Next Saturday, July 11 at 1pm CDT (11am PDT), I’ll be a guest on the Sandra Moran Radio Book Club from radio station KKFI in Kansas City. Host Elizabeth Andersen, panelist/poet Mercedes Lewis, and I will discuss my novel Sin Against the Race.
Society has entered an extraordinary period of activism around issues of race, gender identity, sexual orientation, and police violence. So I really look forward to having the opportunity to discuss my book, which touches on all of these subjects.
If you live outside the Kansas City area, you can click the link above to hear KKFI streaming online. Join us!
How many times do we have to live the same nightmare, travel the same dark path, scream the same anguish until our voices go raw?
I’m very tired.
100,000+ dead from COVID-19, with African Americans disproportionately bearing the brunt of the pandemic in the US. And then these killings happen.
I’m very tired.
Donald Trump has fanned the flames of racism rather than quelled them during his misguided, disastrous tenure in office. His self-centered bungling also aided and abetted the spread of COVID-19.
I’m very tired.
When Amy Cooper called 911 on Christian Cooper (no relation) and claimed that Mr. Cooper was threatening her life, she went full-on Carolyn Bryant. Bryant is the white woman who lied and said that Emmett Till molested her. Fortunately, Mr. Cooper did not suffer Mr. Till’s fate.
I’m very tired.
And now the world erupts again, disgusted, angry, scared, while those in power sit silent. We have no national voice to bring calm or hope or change.
I’ve written about racism, racists policing, racist hate crimes, and Black Lives Matters for years. At the moment, I have few new words to add.
My voice is tired. My fingers are tired. My heart is tired and my soul is not rested. My weariness runs deep in my core and dates back generations.
Look what came in the mail today! I’m very honored and excited to be included in this fine anthology of New Fiction with so many amazing writers. I’m also very sad that we did not get to meet and read together at the festival. Such is the case in the age of COVID-19. But I have no doubt that we’ll meet again soon and continue to raise our voices in support of each other, queer art, and Saints & Sinners.
You can purchase a copy of New Fiction from the Festival from the publisher, Bold Stroke Books, here.
On the front page of my Saturday newspaper, I saw a photo of someone carrying this protest sign: “We are fighting for our freedom.”
No you’re not. Not when you’re carrying signs like “Wealth is Health” and “The cure is worse than the disease.”
As of this writing, 68,088 US residents have died from COVID-19 in just two months. To carry such signs and tout those slogans means that you either do not believe that over 68,000 people have died in this country from this disease, or that you do not care. But in either case, no, you are not fighting for freedom.
To say that the shelter-in-place orders have been devastating is an understatement. The livelihood of millions, including friends, including family members, hangs in the balance. Those who cannot work from home, who received furloughs and layoffs, who rely on unemployment payments, bear the brunt of the economic chaos caused by the pandemic and efforts to curb it. But the answer isn’t to blindly “reopen America” and risk putting people’s lives in danger.
We need money to flow like water from a faucet to everyone adversely affected by the shutdowns, furloughs, and layoffs. We should quite literally pay people to stay home. While a few relief packages have passed through Congress and Trump has signed off on them, it’s far from enough.
Furthermore, too much of the relief money approved so far has gone to those who do not need it. Multi-billion dollar corporations applied for and received money from the Small Business Administration Paycheck Protection Program. The Los Angeles Lakers came to their senses and returned the $4.6 million they received. By contrast, United Airlines eyes making layoffs in October, after they have received $3.5 billion in grants, $1.5 billion in loans, with an additional $4.5 billion in loans waiting on the table. Despite all this money coming in to offset the loss of ticket sales on flights, they still want to make layoffs. How much do you want to bet that their top executives will receive bonuses at the end of the year?
But no, the freedom people aren’t protesting that. They are going after governors who dare to put people over profits. While these protests have mostly targeted Democrats—Gavin Newsom of California, Andy Beshear of Kentucky, Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan—a few Republican governors have also faced their wrath: Gary Herbert in Utah, Mike DeWine in Ohio.
As CNN has reported, many of these protests have the backing of conservative groups, like FreedomWorks, who helped manufacture the Tea Party protests against the Affordable Care Act in 2010. Like those protests, these “open up American” protests feature American flags, vapid patriotism, and heaps of bigotry, from anti-Semitic symbolism and Nazi slogans (Arbeit Macht Frei) to Confederate flags.
So a decade ago, these groups used an effort by the Obama Administration to increase access to healthcare as a political football to push their bigoted agendas. Now they are using a pandemic killing thousands. In 2010 conservative protesters decried that the ACA would bring about Death Panels that would kill off grandma if caring for her costs too much. Today, conservative protesters are the death panels, openly calling for the sacrificing of the old and infirm in order to reopen businesses and make money.
Make no mistake, folks are suffering economically and it’s horrifying to watch. With testing levels for COVID-19 still woefully insufficient, at this point, I have a hard time imagining when all this will end. But these conservative groups have a different agenda. It’s the same agenda they’ve always had: Make American White Again. And that they would use a pandemic killing thousands as a vehicle to forward their bigotry turns them into ghouls.
I previously wrote about my excitement about attending the Saints & Sinners LGBTQ Literary Festival in New Orleans again. It was set to take place March 27-29.
And then COVID-19 happened. Wisely, though sadly, the Festival cancelled this year’s edition. New Orleans has been hit hard by the pandemic and I wish all of my friends in NOLA and everywhere safety and health. This disease has taken a terrible toll.
Michele Karlsberg had invited me to write about S&S for her Words column for the SF Bay Times. And although the Festival didn’t happen, I wrote about what would have happened and about the importance of the arts even especially during times of crisis. Check it out here.
We’re not testing enough for the coronavirus, COVID-19. We’ve made this mistake before and it led to dire consequences. It gives me eerie flashbacks.
AIDS had already taken over 10,000 lives before a test for HIV became available in 1985. Prejudice and bigotry slowed the development of tests, treatments, or even a clear explanation of how HIV transmitted from person to person. All of this dithering cost lives. One cannot get a handle on a disease if you don’t know the extent it has spread. You can’t protect people without that simple knowledge.
The US falls well behind other nations in terms of testing for COVID-19. This chart from Business Insider tells a grim story:
Bigotry has also played a role in attitudes about COVID-19. House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy referred to the disease as the “Chinese coronavirus” in a tweet. Sadly anti Asian bigotry is on the rise. But other foolishness has contributed to the lack of testing. That foolishness being the current resident of the White House.
Trump has called the coronavirus a “hoax” promulgated by the usual enemies, Democrats and the free press (aka Fake News). Repeatedly, he has demonstrated a lack of knowledge of even the basic facts. In a recent tweet, while trying to make a point that not many Americans have contracted COVID-19, he made the opposite point. The data he cited gave a 4% mortality rate.
USING YOUR OWN STATS:
40 million people caught the flu in 2018/19. So 37,000 deaths would be a <0.1% mortality rate.
22 deaths out of 546 detected cases of coronavirus is a 4% mortality rate.
But in truth, we don’t know what the mortality rate is in this country, because don’t know how far it has spread. We can’t. The test is not sufficiently available. Until that happens, we can’t know anything about COVID-19 or hope to contain it in any meaningful way.
This all comes from having incompetence in power. Neither Trump nor Pence have any credibility with managing a disaster. Trump horribly botched the response to the devastation of Puerto Rico caused by Hurricane Maria. And speaking of HIV, Pence helped to advance the spread of the disease as governor of Indiana. Instead of acting to an increase of infections by the use of dirty needles, he dithered, and more folks became infected as a result.
In an ideal world, both Trump and Pence would resign or get removed from office, opening the door for Speaker Nancy Pelosi to become president. Then, she could lead a proper response to COVID-19. I doubt she would run for reelection, so whoever the Democratic nominee turns out to be could win in November and then take over in January, 2021. Sadly, this scenario will not likely play out. Neither Trump nor Pence are going anywhere any time soon.
In the meanwhile, citizens and the media need to continue to hold Trump and Pence accountable. Lives are at stake. At the very least, they need to lose the election. With their leadership, disasters will become commonplace.
We have to follow the old Civil Rights Movement slogan and keep our eyes on the prize. Donald Trump and the filth he has visited upon the nation and the world has us beside ourselves with anger, fear, and despair. But we can’t let him, his tweets, or his parasitic sycophants distract us. Our purpose is clear. We have to take out the garbage and then stay engaged. It will take a long time to undo the damage he has done.
His worst offense, in my view, has been his polluting the federal courts with unfit, immoral, ultra conservative ideologues. Many of them lack even a patina of qualification for the federal bench. Anti-women, anti-LGBTQ, anti-climate change, anti-black and brown people while also pro-billionaires and pro-corporations: these are their sole qualifications.
And Trump had help with these awful appointments in the form of the ghoulish Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. Quite a switch from during the Obama years. At that time, both as Minority Leader and Majority Leader, McConnell did his level best to prevent President Obama from making judicial appointments, ending with his triumphant stymieing of Merrick Garland’s nomination for the Supreme Court. But during Trump’s presidency, McConnell has rubber-stamped each and every judicial appointment with frightening speed. Mitch McConnell is the most dangerous man in Washington, DC, the most dangerous since J. Edgar Hoover and he has to be stopped. It’s not enough just to flip the Senate to a Democratic majority. McConnell has to be voted out of office.
Internecine battles within the Democratic Party must cease. We don’t have time for that shit now. Four more years of Republican rule could quite literally bring doom upon the planet. Time for us to lick our wounds and get going.
This Black History Month, I turn to one of my idols for inspiration, Congressman John Lewis. A fighter for nearly all of his 80 years, he received beating after beating during the Civil Rights Movement. As a Freedom Rider, as a leader in the march from Selma to Montgomery for voting rights, despite the beatings, he stayed firm, kept his eyes on the prize.
Congressman Lewis has served in the People’s House for 33 years. He has fought for women’s rights, LGBTQ rights, environmental justice, and against big business and climate change. History will record him as a fighter on the side of justice for all.
Tragically, he has seen many of his accomplishments washed away by waves of Republican advances. This includes the Voting Rights Act of 1965. He nearly lost his life on the Pettus bridge fighting for blacks to have the unquestioning right to vote. In 2013, the Roberts court gutted the Act. This launched a wave of voter ID, racist gerrymandering, and other tactics to disenfranchise black and brown people. It pains me to see all he worked for destroyed by evil opportunists.
But despite all of the setbacks, he continues. His eyes have never wavered from the prize. Indeed, one could say that he has his eyes fixed on the prize more now than ever before, because the stakes are so high. This, despite his recent cancer diagnosis.
We need to follow his great example, the extraordinary life he has lived. We need to keep our eyes on the prize and vote. And after we’ve voted, continue to march, petition, and lobby for the just world we want to see.
This is why we have to do better. Trump and McConnell are successfully flipping one of the most reliably liberal Courts of Appeal in the county, the Ninth Circuit. Recent decisions have involved the rights of asylum seekers, stopping Trump’s Muslim ban, and of course legalizing same-sex marriage. If flipped, any future cases involving these and other issues (reproductive rights, for example) could go the other way. Judges last for a lifetime. Trump and McConnell have appointed young judges. So they will last for a long while.
As I stated before, Trump’s judges will outlast him. We can’t afford to have anymore polluting our judiciary. Reactionary judges can set our society back decades.
March 1, 2020 From the man, himself:
We were beaten, we were tear-gassed. I thought I was going to die on this bridge. But somehow and some way, God almighty helped me here. We cannot give up now. We cannot give in. We must keep the faith, keep our eyes on the prize. pic.twitter.com/eOw9uMYAAL
I’m very excited to announce that my short story, “Tom of Boalt Hall,” is a finalist in the annual Saints & Sinners LGBTQ Literary Festival’s Short Fiction Contest. The story will appear in their superbly put together anthology along with new works from a group of amazing writers.
I first attended Saints & Sinners in 2018, where I read from Sin Against the Race and spoke on a panel. It was an amazing trip and wonderful experience.
“Tom of Boalt Hall” takes place in the 1930s on the Berkeley campus. It represents the first time I merged my two worlds, as a writer and as a long time employee at Berkeley Law. With the help of the Law School’s Archivist Emeritus William E. Benemann, I learned about life at the then-School of Jurisprudence, as the Law School was known in the 30s, its original building and some of its quirks. All of this informed the story. Bill also has written about gay history on the Berkeley campus. I’m grateful to Bill for all of his help and knowledge.
If you go to the Berkeley campus, check out Durant Hall. Currently the home of the College of Letters and Science, it was built in 1911 as the Boalt Memorial Hall of Law. The School occupied the building until 1951, when it moved it its current location.
I’m looking forward to reading all the stories in next year’s Saints & Sinners Festival anthology. Laissez les bons temps rouler!
Last May, to celebrate our 25th anniversary together, my husband and I took a trip to Germany. It was our first trip back in nearly 12 years. We went with a group organized by Dr. Marion Gerlind and JB of the Gerlind Institute for Cultural Studies. We had studied German at the institute many years ago and have been part of many of their other programs. So when the trip came around, we couldn’t resist. It was an amazingly wonderful experience. With eight of us in total, we toured Berlin, Hamburg, and Lübeck. Our group was lively and funny, great traveling companions. And Marion and JB were excellent co-leaders.
My husband and I first traveled to Berlin in 2003. It is a city I cannot get enough of. Lively, vibrant, cosmopolitan, it is truly a world city. During those early trips, internet cafes were still a thing. We met people from all over the world at them while logging in to check email to research places to eat and explore.
Above all, Berlin’s history fascinates me. It bore the brunt of the 20th century, from Nazism to the Cold War. Two milestone events connected with these eras occurred on the same day: the 9th of November.
On November 9, 1938, the infamous Nazi pogrom against the Jews occurred, Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Set up as an act of revenge for the killing of a Nazi diplomat, the government inspired and encouraged two days of looting and pillaging of Jewish businesses and synagogues. In addition to the destruction of Jewish property, 91 Jews died and tens of thousands of Jewish men were sent to concentration camps.
During our trip, we passed by the New Synagogue of Berlin. An imposing structure, it sustained damage after Kristallnacht and the War.
A sad footnote: the New Synagogue, and all of the synagogues in Germany, have 24/7 police protection due to the rise of far right, Neo-Nazi groups in Germany. We all need to shout “Never Again” loudly and frequently, in Germany and around the world.
1989 brought a different event on November 9: the Fall of the Berlin Wall, Mauerfall. In the aftermath of WWII, Berlin became a divided city. The French, British, and American sectors became West Berlin and the Soviet sector became East Berlin. This mirrored what happened throughout postwar Germany, the creation of West and East. This divide took on a literal meaning on August 13, 1961, when the East German government constructed a wall that went through the city of Berlin.
In April 1989, East Germany removed the electric fence along its border with Austria and Hungary. East German citizens also went west via Czechoslovakia, which had opened its borders. In the fall, longtime East German leader Erich Honecker resigned. After many demonstrations, East Germany opened its border with West Germany on November 9, 1989, the result of a misunderstanding at a chaotic press conference.
One can still see sections of the wall or locations where the wall stood in parts of Berlin.
Around 5:02 pm or so, I left my office, old room 349 Boalt Hall at UC Berkeley. I wound through the narrow catacombs that made up the third floor at that time, skipped down the stairs and exited the building via a backdoor between the second and third floors. The door exited to a little patio from where I jogged down another set of stairs that slanted towards the east and emptied into the parking lot behind the building. The North Addition to the Law Building, completed in 1995, now takes up this area.
The parking lot had a respectable grade. I trudged up the incline along the backside of the building, heading to my motorcycle parked on Piedmont Avenue. I had only joined the staff at the School of Law a little over two months earlier. Who knows what thoughts attended me that afternoon. Perhaps the Bay Bridge World Series—Game 3 was about to start soon. Perhaps the weather—I seem to recall that it was a nice, sunny day.
I was still on the steep incline at 5:04 when the earth shook, stopping me in my tracks. It was loud, very, very loud, and the motion pronounced. I suddenly felt as if I were riding a bucking bronco. “Whoa! Whoa!” I called out while flailing my arms. Until then, I had never experienced a major quake outside. How long would this one last? I expected it to continue for a while longer, but then it suddenly stopped. No noise. No shaking. The ground again felt steady under my feet.
I knew earthquakes. My first had been the Sylmar Quake of 1971 in Los Angeles. I was in bed at 6 a.m. when everything started to move. Just a few weeks shy of 6 years old, I had not yet developed a fear of quakes. I recall being rather fascinated by it. The shaking lasted for a good long while before finally easing and stopping. My mother came and checked on my at least twice. Her concern puzzled me. Why wouldn’t I be OK? my five year-old mind wondered.
Dazed by the noise and shaking, I looked behind me, to the west. A large plume of black smoke rose from somewhere in Downtown Berkeley off in the distance. During a moment of confusion, I wondered if it had been an explosion and not a quake that had caused the commotion. No, the quake caused the explosion. A car had fallen off its hoist at an auto shop. Months later, I learned that the car belonged to a retired faculty assistant at the Law School, the very person I had been hired to replace.
Eventually, I continued walking up the incline to Piedmont Avenue. I was relieved that my motorcycle hadn’t fallen over. I rode a 1983 Kawasaki Spectre 550, black and red with gold trim. I named it Achilles. I would go on to own two other bikes, a 1993 Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 and a 2000 Honda Valkyrie. All were called Achilles; the bike regenerated like a good Time Lord.
As I rode home, many faces filled the streets, on the sidewalks, on bikes, scooters, and motorcycles, in cars and trucks. Confused faces. Shocked faces. Wandering, lost faces. Disaster had united us, briefly erasing our differences. I went slowly, navigating through our collective confusion and humility as I made my way southbound on College Avenue towards my home in Oakland.
When I reached Rockridge BART, I saw men in business suits holding improvised, handwritten signs. WALNUT CREEK. CONCORD. LAFAYETTE. BART had stopped running and they were trapped on the Oakland side of the hills. They were hitchhiking, their signs posing as thumbs.
Around this time, I started hearing sirens. They screamed everywhere. Disembodied sirens. They had an unnerving, agitating effect, like mainlining caffeine spiked with adrenaline.
Around this time, I also learned that a section of the Bay Bridge had collapsed. Then I heard about the collapse of the Cypress Structure (above), the double-decker freeway that dissected West Oakland. I had ridden that peculiar stretch just a few weeks earlier. Can’t remember where I had been going, perhaps my motorcycle shop in Alameda. I was on the lower deck. It felt wonky, wavy. The motorcycle bounced and bounced like a flimsy rollercoaster. Based on that experience, its collapse did not surprise me, but the news put a raw hole in my stomach. All those people. Originally, authorities thought hundreds had been trapped in the rubble of the pancaked decks. In the end, 42 lost their lives in the Cypress Structure. Nearby neighbors and factory workers climbed into the rubble with ladders and fork lifts to free those who had been trapped. In general, traffic was light that evening, because of the World Series. Most folks had left work early to catch the game at home or at a friend’s or at a bar.
I lived near Piedmont and McArthur in a little one-bedroom on the upper floor of a two-story, eight-unit apartment building. What will my place look like, I worried as I climbed the stairs. My very large stereo speakers (that my dad had made many years earlier) sat upon plastic milk crates. I elevated them to ameliorate my downstairs neighbor who complained constantly that I made too much noise. I mostly listened to classical music at that time; she should count her blessings that she missed my heavy metal phase. Fortunately, miraculously, the speakers hadn’t fallen over. In fact, I found no damage in my apartment at all. I was shocked.
But no worries about stereo noise that evening. I had no power. My phone didn’t work well, either. I could make a couple of local calls, but could not call my family in Los Angeles to tell them that I was OK. I asked a neighbor in the building across from mine if I could use their phone. I have a calling I card, so you will not be charged, I said, showing them the card. But they just smiled and said no. I rarely spoke with them after that. I ended up calling my family from a pay phone at the gas station on Piedmont. They had learned about the quake the same way the rest of America had: by watching it live during the start of the World Series telecast. The cameras started shaking then cut out.
I ended up spending time at a friend’s place that night. He lived conveniently close by, just a couple of blocks away. A group of us just sat in the dark, talking, eating cold food. I was new to the area and pretty freaked. Hanging with them helped me feel less alone. Maybe I should have stayed the night, but I went back home around 11ish, I think. I couldn’t sleep once I got into bed. Disembodied sirens screaming everywhere kept me up, along with aftershocks.