What If I Were Gay?

Ngorongoro Crater - photo by JoAnn Sturman

by Scott Sturman

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.  -- Constitution 14th Amendment

I keep getting back to the last crazy election, and how conservatives wasted a valuable opportunity.  How could a  President be reelected with so much wrong with the country and plenty of evidence to prove it?  The self destruction caused by needlessly ostracizing certain voting groups reminded me of a conversation with a gay orthopedic surgeon twenty years ago.  She was raised in a military family, and we agreed on most political subjects.  Yet when it came to voting, she would remind me, “Why would I vote for any party which does not protect my civil rights?”  Why indeed would she?

I’m not gay.  I’m not a gay activist.  I was raised in Wyoming where I never heard of gays, and they were so far in the closet they spoke and acted like John Wayne.  I’m the type of guy who showers at the gym and keeps his eyes downcast, so no one will have the slightest reason to believe I am gay.  So what if I were gay? 

I am not sure when I first met a gay person, but it may have been in the most unlikely place.  Both my mother’s and father’s families were ranchers, so we grandchildren often spent summers with our grandparents in western Nebraska.  My cousin Bob’s family owned the “33 Ranch” near Harrison, and it was here while visiting one summer I met an unusual character.

Most cowboys of this era were rough around the edges.  A filterless Camel cigarette hung from the side of the mouth and was hidden partially beneath a week old beard.  Their rumpled clothes were caked in dirt, and they spoke in a simple, profane dialect that portrayed little formal education.  They were hard workers and quick to help a stranger but as tough as the land where they scraped a living. 

When I sixteen, I paid Bob and the 33 a visit during haying season when extra help was needed to cut, bale, and stack the alfalfa.  Among the hired hands was a cowboy named Perry, who had come to the West from Connecticut.  When I first saw him, he was sitting with his back propped against the barn door reading Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain.  Despite the cattle, manure, machinery, mud, and sweat, his clothes appeared immaculate with a red bandana tied around his neck and a broad brimmed Stetson resting on his head.  His elocution, diction, and vocabulary betrayed someone from a different world.  In a school boy’s mind he could have been Shane or Virginian.  Later that summer when I ask my mother about him, in an explanation typical of the times, all she offered was Perry was a little bit “funny.” 

My first exposure to the gay social scene occurred at the Stonewall Bar in Tucson in 1974.  It was a popular night spot where customers regularly stood in long lines to enjoy the city’s best dance music and most energetic clientele.  Our group of five couples, all Air Force officers, arrived late one Saturday evening and found the queue winding around the building.  After a modest wait but still hours away from the front door, two bouncers made their way along the line to insure the impatient crowd did not become disorderly.  They approached my friend W.R. Priskna and his date and invited them to bypass the line and join the crowd in the bar.

“Thanks.  That’s great.  But what about our friends?”

“How many?”

“Ten.  The two of us and these four couples.”

“No problem.  Come with us.”

They escorted all of us to the front of the line past would be partiers.  This was foreign territory, and at the time I held the stereotypical view the group’s good fortune had something to do with W.R.’s athletic build and a full head of thick, blond hair with a natural wave.  But in retrospective it must have been his bubbly personality that elicited the invitation. 

Once inside, the atmosphere was frenetic with wall to wall patrons trying to make themselves heard above the roaring music.  Dancers careened to and fro and exhibited an overt eroticism when interacting with their partners.  We ordered drinks and after my date Liz went to the bathroom, a slim young man came to the table.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked me.

“What?” I replied, barely able to hear above the music.

“Would you like to dance?” he repeated.

Startled, but not wanting to make a scene and elicit a provocation, I replied, “I’d like to but no thanks.  My boyfriend might get pissed off!”

“Sorry.  I didn’t know.  I was only hoping ...”

Before he could finish, I interrupted, “That’s OK.  How were you to know?  You’d better leave before he comes back.”

What a time!  Especially on the dance floor with our dates, who initially were a bit skittish, but after a few drinks, we were all one big happy family at peace with the world and mankind.

This last month I read an article “Love on the March” by Alex Ross, a gay man, who reviewed the history of the gay movement.  He made a couple of points which provoked some thoughts: the first a statement by University of Michigan English Professor David Halperin that “sexuality is the area where gay men differ least from straight men: the male in heat is a uniform animal” and a observation by Episcopal Bishop Gene Robinson that Jesus was historically silent on the subject of homosexuality in an era when same sex relationships were not unknown.

I’m not so sure about the former point, but the latter is important.  If Christ did not inveigh against homosexuality then what Christian should?  Compare this stance with Muhammad’s view that homosexuality is an abomination. Plentiful Quranic texts speak to this, but apparently Jesus was less concerned with sexual orientation and more so about faith.  If there is a sanction, it is subtle.

So what if I were gay or had a relative or close friend who was?  Even though the conservative message of self reliance, financial prudence, states' rights, education reform, and a strong national defense appealed to me, these would not be enough to support a party which put my civil rights in jeopardy.  As Doug Goodman pointed out in a recent article "Perception Is Reality," conservatives must be the protectors of minority interests.  The 14th Amendment is clear in this regard, and no thinking conservative should dismiss it as peripheral to the discussion.  If the Founding Fathers and Jesus agreed on the “big tent” theory, then many conservatives need to pause and remind themselves that we are the party of Lincoln. 

Cape Buffalo in Tanzania - photo by JoAnn Sturman