Article from The Stanford Daily
Passionate attachment between two persons of the same sex...has generally been treated by the accredited thinkers and writers as a thing to be passed over in silence, as associated with mere grossness and mental aberration, or as unworthy of serious attention...In latest times however--that is, during the last thirty years or so--a group of scientific and capable men...have made a special and more or less impartial study of this subject: with the result that a quite altered complexion has been given to it; it being indeed especially noticeable that the change of view among the scientists has gone on step by step with the accumulation of reliable information....Their labours have established...that sexual inversion is in a vast number of cases quite instinctive and congenital, mentally and physically, and therefore twined in the very roots of individual life and practically ineradicable...that the number of individuals affected...is very great--much greater than is generally supposed...[and] that the individuals affected...do not after all differ from the rest of mankind, or womankind, in any other physical or mental particular which can be distinctly indicated.Edward Carpenter, from Homogenic Love
I'm most amazed by how modern Carpenter sounds. It reminds me of Kinsey in the 1950's and the frenzy of studies on homosexuality he left in his controversial wake, the beginnings of the gay movement in a small bar called the Stonewall in 1969 when a group of drag queens found enough dignity to fight back when police decided to "rough up some fags" yet again, and the 1972 decision by the APA to classify homosexuality as an "alternate lifestyle" rather than as a disease.
Carpenter's speech seems perfectly appropriate today. I can imagine saying the same thing to the latest crop of Stanford freshmen who, for the ten years I have been here, have constantly amazed me by having exactly the same misconceptions about our community, no matter what part of the country they come from or what year they arrive.
So how is it possible that Carpenter's words were written in 1895? More to the point, how could Carpenter have made such insightful observations almost a century ago but somehow remain almost a complete unknown? Why did I have to wait until I was twenty-five to discover his words on a dusty bookshelf in a gay bookstore in San Francisco? And how do those freshmen demonstrate such detailed understanding of gay myths in a world that could forget Edward Carpenter?
I believe the answer is silence. True, our community has many obstacles to overcome, not least of which are religion, politics, the corporate mentality in America, and the entertainment industry. But after many years of observing the negative impact of all of our enemies, I have come to the conclusion that the greatest weapon society uses against us, the one that always tilts the odds in their favor, is silence.
"It's okay to be gay," we're told, "but keep it in the bedroom where it belongs. Why do you people have to talk about it all the time? We don't." This is the kind of misunderstanding left-handed people experience all the time from right-handed people who fail to recognize our society's right-orientation.
What do they mean, they don't talk about it? I suppose that Valentine's Day is one of the quietest holidays of the year, that falling in love again is about as exciting as going to the supermarket one more time, that weddings are considered fairly trivial events in people's lives, and that love doesn't end up being a theme in many books, poems, commercials, soap operas, songs, plays, or operas.
Face it, we talk about love all the time. The problem is that most people think of "gay" as "homosexual." The two concepts are, in fact, quite different. It is perfectly proper to say that male inmates isolated from the world for many years commit homosexual acts and that the incidence of homosexuality among male mice (i.e., one "mounting" another) seems to increase when their environment becomes overcrowded. Also appropriate is the epithet "homosexuals" for those who verify that they engage in such activities (or "admitted homosexuals" as the conservatives love to say). And I must confess that the Old Testament and Jesus' disciple Paul seem to clearly denounce homosexual acts.
But being gay is something quite different. There is no contradiction in the term "gay virgin," just as there is no paradox in saying that "nongay inmates sometimes exhibit homosexual behavior" (something altogether different from "gay behavior"). If two male mice mated for life, I'd be willing to call them the first pair of "gay mice," but not those who get confused about what kind of partner to mount. And I see no argument to contradict the notion that some gay Christians hold that perhaps, like abortion and nuclear disarmament, Jesus said nothing about either homosexuality or being gay because his culture did not provide him the words he needed, the ability to say "gay couple" rather than "homosexual act."
Thus, "I'm gay" does not constitute an intimate admission of sexual activity. It merely informs the listener that I tend to fall in love with men rather than women. To me it seems the same as telling people that somehow everyone in the world but me likes pizza. Then they know not to buy pizza for my surprise birthday party and not to fix me up with a woman if we have a "screw your roommate" party. With those I care for, I imagine that it's the same as if I were left-handed or color-blind and shared it with them, because either they would be the same as me, giving us something to share, or they wouldn't be, giving us something fun to talk about that I know all about.
But the world does not see it that way. "I'm gay" to them means "I'm a sex fiend who wants to make it with every man alive." Parents are the worst. Somehow "I'm gay" to them is transformed from a simple statement about my romantic life into an alarming admission that "Although I enjoy anonymous sex in sleazy bars, I am particularly fond of young boys and confused teenagers willing to experiment."
And so society fights back with silence: "Keep sex where it belongs. Don't let them near impressionable children. Fire them if they try to teach in our schools. Force them out if they try to flaunt their private lives in our wholesome neighborhoods. Be sure to let the manager of your local bookstore and library know just how upset you are about the homosexual filth they carry (radical trash like Edward Carpenter). And when you find another one of `them,' maybe gossip about it a bit, but certainly don't talk about it openly or let on that you're at all curious. Find some polite way to talk about it so that the `g' word doesn't have to be uttered. And if they die of AIDS, find some other way to explain the tragedy to their loved ones, to spare them the awful truth, particularly for those famous ones whose great accomplishments would be tarnished by such an identification."
And silence finds its way even into institutions of higher learning. This year marks the tenth anniversary of my battle with Don Kennedy's silence and the resulting silence of his administration. Here are just a few highligh
- In 1979 we saw an increasing number of applicants who, like me, were nervous about including references to our work in the gay community on applications. I led an effort to convince the University to change its nondiscrimination policy to include us among the protected categories. The Dean of Graduate Admissions contrasted our suggestion with the faculty/staff policy, as a way of explaining why it shouldn't happen, whereupon we informed a rather surprised Dean that the faculty/staff nondiscrimination policy had been similarly changed two years earlier. Dean Fred, former Dean of Undergraduate Admissions, refused to even meet with us because he found it "insulting to have to make such a statement." Other staff members were more open to discussion, but in the end Kennedy turned us down with an observation that "a person's sexual orientation is a matter of private concern" and therefore not something to consider in admissions, nor something to mention in Stanford publications.
- In 1982 I applied for a position in the Computer Science Department. Unfortunately, the timing of their decision coincided with the appearance of a Daily article covering two-thirds of a page entitled, "On Being Gay: Feelings and Perceptions" (subtitle: "by Stuart Reges"). Despite the protection afforded gays by the faculty/staff policy that I knew by rote, I was told, "We want to give you the job, but we were concerned about your article." When asked for a clarification, I was told, "It's embarrassing for us to have you publish articles about your personal life, and we can't offer you the job unless you promise not to do so in the future." Unfortunately I didn't have the strength to "stand tall" and fight for my convictions because I knew that nobody would take my word over theirs. So I gave up most of my pride and self-respect by saying that, while I couldn't make such a promise, I had no intention of publishing any articles anytime soon. And I didn't for three years until a new chairman arrived. I consider this particular act of silence to be the most cruel punishment Stanford ever inflicted on me, threatening to deny me a job I loved if I wouldn't keep secret an aspect of my personality that seemed as much a vital part of me as my ability to teach.
- In 1983 the University found itself embroiled in a controversy over whether to accept a scholarship targeted for a gay student. Initially it was rejected because the donor failed to specify this as a preference rather than as a requirement, in violation of long-standing University policy. But even after the donor acceded to a preference, Kennedy thought it inappropriate to accept the gift because "it asks for a declaration of belief which is impossible to verify without an impermissible invasion of privacy." Dean Lyons also went on record that "sexual orientation is a private matter" and should, therefore, not be used in allocating financial aid. Although the University manages to administer such gifts with preferences for ethnic minorities by asking students to volunteer information about their ethnicity on financial aid forms, representatives from the University Counsel's office flatly labelled as inappropriate my suggestion that the same form ask students to voluntarily identify themselves as gay. Their reasoning? "It would be embarrassing to ask such a question." For Stanford or for the students filling out the form? "For both," they said.
- At graduation in 1985 Don Kennedy presented me a Dinkelspiel Award for, among other things, "the valuable private time he steadily provides to others, not only as a general advisor, but also as a counselor at the Bridge." Although they got the building right, the actual organization that benefited most from my efforts should have been listed as "the Gay and Lesbian Counseling Group." To this day I don't know whether the words "gay and lesbian" were accidentally left off my award, whether some well-intentioned idiot tried to spare me the "embarrassment" of being associated with those words in such a public assembly, or whether some practical underling of Don's realized that he might choke on the words in front of such a large group of parents and potential donors. So I'm not sure whether to consider this the biggest insult Stanford has ever paid me or the most unfortunate mistake they ever made at my expense.
- In 1986 Kennedy finally answered a caustic letter that I had written one year earlier complaining about the wording of my Dinkelspiel Award. I encouraged him in making speeches about Stanford diversity to "mention gay men and lesbian women, especially to prospective applicants and newly arrived freshmen;" to "find out which of the faculty and staff are openly gay, and talk about them. Say that you admire their courage;" and to "make it a goal to have gay mentors in positions of authority." His response was that, "I think we probably have some real differences--about whether, for example, the convictions you press upon me would not in the end result in my putting unfair pressure on some gays to declare when they are not ready, or to dissemble when they would prefer not to." I still don't understand his reasoning. Should we stop talking about Jewish people, in case there are some who prefer to "pass"? Should we stop asking our Native American students who come from reservations "prying" questions about their lives there, because they might not want to be identified as such? Naturally, everyone should have the right to keep aspects of their lives private, but how can we cherish diversity, as Kennedy implores us to, if we can't talk about it?
- 1986 was also the year that Stanford: A Centennial Chronology appeared. Inside was a tedious list of newsworthy events of the past century, including at least one milestone for each group that Kennedy normally includes on his diversity list (even one to cover the relatively small population of Native Americans). But despite the meticulous documentation gathered by Gerard Koskovich of the Stanford Gay Archives Project, no mention of gay people appeared on any of the thirty-one pages. Not the surprising fact that Branner had an openly gay freshman in 1931 named Harry Hay who went on to found one of the most influential gay political organizations of this century, not funny stories like the University ruling in 1956 that the seven Stanford boys caught "in the act" at the Southern-Pacific train station would be allowed back to school only after they supplied a note from their doctors saying that they were cured, and not even the vandalism of the Segal Sculpture which was so talked about by the local media that it got national news coverage. It seemed clear to us that silence had wiped all mention of gay people from the document, although Kennedy protested that "there is a large difference between deletion and failure to include."
Even now I can feel the silence drowning out our voices. That's the only explanation I have for understanding how a group of masked protesters in front of Otero last spring supporting a freshman's antigay behavior could end up being mentioned in a report by the University Counsel's office as an example of racism, nowhere including the words "gay" or "homophobia." Even words like "homosexual" or "homosexuality," which at least break the silence, would have been preferable to the familiar assault: deletion, editing, failure to include.
But for all my arguments with President Kennedy, I have to at least admit that he listens to what I have to say, allows me to say it to anyone and everyone I meet at Stanford, and generally "agrees to disagree" rather than dismiss my feelings as silly or dangerous.
Perhaps I'm grateful for Kennedy's concessions because I'm now in the process of discovering just how powerful the silence is outside Stanford. I was given nothing short of a hero's welcome two years ago when, because my mother now works there, I first visited my old high school in the Northern Virginia suburbs of DC. I met with Computer Science students to talk about Stanford, careers in CS, and the AP exam in CS. They were tremendously interested, perhaps somewhat because of my charm, but probably more because, as Chief Reader for AP/CS, I know everything that will be on their exam and I am responsible for orchestrating its grading. They even had the A/V people videotape my talk. They were so interested in hearing me speak.
Even so, when a Washington Post article in which I discussed my teenage suicide attempts mentioned my desire to discuss gay issues with students at my old high school, the Principal left a message with my mother that I could no longer visit the school grounds, even to discuss CS with CS students. He was careful not to put anything in writing.
Since then I have described in a letter to him my desire to discuss gay issues (with a guarantee of nothing sexually explicit) to interested students in a voluntary session after school. He has formally turned down my request, but provided no explanation.
I have also submitted an article for the student newspaper which all of the student editors and faculty sponsors wish to publish. In it I explain that I am writing because of my own painful memories that as a senior there I tried to "kill myself to kill the feelings that were tearing me apart." I mention silence and its resulting atmosphere "where friends are too nervous to discuss gay issues and teachers censor gay history, leaving young gays only the back-alley view that `fags and dykes' lead unhappy lives." Finally, I argue that "gay prejudice would evaporate if we weren't squeamish about discussing it, just as misconceptions about left-handedness vanished when we applied reason rather than superstition to understand it."
The principal has not yet censored my article, but he has been "thinking about it" and "discussing it with higher-ups at the District office" for three months now, and I'm beginning to worry that silence will win this round through simple stalling.
For the first time ever I'm not sure how to close an article. I prefer to end on an optimistic note, but sometimes the silence seems so powerful that even my shouting sounds weak and faltering. I've come to realize that gay people can't break the silence alone. So if the rest of you don't hear the truth faintly whispering, I guess that I will be silenced after all, along with all the others.
last updated 01/01/2020