Joe

I kind of grew up in a bar.  My grandmother owned it, and we would go with her to the liquor store and to clean and stock the bar in the mornings.  Always at 10:00, after the mail came.  She always gave us money to play the jukebox and we’d get to make our own Shirley Temples with way too much grenadine. We’d play pool, and for a while when we were little, she had Space Invaders on a table machine.

We’d get bored and head outside to roll down the grassy hill next door until we were so dizzy we couldn’t walk.  Then, we’d head across the parking lot to visit Joe.

Joe lived in a tiny one room apartment connected to my grandfather’s office. He always had cookies and comic books for us.  Sometimes we got him out of bed, and if we were lucky, he’d have boxes of CrackerJacks.

Joe and Grandma and Gracie went to lunch every Wednesday…except for poker days.  Then they switched for another day of the week.

Joe was always at Grandma’s on Christmas.  He didn’t work, and Grandma said after he got out of college he applied for one engineering job and didn’t get it and he never tried again.  He was a piano player in bars until he “retired.”  I’m sure he didn’t have a lot of money, but my grandmother had 9 grandchildren and EVERY year, we got a Christmas present from Joe.

Joe had a crazy sense of humor, and he always kind of reminded me of Johnny Carson.  He gave my grandma dirty cards on her birthday that always made her laugh.  

Joe got old and started living in filth.  Grandma had to call his family.  I think they lived somewhere in Oregon, and I remember being shocked that Joe had a family.  I was pregnant with Sheridan at the time, and he called and told me I needed to come get some books.

He was packing, and he was pissed about having to leave.  I remember there was mouse shit on everything, and I said, “But, Joe, you can’t live like this!”  He just kind of slumped.

“Books are on the shelf back there,” He said and pointed to the bedroom.

It’s weird going into someone’s bedroom, and I was a little uncomfortable.  But, I’m a bookworm and I found book Nirvana.  A whole leather bound antique edition of all of Shakespeare’s play and sonnets—each in its own little book.  Steinbeck.  Asimov.

Joe came in and sat on the bed.  “You like Steinbeck?” He asked.

“Yes.  Very much.”  And we had a half-hour long conversation on the tawdry in and outs of “Of Mice and Men” and “The Grapes of Wrath” while I packed a couple of liquor boxes full of books.

When I stood to go, I noticed the wall next to the bedroom door.  It was covered in pictures of us grandkids.  You could tell he started pinning them at the top.  Our baby pictures.  Pictures of Christmas. Honor roll clippings and sports news from The Arco Advertiser.  Sports photos from when we were in high school. It was like an inverse growth chart.  The older we got, the farther down on the wall we were pinned.

It took my breath away.  I guess it was the first time I ever realized how much we all meant to that old man.  We were his grandkids, too.

He saw me looking.  “You can’t have any of those!” he said and laughed.  Then he pointed and said “Remember this?”  and we had a nice walk down memory lane.

Here’s the thing:  Joe was gay.

I only learned this, because he always took my brother and the cousins to town to the movies for birthdays, and once, one of my mother’s aunts had the audacity to tell my mother she shouldn’t let my brother go.  My mom doesn’t get pissed often, unless she feels pretty passionate about something, and she said, “I’d NEVER put my son in a situation where I didn’t think he was safe.  Let me tell you something (and this is how I knew she was pissed, because when she says ‘let me tell you something’, the woman MEANS business)…he’s gay.  He’s NOT a pedophile.” And she loaded us up, and we went home.

I didn’t know what either of those words meant.  I was probably ten at the time.  In the car, I asked her what gay meant, and she told me.  “But, he’s good to you, right?” She asked me.

“Yes.  Always.”  I said.

“That’s all that matters.”

That is all that matters.  

I’m tired of hearing how you can love the sinner and still hate the sin. When did love become a sin?

I’m tired of hearing how gay marriage is a threat to traditional marriage.  REALLY?  How?  Are you scared that by someone else vowing to love someone for better and for worse somehow, in some way, makes your vow any less valid?

I’m tired of hearing “What’s next? Polygamy?”  Who cares?  Seriously.  How would even THAT affect your marriage?  I had Rural Community Economics in college with a guy from Kenya.  We called him Simba, and he was a Ph.D. candidate.  It was a very small class, and I sat next to him one day.  “So, Simba,” I said.  “You have three moms?”

“Yes,” he said in his heavy accent that I liked to hear.

“Do you want three wives?”

He chuckled.  “My father has always told me to only have one wife.”

“Why?” I asked, intrigued.

“Because more than that and they fight too much!” 

Three moms and as far as I can tell, from getting to know him, he seemed liked he had a pretty good grasp on life.  

I take my marriage vow pretty seriously, for the most part.  And, I’ll be the first to admit, I’m kind of inclined to believe that without some kind of divine intervention, we probably wouldn’t be together anymore.  I DO believe my marriage is a sacrament.  But, that is me.  I own that. And, I don’t need anyone else outside of my marriage telling me what my marriage means anymore than they need me telling them God has to be in their's.

This is the United States.  A place where religion has no place in government, and lately, it seems like nothing blurs that line between church and state, quite like marriage.

If government is going to grant certain sectors of society benefits based on marriage, then we have to give those benefits to everyone.  No one should be marginalized, least of all in the name of God.

The logical fallacies of the arguments out there against gay marriage are textbook classics. 

Don’t tell me how much you love gay people when you seem to be perfectly fine denying people like Joe the ability to make end of life decisions for their lifelong partners, or share insurance benefits, or heaven forbid, raise and have loving families.

Bigot: a person who is obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices; especially : one who regards or treats the members of a group (as a racial or ethnic group) with hatred and intolerance. (Merriam-Webster)

I hate to break it to you, but yeah, if you think it’s somehow fine to deny one group of people the rights everyone else gets, based on who they love and because they ‘sin’ differently than you, then yes, you ARE a bigot and don’t be offended when people tell you so.

Same sex attraction has been observed in almost all mammalian species, at a rate of about 10-20% of populations.  Bigotry and intolerance, as far as I can tell, is only observed in one.

I do believe we all have a cross to bear in this life.  And, maybe, just maybe, instead of telling people their cross is not acting on their love for another person, maybe it’s time we realized our own cross might be learning tolerance for people who are different.