Newspaper Page Text
//f r K
wr GOBI EL ISCARIOT^
of self-appointed leaders like Jeffrey Laymon.
Read his lies in Creative Loafing's January 6th
issue.
Truth is lost on behind-the-scenes lobbyist
Chris Hagin who can't comprehend the rela
tionship between sexually oppressive laws and
AIDS. Hagin says that sodomy laws are not an
AIDS issue.
Alma Hill, Atlanta Journal and
Constitution's reporter "covering" gay issues
last year refused my invitations to meet and
talk with people with AIDS. Ms. Hill says
AIDS is not a gay issue. Alma meet Chris.
A week after the sodomy law demonstra
tion Earl Erhart of the House Judicial
Committee told me that he had not heard a
peep from any of our behind the "unseen" lob
byists. Good little gays should not be seen nor
heard.
The difference between mainstreaming and
direct action is that one calls for a compromise
tomorrow and the other demands a cure today.
Truth is compromised when gay newspa
pers permit criticism by anonymous, maybe
gay, sexless letter writers of out and visible
body/career/pride frontline gay activists. Quit
wasting our time. No wonder we can’t muster
up enough guts for a National Coming Out
Day Ad.
Truth is a bitch when a gay man can be
jailed for attempted murder for biting a cop
and the streets don't teem over with outraged
gay citizens.
Truth is silenced when we permit our AIDS
service organizations to be figureheaded by
heterosexuals, National Association of People
With AIDS, AID Atlanta, Project Open
Hand...When will gay be good enough? Why
are we closeting our organizations?
We hand the victor's spoils to AIDS when
we sit silently through funerals without speak
ing the unspeakable enemy's name, as if the
deceased hadn't even fought back.
Tender truth is sometimes sick and too
bare. Many Atlanta PWA's die broke, disen
franchised, and alone because the same hand
ful of volunteers can't do it all.
When are we going to commit ourselves to
stopping AIDS? Looking into the mirror of
eyes of our sick friends we must each ask our
self, which part of me will I hold back? What
do I have that I wouldn't give to stop AIDS
now? What talent? What material resource?
What pride? What fear?
What does Steve Nygren—co-founder of
the Peasant restaurant chain, Atlanta's brilliant
gay business success story—have that he
wouldn't give back to his thousands of past
and present gay employees and hoards of gay
diners. He places little value on gay health
when his company's own self-funded insur
ance plan limits AIDS benefits to $10,000.00.
Thanks Steve.
I wonder how many gay Atlantans will still
be able to swallow Peasant food.
The cure for AIDS hangs hiding in the
same closet where it was bom. We are the
cure; you and me. We will continue to die
until the tuxedo and liquor crowd is willing to
dirty their hands, until we realize that home
ownership is not a gay right, that parties and
raft races and decorating will not stop AIDS,
until we are prepared to commit every ounce
of fight we have to wage this war.
Our friends will continue to fever away
until we accept that they are not simply falling
asleep. They are dying! This is gay
America's holocaust and our wasted resources
are fueling the chambers. We are sucking in
the gas.
One last thought. Someday the curtain is
going to come down. This fucking tragic play
will be history. I never wanted a part, but I
know one thing: when they write the critique I,
want it to read that Jim Allen was in the cast
Jim Allen
Atlanta
>
Correction
The Atlanta Feminist Women's Chorus
Holiday Concert was inadvertently omit
ted from the story "1989, the Year That
Was" in the January 18 issue of Southern
Voice due to a transcription error. We
apologize to the Chorus for our slip.
Distrusts ACT UP
Editor:
I went to the rally on January 8, 1990
protesting the continuation of the sodomy
statute as law in this state. I should say at the
beginning, that I find the sodomy law silly; I
find no rational justification for such a law in
any realm save that of "Natural Law" which
derives its foundation from religion (prefer
ence unspecified); and, I find no precept in our
current form of government which justifies the
intrusion of religion into our law making.
Having said that, I must say that the rally
proved everything that I expected it to be. Less
than three hundred people turned out. The
majority proved themselves obviously angry. I
heard speakers use language befitting the late
Abbie Hoffman. But, so what?
I don't see that a few young angry women
and men speak with any authority for the rest
of the lesbian and gay community here in
Atlanta. I really don't care how earnest they
may think themselves.
The missing element in any of these con
siderations is the silent majority. By silence,
we may say that we disapprove of what or
how or why ACT UP does it’s thing. By
silence, we may also say, "I've got mine - to
hell with the rest" By silence, we may simply
be expressing our apathy for our right. Which
is it?
I personally distrust ACT UP. They seem
motivated more by outrage than mature citi
zenship and dissent. They look more like
chronic malcontents seeking warmth in a
video camera's kleig lights.
I went to the rally. I saw ACT UP. I left
unmoved.
Thomas R. Thompson
Difficult Journey
Dear Editor:
One of my many favorite lines in the movie
"Torch Song Trilogy" is when Arnold says,
'Tve been young and I've been beautiful, but
never the two have met" Makes me think of
things in my life that have rarely met like
being gay and feeling like I belong. Never did
I think the two would come together in a
church.
Last weekend, I decided to take a mini
vacation and escape the pine trees of South
Georgia. I wanted to get in touch again with
my people and culture—the bars, restaurants,
even the bookstores. I had decided to buy
some legitimate, non-pomo books about being
positively gay and about our history.
I picked up the phone just before I took off
Friday afternoon and called the First MCC.
Rev. Reid Christensen answered in a very
friendly voice. Immediately, I became
tongue-tied. All I can remember is I said
something about visiting Atlanta and wanting
to come to church, never having been to "this
kind of church" and wondering what to wear
anyway. He told me how glad they would be
to have me and said they had no "dress code."
Friday and Saturday night were a lot of fun.
Lots of new and interesting faces greeted me
at a packed Armory. The heavy beat dance
music reverberated off the walls and the pul
sating lights illuminated rainbow glimpses of a
sea of bodies swaying on the dance floor. This
is what I had always thought it meant to be
gay—what I remember a friend of mine call
ing the "magic" of Atlanta.
Around 2 a.m. Sunday I realized the hour
of decision had arrived. Should I envelop
myself in the sweaty magic a few more hours
or walk across the street to my hotel room and
get some sleep to make the 10:45 a.m. gospel
"Singspiration" and service that followed. "Oh
well, at least it will be a once-in-a-lifetime
experience," I muttered to myself as I fell into
bed.
Eight-thirty arrived painfully fast. I grum
bled, "I had always heard the 'gay church' met
at 2 p.m. to give the repenting bar crawlers
enough time to get there." Reid (I didn't even
call him Reverend on the phone, I realized
later. Probably didn't think he really was one)
said I could wear jeans if I wanted. But jeans
didn't seem appropriate—even for a gay
church. So I wore khakis and a button-down
shirt.
On Highland Avenue, a homeless person
walked in front of me, headed for the church.
He wait inside and held the door for me. This
was goingrto be most interesting. Inside I saw
all kinds of people: black, white, old, young.
Some families and gay and lesbian singles and
couples. .
The choir started singing so I grabbed a
handful of brochures and walked into the the
ater turned sanctuary. In many ways, it
looked like a traditional church, but then I
noticed some quilt panels with names of
AIDS victims hanging and realized, again,
that this morning would be a new journey for
me as a gay person.
How familiar all this was—Bible readings,
hymns, communion, the offering, a choir
singing. And yet so different—especially the
street people seated together across the aisle.
They sang, prayed and stood up just like I did.
But their being in a church next to me felt
odd. It hit me, the irony of that feeling.
And here I was sitting in a church as an
openly gay person and feeling comfortable
and welcome. Now, that really was odd!
Reid ended his sermon praying for God to
help all of us to overcome the "sin of divi
sion."
Those words echoed in my mind; the sin of
division.
How separate from society do we often
feel as gays and lesbians. Not even feeling
welcome in the many churches society has
built and calls God's House. I've never gone to
church every Sunday and after coming out felt
I didn't belong anymore. I knew deep down,
though, that God loved me and had blessed
me with opportunities and a loving family.
Society teaches us we don't belong, except
in seedy bars with our own kind or living
stereotypical lives of promiscuity. I remem
ber reading a muscle magazine interview with
former Mr. Universe Bob Paris. He admitted
he was gay and said "Growing up, society and
my family taught me to hate myself." I don't
buy what society teaches me anymore. I hesi
tated to go to a gay church because society
says gays don't belong in church. I found
MCC is not a gay church, it's a true church
"which proclaims liberation for all," and
"extends ministry to all." Amen to that!
A quote from the "Universal Fellowship
Today" brochure echoed Reid's sermon:
"...we need to strive mightily to convince all
humankind that love and justice are synony
mous."
The MCC is just one discovery on my dif
ficult journey to becoming a positive gay per
son. I now know for sure that God loves us.
More importantly, I'm learning to love myself
as a gay person. Now, that's a revelation!
Sincerely yours,
Ross Bodle
Statesboro
Viewpoints is intended to provide a continuing forum for the lesbian and gay community. We encourage you to share your
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February 15,1990 • Southern Voicefl