terrible foreign policy. But he went further, as you can read below in an excerpt from his essay, “Some People Push Back”:

There is simply no argument to be made that the Pentagon personnel killed on September 11 fill that bill. The building and those inside comprised military targets, pure and simple. As to those in the World Trade Center . . .

Well, really. Let's get a grip here, shall we? True enough, they were civilians of a sort. But innocent? Gimme a break. They formed a technocratic corps at the very heart of America's global financial empire – the "mighty engine of profit" to which the military dimension of U.S. policy has always been enslaved – and they did so both willingly and knowingly. Recourse to "ignorance" – a derivative, after all, of the word "ignore" – counts as less than an excuse among this relatively well-educated elite. To the extent that any of them were unaware of the costs and consequences to others of what they were involved in – and in many cases excelling at – it was because of their absolute refusal to see. More likely, it was because they were too busy braying, incessantly and self-importantly, into their cell phones, arranging power lunches and stock transactions, each of which translated, conveniently out of sight, mind and smelling distance, into the starved and rotting flesh of infants. If there was a better, more effective, or in fact any other way of visiting some penalty befitting their participation upon the little Eichmanns inhabiting the sterile sanctuary of the twin towers, I'd really be interested in hearing about it.

Ouch—that’s pretty strong. And it’s certainly a good way to start a debate. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a debate that it spawned, but a firestorm. The media picked it up in January of 2005, with FOX News in particular playing it up—according to Wikipedia, Fox had twice the coverage than the other networks combined.

Is it true? Also debatable—there was a restaurant at the top of one of the towers, so that means waiters and cooks, groups not often held responsible for contributing to the American global financial empire. There must have been maintenance people, secretaries, messengers. But Churchill makes a point—there was also a CIA office in one of the tower. And even if some innocent people got killed, well, we have a term for that—collateral damage. A term, by the way, that we did not get from the Pashto, Dari, or Iraqi Arabic.

Well, the fight spread to a very good school—Hamilton College, which had invited Churchill to speak. And after a news program “invited” viewers to send email to Hamilton College, the school was flooded with 6000 of them.

Eventually the school canceled the lecture, because, in the words of its president, Joan Stewart, there were “credible threats of violence.”

Two former governors of Colorado called for Churchill’s dismissal, and the Board of Regents of the University of Colorado issued a statement “apologizing” to the American people. The Colorado Legislature issued a proclamation calling Churchill’s remarks “evil and inflammatory.”

Things really got bad when people read this, taken from “Dismantling the Politics of Comfort:”

If I defined the state as being the problem, just what happens to the state? I've never fashioned myself to be a revolutionary, but it's part and parcel of what I'm talking about. You can create through consciousness a situation of flux, perhaps, in which something better can replace it. In instability there's potential. That's about as far as I go with revolutionary consciousness. I'm actually a de-evolutionary. I do not want other people in charge of the apparatus of the state as the outcome of a socially transformative process that replicates oppression. I want the state gone: transform the situation to U.S. out of North America. U.S. off the planet. Out of existence altogether.

“Treason,” cried the governor of Colorado, and called for his dismissal.

The university did something different—pored over Churchill’s research, and found, according to them, serious faults.

There was the question of the blankets of smallpox victims that, according to Churchill, the US army cunningly distributed to the Indians in 1837 at Fort Clark. You may remember this old tale—it’s sometimes alleged to be the first instance of genocide. And the university confirmed that for six times in ten years, Churchill had, according to Wikipedia, “falsified his sources and fabricated his claims.”

Then there was the question of the remarkable similarity between his work and the work of his ex-wife, Annette Jaimes. But Churchill, unbelievably, came up with the reason—he had written the work and his wife at the time had published it, under her name. And since he had written it, well, couldn’t he use it?

There were other allegations as well. And in the end, the university committee unanimously agreed that Churchill had engaged in “serious research misconduct.”

Right—so what to do about him? Oddly, only one of the five people on the committee voted to dismiss him; two members thought the material insufficiently serious to warrant action; two other members favored temporary suspension.

Hunh?

There’s something screwy here. Have we really come to the point where an academic can be found guilty of “four counts of falsifying information, two counts of fabricating information, two counts of plagiarizing the works of others, improperly reporting the results of studies, and failing to ‘comply with established standards regarding author names on publications’” and then not receive sanctions? (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ward_Churchill_academic_misconduct_investigation)

Well, the university took action, and fired Churchill in July of 2007. Churchill, of course, took the university to court, initially won and then lost on appeal. And today, the United States Supreme Court refused to hear the case.

My take? There used to be a time when professors could speak their mind, when they could say the things nobody else could, they could write what others might not. In the best schools they were championed; in the worst they were tolerated. The University of Colorado was completely off base.

Second ending. There used to be a time when professors were rigorous in respecting the work of others, in attributing that work, and in representing it fairly in their own writing. Plagiarism is stealing, and for people who value the life of the mind, it is the ultimate, unthinkable crime. Churchill was completely off base.

Ian and I

Let me tell you an unremarkable piece of news: I sent an email at 4:30 this morning.

That I can do so will raise no one’s eyebrows, nor cause anyone to question anything more than “what were you doing, for God’s sake, awake at 4:30 in the morning?”

All right, then let me tell you something that I, at least, think is astonishing. There is a successful musician in the Fernández-Newhouse family—a guy who frequently travels to Miami, the center of his musical world, to perform. And no, despite the years of practice rooms, cello lessons, conservatories, it’s not I. It’s Ian, Raf’s nephew.

Still not astonished?

Try this: he doesn’t play an instrument.

Or rather, I think we’re going to have to think of his MacBook Pro as his instrument, though I’m not sure of that as well. It may be that his real instrument is the software he uses to generate the sounds that are—to him—music.

This is the moment you stiffen, ‘here it comes,’ you think, ‘another screed against the idea of popular culture and musical relativism….’

Or perhaps you don’t think that; how should I know? Nor am I very clear what I am thinking myself. I talked to Ian about his music last night for two reasons, the first being that it’s the safest—most of his other interests would have provoked howls of protest, as well as cheers of delight, from some part of the family. Ian, you understand, is 27, has dreadlocks that make Marley look like a Wall Street lawyer, and is immersed in the counter-culture.

The second reason? Well, Ian tends not to talk about stuff he isn’t interested in, and guess what? Why should he? So right, it was gonna be music, except that these two musicians were in different worlds, different cultures, speaking different languages.

He’s an intelligent and articulate man, and I know too little both of music and of his kind of music to pass judgment on it. And I wonder, too, whether that word “judgment” doesn’t strike at the heart of it all.

I grew up, as Stegner would say, believing in history. I thought that every piece of art, of music, or that any action would exist in time, be filtered through time, and receive an imprimatur. There was a ranking of composers—who’s gonna say that Vivaldi is “better” than Bach?—and there wasn’t any relativism at all.

There were problems with it, of course. It was very Euro-centric, it was unabashedly elitist, and mistakes or omissions could occur. Bach had to wait around half a century until Mendelssohn strolled into the picture and conducted and championed him. But that was part of the process—a correction that validated the essential strength of the system.

If you think that way, then anything you do is up against daunting competition. I’m not writing this as Marc, but as Marc seen against all literature in contrasting cultures and times. Shakespeare, Saki, Stegner are reading this and snorting over my shoulder; they’re also the lens through which you’re reading this.

Such a view leads you quite naturally into practice rooms, which will lead to competitions, and which will lead you—temperament and talent allowing—onto a concert stage in a room built for one purpose only, where a rigid social system rules. Try chatting with your partner during a Beethoven Symphony or the Well Tempered Clavier.

Ian’s world is not like that. At least I don’t think it is, in the two minutes of his music that I heard, or at least experienced. For one thing, it’s woven into other things—a bar or club scene where music is just a part of what’s going on. Nor do I think Ian has the long hand of history—musical or otherwise—breathing down his neck. I suspect what he values is the overall experience of it all—the scene, the music, the people, the altered consciousness produced by I-don’t-know-what.

The clip I heard was heavily percussive, which Ian had led me to expect; he courteously referred me to another composer working in his genre whom Ian though would be more pleasing to my aged ears. So I checked out Nicholas Jaar, a young Chilean / American, who claims as a musical influence Erik Satie, very much a heavy weight, but also a composer quite often borrowed into popular culture.

OK—and the music I heard?

Look, there has to be another term, another label invented. I don’t want to dismiss what Ian is into, what Ian is doing, what Ian values.

I also don’t want to call it music. My point is that Ian’s sounds are too radically different to be seen or heard in the same way that music is heard.

I started this post by saying that I wrote an email at 4:30 this morning. What if I had said that I had written a poem? We’d see it as two entirely different things. And it occurs to me, somehow we don’t make that distinction very well in sounds / music.

I’m now at a café, which has been playing The Beatles for several minutes. Of the two, I prefer Nicholas Jaar; I’ve always thought The Beatles were the most inane group of the last fifty years, though The Monkees do have a strong claim. And I am considering the English Mystical poets, principally because I ran into the Vaughan Williams clip below.

I knew nothing about George Herbert, not even roughly his dates. And it took several readings before I got, I thought, the poem below. And I’ve listened to the Vaughan Williams piece several times and found interesting things in it.

“Hey Jude” is now playing. Silence would be preferable. I’ve just found the clip of Hey Jude on YouTube—it has 19 million hits. The Vaughan Williams has less than 2000.

The question is—at least the way I see it—will anyone be listening to Hey Jude in 2113?

The answer?

No.  

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life;

Such a Way as gives us breath,


Such a Truth as ends all strife,

Such a Life as killeth death.

Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength;


Such a Light as shows a Feast,


Such a Feast as mends in length,


Such a Strength as makes his guest.

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart;


Such a Joy as none can move,


Such a Love as none can part,


Such a Heart as joys in love.

The Might of the Mitas

Well, for reasons that should be obvious to everybody, religion seems to be moving into my weekend.

The pope, for example, is infuriating traditionalists in the Catholic Church by washing the feet of two women last Thursday. And apparently people have been requesting that for years, and it’s been strictly forbidden, because it’s a slippery slope indeed. You remember—Jesus washed the apostles feet, and the apostles were all guys, and so therefore if the pope washes anything but male feet, it’s an instant and infinitesimal leap to the ordination of women.

What? You don’t see the logic of that! Well, heavens, anybody can see that!

The pope is something of a loose canon, it seems. For the moment, he’s saying “screw it”—or the pontifical equivalent thereof—to the papal apartments. He strolled through them—I saw it on CNN—shook his head, and all but tut-tutted. (Hmm, and I was sure I was gonna get a red squiggle there….).

Even worse, after all Ratzinger did to move the church right back to the 1950’s (or was it 1550’s?) what’s the new pope doing? Taking the bus to work; wearing white shoes, not the famous Prada red; and what about that Latin Mass, so dear to Ratzinger’s heart? Apparently, the new pope couldn’t give squat.

Yes, there’s every indication that this will be a dangerous pope. He’s got the right moves, he’s playing the media and the publicity machines as well as Rostropovich did a cello. What you won’t see, though, is any budge on doctrine. He’ll be a John Paul II—all charm on the outside, cold steel within.

Well, I was musing on all this yesterday, as the procession moved down the street. Each year it gets a little bit better, or at least tarted-up.  The Roman Centurions were wearing quite rich gowns, and the whips that they were using on the cross—unlike the Philippines, we reign in the sadism, here—weren’t visibly from the adult bookstore. The only thing that marred it was the music—if the liturgy is as bad as the music, post Vatican 2, I’ll cast my vote with Ratzinger on that score.

But the real dish, the big news is that yes, Aaron is the father of Samuel Beníquez.

This is a true Puerto Rican thing—the burning question of whether Aaron, who is the Holy Spirit, the Mita (new word for you, computer!) and who is also 91 years old is the worldly father of a guy named Samuel Beníquez.

“Well, of course he is,” exclaimed Mr. Fernández, when I questioned him on the subject. “Everybody knew he was, and anyway they just came out in court with DNA testing that proved it….”

OK—here’s the deal. In 1897, in a small town west of San Juan, a child named Juanita García Peraza was born. She had a sickly youth, and so she prayed—good child of two ardent evangelicals, of course she would—to God. She made the standard deal—heal me and I’ll serve you.

God, of course, came through right on call, and Juanita began preaching in her church. And she was a whiz—or must have been—because pretty soon she was pissing off the guys. So they told her to take a hike, and she did; in 1941 she started her own church, with eleven others. In 1947, she moved her church to the business district of San Juan.

Now then—having a church is one thing, but you also have to cook up a theology to string along with it. And here, with great Puerto Rican zest, Juanita let fly with a lovely, completely ridiculous piece of nonsense for which the adjective “errant” was utterly made.

Juanita, you see, is the Holy Spirit in its third manifestation. Yes, the first manifestation was Jehovah—definitely respectable—the second was Jesus—also no slouch!—and the third was Juanita, now to be renamed “Mita!”

I hear you, you infidels, sniggering out there—suggesting that the Holy Spirit may have let things slip just a bit, by choosing a lowly girl from Hatillo, Puerto Rico, as his or her or its next residence. For shame! Have you forgotten the lowly birth of one Jesus Christ!

Oh, and one other thing. Juanita, before moving to San Juan, is praying away one day, but wait—let me copy and paste from the church’s own website. They tell it better than I ever could….

Teófilo came from a family with scant economic resources. He liked commerce and sold everything he could buy or was given to sell, in order to help his parents. His father was a sugar-cane cutter and often when he went to work in the early hours of the morning, Teófilo would take him breakfast in the fields. In the afternoons, he worked with his father in the family's corn field, where he was assigned chores since his early years. As a child, he was an exemplary student; he loved his teachers and his teachers admired him. His conduct was blameless and he was punctual and responsible.

One day, some years later, while walking through Arecibo, Teófilo saw two ladies, and one of them, Juanita García Peraza, caught his attention because of her honest bearing. It was God's will that his parents should attend the same church that she attended. When Teófilo heard her speak, his soul vibrated, and even though he was only a child at the time, he understood that the awaited Christ was the one he heard through her. He felt an inexplicable bond to her and followed her everywhere she went.

During a visit Juanita made to Don Pedro and Doña Concepción, she said to Zion: "In your prayers you offered me your son and I have come to find what you promised me." Zion and Pedro realized they were indebted to God and from there on, Teíto, as he was affectionately called, without abandoning his love for his parents, dedicated his life to the Lord's service.

Teíto was in the habit of visiting sister Juanita García Peraza. During one of his visits, as he watched her pray, he knelt silently in a corner of the living-room so as not to interrupt her. Suddenly, the Lord's Holy Spirit entered Juanita took her out and, through her, searched for the ointment (which the Holy Spirit has always used to anoint His chosen instruments). The Lord's Holy Spirit addressed Teíto and, through sister Juanita, anointed him to the Lord's Ministry. Teíto's soul filled with joy. Later, the Lord's Holy Spirit changed Teíto's name to Aarón. Shortly thereafter, Aarón and his parents were part of the group of eleven who left the Pentecostal Church with the person of Mita. Despite the Minister's call for him not to follow Mita, because he realized that Aarón had great spiritual potential within the Pentecostal movement, Aarón categorically refused to stay, because he understood that he had to heed the Lord's call before that of another man.

Bíjte? as we say down here—you see?

Well, the devil prowls everywhere, and is it a surprise that when Mita died there were some who succumbed to the wickedness of suggesting that Aaron might not be the anointed one? Well, yeah, everybody knew about the affair he had had—the one that produced Samuel. Actually, says Mr. Fernández, the rumor is that he had two more children besides Samuel.

Mr. Fernández also may not entirely believe the version of the succession put out by the church’s website. Here it is, the lovely, true and teaching story:

Mita sowed in Aarón the seeds of all those qualities that a prophet must possess: integrity, firmness of character, disposition to sacrifice, courage to face trials, wisdom and divine discernment, temperance, benigness, kindness, charity and, above all, an immense love for souls. He learned every day; he had Mita to follow as an example.

Having been chosen before birth and having been anointed to be a Minister of the Kingdom of God, when Juanita García Peraza passed away, the Lord entrusted his People to Aaron, saying: "Care for my children and I shall reward you".

In 1970, when Juanita García Peraza passed away, Aaron courageously assumed the leadership of the Mita People. Under his leadership, there has been a great expansion of Mita's Work in Puerto Rico, the United States, the Dominican Republic, Canada, Curaçao, Colombia, Venezuela, Costa Rica, Panama, El Salvador and Mexico. He has used all his energy and courage to the praise-worthy effort of taking this proclamation to far away lands. The Mita temples in Puerto Rico and abroad have been built under his leadership and supervision. He founded the Colegio Congregación Mita (Congregación Mita School), the El Paraíso Shelter and Institution, and the Office for Counseling and Social Assistance. He has faithfully fulfilled the prophesies of Mita, promoting the integral development of our People.

Wow—what a guy!

Mr. Fernández, his ear perhaps polluted by the filth the Devil has spilled into it, disputes this. So does the article in Wikipedia—perhaps a bit more balanced. What is known is that after Mita’s death, the whole church waited around three days for her to resurrect. Mita, however, chose the subtler strategy of incorporating into another body; the Holy Spirit has no need for cheap carnival tricks.

At any rate, the Mitas are as easy to spot as their church—which is a six-story affair with a temple accommodating 6000 people. The men dress in white, the women in long dresses, long hair, and utterly no make-up. Oh, and right—they don’t drink, smoke or gamble.

Well, I’m thrilled to report that the news that Aaron is after all the father of Samuel Beniquez has not dented an inch the faith of the mighty Mitas—a newspaper article states that they are more united than ever. I leave you with this last gem from the doctrine page of the website:

On Faith, the Mita Church believes the Lord's Holy Spirit is on earth, that His new name is Mita and that, through Aarón, He governs His Church and guides it through truth and justice towards salvation. The Mita Church is founded on the spiritual environment of human beings. It is the continuation of the Primitive Church of the Apostles and Prophets that performs a work of good, acts on faith and is uplifting. By this means, God extended to the human beings the opportunity to attain what their lack of faith makes inaccessible: salvation and a full life in complete communion with the Creator. Such a life knows no limits because it is guided by the Lord's Holy Spirit.

See? When you have that on your side, what’s an out-of-wedlock child or two?

A Retiring 25-Year Old

He’s 25 and retiring.

Nah, that doesn’t sound right. How about “he’s 25 and he’s being driven out of his job?”

Still not right. Shouldn’t it be “he’s 25 and he’s driving himself out of his job?”

If you’re a normal person—which is to say not obsessed with soccer—you know that I’m talking about a Californian named Robbie Rogers who came out of the closet in February and is “stepping away” from the game.

I know about this because I succumbed to temptation and signed up for the online edition of the New York Times, and there Rogers was, saying “I’m a Catholic, I’m a conservative, I’m a footballer and I’m gay.”

Apparently, only three quarters of this equation works. And he’s just told The Guardian that it’s impossible to be an openly gay soccer player.

I have no interest one way or the other if he plays again or not. But after seeing the video of Rogers that’s on the online edition of a newspaper—has the world changed?—I’m seriously worried about Rogers.

He’s gotten a lot of support, he says. He’s happier than he’s ever been; the relief of not having to hide, to lie, to worry about getting discovered has been enormous. It wasn’t easy—he had to email his sister the news, then Skype her, tell her to read the email, and then Skype her immediately back.

I remember that one. I had to write a letter and walk around Boston for a week of agonized waiting. What would they say? Should I go into therapy? What would I say to my parents if they asked, “why? Why do you need therapy? What‘s troubling you, Son?”

And Rogers feels free for the first time in 25 years. In fact, from his perspective he’s been a liar for 25 years, something he seems to find an astonishingly long time.

Not from my point of view. Yeah, I started the process when I was 18 or so, but there were and are a lot of people who never come out at all. Sure, there may be some kids who have the insight to realize that they’re gay, but I’m also very sure that they have very different parents than Rogers. Telegraph to Rogers—you’re only about five years behind, and you’ve now completely caught up.

And the process of coming out is, I’m happy to say, the work of a lifetime.

Note that word “happy.”

Rogers is in the most acute phase, where everything seems to revolve around being gay. Later on, nothing seems to revolve around gay, since everybody has gotten over it and is busy doing other things. I proved that last year on “National Coming Out Day,” when I called Johnny to let him in on the news. Why Johnny? Short of coming out to a passerby, there was nobody left. So I had to start over.

But being gay has been a tremendous advantage. Having to fight worry and fear and then come out taught me a lot about self-love, self-worth. Passing for all those years taught me how to observe people, read the emotional landscape. I understand women in a way that many straight men do not. I am an outsider and an insider and that works for me.

And yes, I still have to come out. In those years when I was in airplanes every three months, I flew to Chicago; on exiting the plane I got cruised by the captain. ‘What!” I thought, “oh my God, the captain of this plane was gay!” I’m ashamed to say it, but for a moment I felt that I had rashly risked my life, those previous three hours.

Well, I sighed, made the mental correction, and was completely unprepared for the next flight, a weekend later, led by Captain Sue Miller.

But those corrections—and that continuing process of coming out—are vital; I don’t want to acquire my convictions at age 20 and die with them all unchanged 60 years later.

So Rogers is on the way. Here’s my worry—nothing about him on the video this morning looked happy. He looked like a guy who has given up something he loved for something he loved more. But he’s still feeling the loss, he still mourns what he won’t have—a World Cup, perhaps, or another Olympics.

He would be, he says, always the “gay footballer,” he would never again be like the other guys. It would always be there, spoken or not.

I don’t know, of course. Nor do I think that he should keep playing just to make a point, just to be a role model. I only think that Rogers has moved from the anguish of the closet into the joy of the open world, and is stunned by the light, the air, the space and the love.

And I think one of those spaces—for Rogers—is the locker room and the soccer field.

One Judge, Parts Missing

There’s only one way to explain it. While the rest of the world—or at least the world I know—has gotten over it, there are four or five guys in Washington that still get really jittery when the topic of homosexuality and gay and lesbian issues blows in the room.

Which is why a man whom everybody grants has a fine legal mind said something incredibly stupid. And here it is, courtesy of the New York Times:

He expressed irritation that the case was before the court, saying President Obama’s approach — to enforce the law but not defend it — was a contradiction.

“I don’t see why he doesn’t have the courage of his convictions,” the chief justice said. He said Mr. Obama should have stopped enforcing a statute he viewed as unconstitutional “rather than saying, ‘Oh, we’ll wait till the Supreme Court tells us we have no choice.’ ”

The White House took umbrage at the remark and said the president was upholding his constitutional duty to execute the laws until the Supreme Court rules otherwise. “There is a responsibility that the administration has to enforce laws that are on the books,” said Josh Earnest, a deputy White House press secretary. “And we’ll do that even for laws that we disagree with, including the Defense of Marriage Act.”

Ahh, Roberts? If the president decided that the two-term limit was unconstitutional and set about running again in 2016, would that be OK? If he decided to stop payments of Social Security, would that be all right?

And by the way, isn’t that what we pay you guys the big money to do? What are you doing up there if you’re not interpreting the law and ruling on constitutionality? Playing checkers, smoking cigars?

Well, what do I know, so I called the family lawyer, and got his take. And John’s reading is that Roberts was peeved, and probably peeved from the day before. Both cases, of course, are screwy. The state of California had no interest in defending the overturning of Proposition 8, so a bunch of archconservatives got in the act. And the big question is—do they have any right to appear before the court? How have they been harmed, which is another way of establishing standing?

That’s pretty much the same deal with DOMA—which Obama and his justice department also declined to defend. But in this case, there’s somebody with standing—an 83 year-old lady who got stuck with a inheritance tax for over $300,000 because her marriage wasn’t recognized. Right, but what about the screwy Republican legislators who hired the lawyers to defend DOMA—what standing do they have?

Short of stomping on the floor and having a nice good hissy fit, Roberts could not be shouting “why me” louder and more petulantly.

At one point, in fact, Roberts suggests that he will walk away from the fight and let the politicians take the heat.

Public opinion has been shifting rapidly over the past decade in favor of gay marriage, and Chief Justice John Roberts suggested that perhaps gays and lesbians don’t need special protection from the court anymore.

“As far as I can tell, political leaders are falling all over themselves to endorse your side of the case,” Roberts told the lawyers who would like to see the Defense of Marriage Act, which defines marriage as between a man and a woman, struck down.

Special protection? Did he really say special protection? Isn’t the DOMA case simply about asking the court to rule on whether the federal government can give benefits to one group of married people but not to another group of married people? What’s special about that?

Oh, and say that I’ve been transferred to Fort Hood, and like a patriotic soldier I go. And then I head for Iraq, where I’m killed. If I’m straight, my wife Dora gets the visit from the two soldiers carrying the folded American flag. If I’m gay, my husband Donald will have to read about it in the newspapers.

You know, I don’t know about anybody else, but seeing the Supreme Court squirm and try to pass the buck is making me crazy. That, of course, is of no consequence to the Supreme Court. What should matter, however, is that a group of people is legally disenfranchised, and suffers real consequences—read harm—as a result of a bigoted piece of legislation. Yeah—I’m married in Massachusetts but not in Puerto Rico. So am I supposed to move to Massachusetts in order to collect Social Security if Raf dies before me?

And does anyone really think that places like Georgia and Mississippi are going to legislate gay marriage on their own? There are states that would still have Jim Crow if not slavery if the courts hadn’t stepped in. We need the Supreme Court to rule on DOMA and on the constitutionality of the 40 states with “defense” of marriage laws.

Put your hand in the center of your back, Chief Justice. Feel that hard thing?

It’s called a backbone.

Letter to the Nine

Let me make it very simple for the nine men and women who make up the Supreme Court.

John and Mary have a lovely wedding in a quaint, white, tall-steeple church. The parents beam, the bride cries, the groom shifts nervously at the altar. The ceremony concludes, they sign the marriage license, and drive off to their honeymoon in the Bahamas, where John will be eaten by a shark.

Are they married?

John and Mary have a lovely wedding—this is a copy / paste of the previous paragraph, so feel free to skip it—in a quaint, white, tall-steeple church. The parents beam, the bride cries, the groom shifts nervously at the altar. The ceremony concludes, they forget to sign—and here the scenario changes—the marriage license, and drive off to their honeymoon in the Bahamas, where John will be eaten by a shark.

Are they married?

Or how about this—John and Mary plan to get married in that quaint-et-cetera church, but it burns down the night before the wedding (dear me, the dramatic things that are happening in the blog this morning….). So they get hitched at City Hall, and then go off to that fateful honeymoon.

You get—I’m sure—my point. Where a couple is married has absolutely no importance; what’s important is that famous or fatal signature on a legal document called the marriage certificate. So we have a problem, a language problem. And here it is….

Screw talking about civil unions, we should be talking about religious unions.

It’s another sign of how decades of fundamentalist battering have driven us into logical and linguistic corners. Nobody, of course, can claim to be a liberal—now we have to retrench under the term “progressive.” Nobody can come right out and say that marriage is a legal institution, and that no amount of fiddling with “civil unions” can grant exactly the same rights as marriage. And even if it could, why bother?

I live across the street from a man and woman who are, I believe (since I haven’t seen their marriage certificate), married. The man and the woman live across the street from two men—do I need to tell you who they are?—who were married in the state of Massachusetts in 2008.

So Raf and Julio go off to the beach, and guess what happens? Yes, we now have a very well fed shark, swimming happily in those bloody waters. Now then, what happens to the grieving spouses?

Well, it’s a very different story. There’s Social Security, there are the tax laws, there are inheritance and probate issues.

Two very different scenarios. But oddly, the two couples—from what I can see—lead quite similar lives. Couples do—they figure out who does the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry. They figure out where they’re going to live and how to pay the bills. They have pets and arguments and—sometimes—children.

And isn’t it time, at last, to get over it, to get on to other things?

Or maybe it’s time to get pissed. Because that’s where I am, this morning, as I read about the Supreme Court weaseling around the question of whether two guys who have been together thirty years, who spent thousands of bucks to travel hundreds of miles to get married are in fact married.

Maybe it’s time to get out on the streets and start screaming at the people who have screamed at us, who have held up the “God hates fags” signs—yes, they were there yesterday, exercising their free speech in front of the Supreme Court—and shout was should be obvious to everybody.

Oh, and what’s that?

Try this….

The people defining marriage as a heterosexual union are mean-spirited, petty bigots.

No, not strong enough.

Hate-filled, fear-filled, despicable bigots.

And remind me, again—why did we allow them to take over the discourse?