By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

We are so frequently exposed to violence in the United States, most of us probably figure that, like pornography, we know violence when we see it. Enemies go to war, and we watch the carnage live on TV’s 24-hour news cycle. People physically harm each other on our streets and in our homes, and we tally their numbers with the rest of the tidy crime statistics. We replicate violent imagery in film and television, in music and video games, and eagerly consume it as entertainment. Yes, violence is pervasive, and most of us probably figure we have it pegged. But we’d be wrong.

Violence is not solely a physical act committed by one person on another, by one group on another, by one armed force on another. Violence ranges from the “Well, duh!” of, say, campus police brutality to the “WTF’s violent about that?” of, say, public budget cutting that abandons marginalized people to destitution. But we’d be wrong not to see the latter as violence. And if you have any affinity for the Occupy movement, a quick lesson in violence might be worth your while — a lesson set in the context of California’s two public university systems, Cal State University (CSU) and University of California (UC).

Let’s start with something relatively easy. This is the now infamous 18 November 2011 video shot at UC Davis, when a small group of students was pepper-sprayed directly in the face as the students were attempting to peacefully “occupy” the campus quad in solidarity with the Occupy movement and in protest of tuition fee increases.

Although the video reveals that no one struck a blow, students and their families, faculty, staff, journalists, the broader community, and even the university’s chancellor, Linda P.B. Katehi, recognized the situation as a violent scene. It was also an unsettling one, because the perpetrators of the violence were agents of the state: two campus police officers who did their dirty deed with disturbing nonchalance, a nonchalance that indicated their actions were anticipated and approved by a higher authority, at least in general terms if not specifically for this event. In fact, someone in the university administration thought it was appropriate to send police to a nonviolent political protest armored and armed with paramilitary gear and weapons, including the canisters of pepper spray. Come to think of it, someone in the university administration thought the purchase of paramilitary gear and weapons was an appropriate expenditure for a public university, a public university that has increased student fees by more than 50% percent in the last three years. And it was, again, increased fees that in part motivated the students to assemble and seek redress of their grievances to begin with.

The UC Davis police action is a typical example of state violence, violence that is perpetrated by the state, or an institution or some other social structure, against the people the state serves. To help explain this concept, there is a handy sociological definition of state violence, originated by Norwegian sociologist Johan Galtung, that lends some meaning to the Davis scene. He defined violence as the cause of the difference between a person’s potential state of being and a person’s actual state of being. For example, Somalis have the potential to be well fed; instead, due primarily to failed national and global governance (the state) and secondarily to global climate change (arguably the result of the same failed governance), the actual condition for many Somalis at the moment is starvation. State violence creates that difference between the potential and the actual, it can increase the difference, and it can prevent the difference from decreasing. State violence, then, encompasses the ways that the state prevents people from achieving their potential.

If you apply this to the UC Davis scenario, you’ll find that, in the short term, the students’ potential to exercise their First Amendment rights to peaceably assemble and to petition the government for redress of their grievances was not realized: Police violence prevented them from achieving that potential. And the pepper spray (a nasty form of nonlethal crowd control that forcibly silences free speech until the symptoms wear off) increased the difference between the students’ potential state of comfortably enjoying a moment of peaceful protest and their actual state of temporary blindness, searing pain in their ears, eyes, noses, mouths, and airways, inflamed tissue, gagging and coughing, and difficulty breathing. This is state violence.

In the long term, all but the privileged elite among the students will inevitably be harmed by the student fee increases, the issue that was lost in the pepper spray debacle and an issue that brings us to something that might be less recognizable as violence: economics.

In this case, the rapid, repeated increase of public university tuition fees at CSU and UC is harming some students and risking harm to others — particularly those who are low-income, working-class and middleclass — by postponing and, in some cases, preventing them from achieving their academic potential and, consequently, their professional and personal development potential.

The fee increases also reflect a related type of economic violence: inequity in the distribution of public education funds, which compounds the existing inequitable access to public higher education and all the ramifications thereof. Students who suffer from the inequity and subsequent lack of education are more likely to experience greater degrees of under- and unemployment, lower quality housing and community amenities, and less access to the public and private social, economic, political and cultural benefits of U.S. residency and citizenship. Hence, these students are disproportionately hindered or prevented by CSU and UC from reaching their potential, compared to privileged students.

We could chalk this up to the troubling economic times, but we’d be wrong.

While CSU and UC leaderships have raised student fees by more than 50% in the last three years, they have also seen fit — in just the last year — to jack up management costs. Cal State San Marcos created four brand spanking new administrative positions. The UC system increased some administrative salaries by as much as 23%. And CSU voted to increase the San Diego State president’s salary by more than $100,000 at the same meeting during which they voted in a 12% tuition increase for students. All of this is growing the systems’ non-teaching management at the expense — literally — of the students it is the universities’ mission to serve. This is state violence.

And those are only two examples in higher education, two among countless examples. With the amount of violence we consume on a daily basis, we should be connoisseurs, but we are not, and this void in our understanding contributes to the state’s ability to perpetrate violence against us because we too often fail to recognize it as such; hence, we do not challenge it. But gradually people are gaining awareness. The Occupy movement is testament to this. The movement is helping turn the baffled “WTF?” into a declarative “OMG — that’s, like, violence!” People are beginning to see that the state is a ready and eager perpetrator: burdening the people with debt to fund unwarranted wars and rescue multinational corporations; failing to effectively muster emergency services to rescue low-income urban residents from natural disasters; pricing public education out of reach of the non-privileged public; and assaulting those who peacefully protest such state violence.

We might imagine that the state will never abandon using violence against the people it is intended to serve — and we can hope that we’d be wrong.

Love,
K-B

Crossposted at Ocean Beach Rag.

April 5, 1969. San Francisco.

Hrmmmmm. Brrrrrmmmmm. 

I can hear the deep thrum of the bass guitars from the rock group on the sound truck way ahead in the line of march. It resonates in my chest. They’re playing a piece I don’t recognize, with strange minor harmonies like music for the end of the world.

“Who is it?” I ask some people coming the other way.

“The Grateful Dead,” they tell me. 

“Far out!” my friend says. “And we’ve already passed The Byrds and Jefferson Airplane. The best rock groups in San Francisco are part of this demonstration.”

“Everybody’s part of this demonstration,” I say, glancing around at the throng that curb to curb fills the wide street in the Haight-Ashbury district. Many are hippies, with long hair and love beads — a tribe I will soon join. They have been passing us six Los Angeles church ladies as we sit resting on a low wall for what seems like an hour — more and more people carrying signs, and chanting, “Hell no, we won’t go.” Their faces are grave, because we are protesting graves, so many American graves from the senseless Vietnam War.

October 15, 2011. Encinitas, California

But that was forty-three years ago, and today I am on my way to go with my sister Diane and her husband Dave to another protest march for a different painful issue — the recession. Here in this wealthy North County beach town, we are going to show our participation in the Occupy San Diego movement. Will it be like the old days? I hope this will be not just an exercise in nostalgia, but a useful political action.

When I arrive at my sister’s elegant house, she has squares of stiff brown cardboard and a box of felt pens ready. “Let’s make our signs before lunch,” she says. We hunker down on the floor like kindergarteners in art class and discuss the possibilities. “There are so many issues that are part of this mess,” she says. “The banks, election reform, the wars, health care, the corporations and the rich not paying their fair share… But we need to ask for something specific, something that can actually be done.”

“Yes, and we need to say it in three or four words so people passing by can get it in one glance.” Peace is always the central issue. That hasn’t changed since 1969, so I pick up a pen and print “Cut the military budget” in big letters. On the back I write “Out of Iraq and Afghanistan.” I have to think a minute about the spelling of the last word.

“Put a skull on it,” Di suggests. I have a hard time with the shape, but when I add round black eyes it looks pretty good. My sister the financial planner is more subtle; her sign says “Corporate money corrupts Congress.”

“Nice alliteration,” I comment. She starts decorating the “c’s” with triangles that look like teeth. “But where did you hear that we’re not supposed to have sticks for the signs?”

“That’s the way it was with the crowd on the news last night. I guess it’s for safety. And by the way, I read that oil combines with pepper spray to reduce the burn. Do you want to use some face cream?”

“Di, come on. This is Encinitas.”

“Well, I saw a kid get sprayed on television last night.” She’s right; I remember.

“And another thing, did you use sun screen this morning? And did you bring a hat?”

“Yes, yes. Jeepers, you’d think YOU were the big sis.”

We eat a quick lunch of cold chicken and fruit. I am anxious to get going, afraid that we will arrive after the march has departed and we won’t be able to find the others.

“Aren’t we going to wait for Dave?” I ask when she picks up her purse and her sign.

“He’ll come later, after his meeting is over,” she assures me. I ‘m surprised to find that I’m a little uneasy not to have a man with us.

When we arrive at the assembly place — the intersection of Encinitas Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway — we see that the plan is not to march anywhere, but to hold a stable occupation of all four corners. I rejoice to see that there are lots of protestors — maybe 500 — most of them in their forties or fifties, nicely dressed and holding hand-lettered signs. There can be no doubt that this is a grass-roots movement and not sponsored by any outfit rich enough to pay for professional signs. We join the group and begin holding out our slogans to the oncoming traffic. People show each other what they have written and exchange approving words and high fives. Many facets of the causes of the recession are expressed on the signs. The big placard of the tall man next to me says, predictably, “We’re mad as hell and we aren’t going to take it any more!” Another urges “Bail out people, not banks!” My favorite is an adaptation of a commercial “going out of business” sign with “America is” written in at the top, and “Politicians for sale — cheap!” added at the bottom. That is, it’s my favorite until my heart rejoices to spot an older man holding a reproduction of the iconic Mothers for Peace image: a single flower and the words “War is not healthy for children or other living things.” He and I exchange reminiscences of the Old Days, and I tell him I used to have a lapel pin with that image on it.

The crowd keeps on growing, and with it, a feeling of jubilation. The traffic passing four ways at the intersection is an ideal situation for getting our message to the most people in a short time. Cars honk approval as they pass, and we yell encouragement back at them. I am astonished at how many passers-by seem to be with us. They wave and smile and — oh joy! — flash peace signs with two uplifted fingers. In sharp contrast to my former experience in demonstrations — for peace, for civil rights, for women’s equality — there is not one ugly shout, not one mean look. Can it be that the American public, even in this conservative upper-middle-class town, is fed up and ready for action? With the guidance of the protest leaders, we begin to chant joyfully. “We ARE—the ninety-nine percent!” and “WE’VE been sold out! YOU’VE been sold out!” We cross the street with the change of light, holding our placards high; we lean out from the curb to show our messages, and the shouting and honking gets louder and louder. My sober, scientific brother-in-law Dave turns up in the crowd, having as much fun as a kid let out of school.

Then a massive red truck comes down the street and honks with a mighty air horn as he turns the corner. Laughter and cheers greet the driver. The story passes through the crowd: “His mother is standing on that corner, and she called him on her cell phone and told him to get his truck over here.” But then — “The cops have pulled him over! Let’s go protest his arrest!” A group of about a hundred hurries down the block.

“This could get ugly,” I think. I tag along at first to see what will happen, but then decide to watch from across the street like a wise coward. Soon the group straggles back. “What happened?” I ask.

“Aw, they gave the guy a ticket. I’m hoarse from yelling at the cop, but it didn’t do any good,” says a young man. I give thanks that nobody lost control and shouted an obscenity at the police and got themselves arrested. THAT would make a pretty story on the evening news. The media, I had learned, always goes for the most sensational aspect of any story. So where IS the media? The protest has been going on for two hours, and there has been no sign of interest from local TV stations. I notice one young girl taking notes and ask, “Are you the media?”

“Well, not really,” she says modestly. “I’m doing an article for my high school newspaper. Can I interview you?” So I give her my best sound bites. At last, when things are beginning to wind down, an NBC channel 7 truck arrives, and a lone cameraman sets up on one corner with a tripod. I tell him the story about the truck, but he just looks at me with a blank face and tired eyes. Later, I hear that an elderly woman sitting in a chair on the curb has been coming to this corner with protest signs for four years. When I talk with her, I find that she is articulate and informed, and has run for Congress three times, so I go back to the cameraman, point her out to him, and am gratified when he takes his mike over to interview her.

Di and I, although we are exhilarated and still having fun, are getting tired arms from holding up our signs, so we reluctantly decide to leave, but Dave is enjoying himself and elects to stay for a while longer. On the way home I feel cleansed and hopeful, but that evening when we look at the news, although it is heartening to see crowds all over the world supporting the movement, I am discouraged to see that for our little North County protest the camera has caught only one of the four street corners, making the crowd look meager. However, the elderly woman in the chair is given a good fifteen seconds on camera to make our many complex points.

But was anybody listening? Did we make a difference forty-three years ago in race relations, gender equality, ending war? How long is it going to take this time?

. . . . . . . .

Patty Campbell is a former librarian and belly dancer who lives on an avocado ranch in Fallbrook.

Occupy Encinitas photo from The Leucadia Blog.

Special Thanks to JoJo Diggs For Her Choreography!

Special thanks to Ana Beatriz Cholo, of the Courage Campaign, Chris Lilly and the countless volunteers who stepped up to help at the last minute to make this a success.

Courage Campaign gleefully protests Michele Bachmann outside of the California Republican Convention. For more on the Courage Campaign visit the Courage Campaign.

This video is for educational and awareness purposes only. Dancers are dancing to Mad House’s version of Madonna’s Like a Prayer. To purchase this version of the song please visit iTunes!

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

As I sat in a college classroom Thursday afternoon, the power went out and we swiftly determined we were in the throes of a regional electrical power failure. My first thought was to check for students in the elevators. My second thought was of the anniversary of the 2001 terrorist attacks and the possibility that the blackout was somehow related.

Actually, I’m being too charitable: My second thought was that the blackout could be the result of a terrorist attack, and when I couldn’t reach my daughter by cell phone, I had a fleeting moment of private panic.

My third thought was a multitude of things. I was angry that my own nation responded to the ravages of a small group of devastatingly lucky mad men with a devastatingly prolonged war and a culture of fear that would lead anyone to consider terrorism when simple corporate stupidity was a more likely cause of the electrical grid failure. I was angry with myself for passively complying with that fearful thinking. I was angry that the years and days leading up to today have been an exercise in institutionalized fear mongering and its internalization, as we have continually revisited the horrors of the attacks, glutted the irresolvable question of whether Osama Bin Laden has won despite that he now sleeps with the proverbial fishes, and chewed the cud of dread with the same fervor engendered by reality television — as though fear, normalized by our response to September 11, has become a national pastime.

And, I am angry because all the fear we have conjured has not made our country safe. National security is a misnomer, a fantasy even. No nation is safe, no nation is free from external or internal threat, no nation can secure its borders. Any nation can, however, encourage its populace to embrace fear or encourage its populace to open its arms to tolerance and democracy.

Former U.S. President George W. Bush and the majority of Congress responded to September 11 with the Patriot Act and new legal interpretations that violate our rights to privacy, free speech and due process; that entrench government secrecy and unconstitutional surveillance powers, the bane of democracy; that lead with fear.

In poignant contrast, Norway Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg responded to the July terrorist attacks on his nation with this: “We will not be intimidated or threatened by these attacks. The aim of such attacks is to spread fear and panic. We will not let that happen. … The Norwegian response to violence is more democracy, more openness and greater political participation.”

Some in the United States will refuse the comparison, dismissing Norway for its relative size, but Stoltenberg might understand better than Bush the notion that, no matter its size, a nation cannot be secure if the least of its people is not secure.

This thought gained clarity as we sat in our slowly warming classroom Thursday and talked about human security, personal security. We spoke of not feeling safe on the way to the campus parking lots in the dark. We spoke of being accosted on city sidewalks by men who felt entitled to do so simply because we are female. We spoke of feeling threatened in a group of men who might respond hostilely should we reveal our sexuality. We spoke of being targets of violence, by virtue of our gender — and that many men could not understand that, by virtue of being the privileged gender.

One vibrant young Black woman answered an assignment with this:

Where do you feel a lack of security? “Everywhere.”

What threatens your sense of security? “Men, white, police.”

What changes might give you more of a sense of security? “Having uncomfortable conversations.”

How brave she is to indeed have that conversation, no matter the discomfort — unlike our leaders, who have shown us that the most effective way to perpetuate the world’s evils is to fear them, to “spread fear and panic,” as we have done since September 11, 2001.

That vibrant young woman in my class is my new hero. The next time there’s a power failure, my first thought will be to check for folks in the elevators. My second thought will be that the utility-industrial complex has cut corners somewhere and screwed up again. And my third thought will be to have an uncomfortable conversation.

Love,
K-B

Take Action: Reform the Patriot Act

Read more: Let’s Cancel 9/11 by Tom Engelhardt

Crossposted at the Ocean Beach Rag and San Diego Gay & Lesbian News.

San Diego’s Pride Parade was Saturday 16 July, and its images are telling.

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

There are a couple in every crowd.

But these folks were much nicer.

Our first openly gay active duty military contingent joined the parade — yippee!

God is still love.

The parade had a bevy of beauties.

And the Human Rights Campaign billowed.

These folks celebrated on a roll.

And this fellow enjoyed the simple pleasures.

Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays are lifesavers.

The Green Party was there — not sure about the Republican Party.*

Jim and Dale were still celebrating their big day — that’s Pride.

And LGBT seniors were still leading the way.

Some folks tried to promote hate.

But this fellow would have none of it.

And the crowd cheered!

Now, it’s on to equality!

Love,
K-B
* Note! Gloria Johnson reports that the Democrats were also there, as was the Unitarian Universalist Church.

Crossposted at the Ocean Beach Rag.

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

My mother tried to make a sandwich with the TV remote control.

It might seem sadly funny, but there was some context for her pursuit: She was watching a cooking show from her hospital bed. Watching and processing in her own inimitable style, and she just didn’t like the way the celebrity chef was doing it. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew she could do better.

“I need to put the bread on top,” she said with the slurred tongue of a stroke victim, pointing the remote in the television’s general direction.

“Yes, that would be good, but the remote won’t do that for you, Mother.”

She persisted, and my heart shrank into that tidily distant place that allows the practical to reign supreme, as I searched for unemotional words to explain to the hospital staff that Houston, we’ve had a problem; Houston, my mother is leaving us; Houston—

But then it occurred to me how glorious a response Mother’s was. How satisfying it would be to encounter idiocy, point the remote and press a button to fix it. I relished the thought as the chef smeared a heinous concoction on bread made from special grains probably harvested by child laborers in some far-off fascist stronghold.

Someplace like Libya or Saudi Arabia or Yemen, where people donate their lives for the hope of freedom; where women just want to be able to drive themselves to the market, unfettered by male watchdogs; where the innocent are splattered on city walls while power-seekers conduct pissing contests overhead with deadly weapons.

Wouldn’t it be great to be able to just push a button on the remote and fix it all?

Or how about someplace like Uganda or Afghanistan or Colombia, where ignorance and hate might try again to decree death on homosexuals; where girls and women are tortured for trying to learn; where Chiquita swapped lives for bananas.

Hit the button and — zap! — all the bad guys are gone.

Or even someplace like the United States, where people I love are not allowed to marry or to be themselves without institutionalized condemnation; where women’s wombs are purchased with the campaign contributions of ideologues and theocrats; where free speech has descended to profanity; where voters cast their lots for their wallets and politicians run on egos — not ideals.

Zap, zap, zap, zap — all better!

Yes, Mother’s new world seemed a more satisfying — a healthier — place to be. Just point, press and be done with the horror. Except—

“This is frustrating,” she slurred through the neural fog, thrusting the remote at the chef with quixotic determination, pressing random buttons to no avail.

“Here,” I took the remote, “let me help you with that.” I held the thing with both hands, aimed at the bastard chef and fired with rage. “Bull’s eye — got the sucker! He didn’t know how to make a sandwich, anyway. And look: It’s one of your judge shows.”

She relaxed into the pillows, half a whispered smile on her peaceful face.

Love,
K-B

Crossposted at Ocean Beach Rag, The Progressive Post and  San Diego Gay and Lesbian News.

Fact:  A U.S. citizen falls in love and marries an immigrant. The U.S. citizen can sponsor the immigrant for a visa so they can live together in the US. Right?

Wrong. Because they’re both guys. And that’s the story of Henry Velandia, who is about to be torn apart from his husband, Josh Vandiver, unless we do something.

Watch their Testimony video, and sign the emergency petition to Secretary Napolitano to stop their deportation:

http://www.couragecampaign.org/tornapart

Here are four more facts (these are actually true):

1.     President Obama ordered his administration to stop defending the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), the law that prevents Josh from sponsoring Henry’s visa.

2.     Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano has the legal authority to stop Henry’s deportation — not to mention the forced separation of 36,000 couples like him and Josh — until DOMA is resolved in the courts. Rep. Rush Holt (D-NJ) recently wrote to the Administration on their behalf.

3.     Henry’s final deportation hearing is scheduled for May 6^th.

4. We have to do something.

Click here to watch their story, and sign Courage Campaign’s joint emergency petition with AllOut.org, an organization working for global LGBT equality.

We started Testimony: Take a Stand to make these stories known so they aren’t ignored. Please watch the video and sign our emergency petition to Sec. Napolitano — before it’s too late.

Together for equality,

Adam Bink
Director of Online Programs, Courage Campaign

By Murray Richmond

A recent poll shows a huge shift in American attitudes toward gay marriage, from a 32 percent approval in 2004 to 53 percent today.

I am one of those people who changed their minds.

In 1989 when I was ordained as a minister to serve a small church in North Carolina, homosexuality was an invisible issue. …

… Read full article at Salon.com.

Dear Readers,

On Wednesday, the Obama administration said the federal law banning same-sex marriage is unconstitutional, and the U.S. Department of Justice would no longer defend it in court. National Organization of Marriage’s Brian Brown said the news was shocking — shocking, I say! — and an “amazing display of arrogance combined with incoherence.” He begged his followers to demand that Congress “fight for marriage.”

This seems an opportune time to reintroduce a contributor to Excuse Me, I’m Writing: Brother Buddy from KGAP radio — not Satan’s store but God’s agape love! — the hometown station of Fallbrook the Friendly Christian Village.

Brother Buddy’s loving wisdom is kind of like receiving a blessing, a hug and poke with a sharp stick all rolled into one. Enjoy!

Love,
K-B

True Friends of Marriage, Take Heed!

It is with deep sorrow — but also with God’s abiding love and hope — that I’d like to chat with you, my Brothers and Sisters, about Brian Brown, executive director of the National Organization for Marriage (NOM).

For those of you unfamiliar with the man, Brother Brian has made a controversial career of preaching from the mountaintop that marriage needs protecting.

“From what?” you might ask — and well you should.

According to Brother Brian, we must protect marriage from homosexuals whom he fears will be the death knell of the hallowed institution.

And just how are homosexuals going to rend the sacred commitment of marriage from the prayerful hands of heterosexuals?

According to Brother Brian and NOM, “Marriage is under assault! Marriage is under assault!! Marriage is under assault!!!”

My, oh my, oh my! One would think from Brother Brian’s cultish rhetoric that gays and lesbians must be conducting a malevolent campaign to prevent heterosexuals from being married. That homosexuals are buying up all the wedding gowns and tuxedos for their cross-dressing parties. That they are barring entry to all the places of worship and rituals, all the perfect sunset beaches and the VFW halls, for their female impersonator AIDS fund-raisers. That they are hording all the flower arrangements and tulle for their own perverse use — and God knows where the Jordan almonds are ending up!

But, because common sense prevails, we must acknowledge, Brothers and Sisters, that such a scenario is idiotic — if for no other reason than that the bridal industry is not about to give up the huge segment of their market represented by heteros.

Well then, if homosexuals are not bent on destroying the heterosexual dedication to gift registries, honeymoon packages, and the inevitable second guessing — lying there the next morning, watching him or her snoring, halitosic drool pooling on the sheets — then we must pursue our query: Just how are homosexuals going to rend the sacred commitment of marriage from the prayerful hands of heterosexuals?

And it is at this point that Brother Brian resorts to reasoning that is shady at best. But, of course, Brothers and Sisters, he is counting on you, on your generosity of spirit, your wish to lend credence to a Brother, your inclination to let others think through the tough issues for you — come on, admit it, Dear Ones — yes, Brother Brian is counting on you to let his Orwellian logic slip by unnoticed, unchallenged.

Hence, our little chat.

First, let’s take care of a quick point: Brother Brian’s parent-baiting tactic. He warns that children will be taught about homosexuality in our schools.

Well, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! They are already learning about homosexuality — on TV, on the playground, from the furtive body language their parents reveal when encountering a homosexual. Better they should learn the facts in school, don’t you think, Brothers and Sisters? If only it were so. Say amen!

And, compared to the supposed biblical lesson likely perpetrated on the children of misguided “Friends of Marriage” — that homosexuals are an abomination — whose children do you think will turn out the more loving and accepting, the more true to Christian ideals? Those who learn of homosexuals’ natural existence or those who are taught to fear and revile them?

Next, consider a few of NOM’s “Marriage Talking Points.”

Gays and Lesbians have a right to live as they choose; they don’t have a right to redefine marriage for the rest of us. … Who gets harmed? The people of this state who lose our right to define marriage as the union of a husband and a wife, that’s who. That’s just not right.

Nor is it accurate. Contemplate the above statement, Brothers and Sisters, and find the wisdom so artfully excluded: When we have same-sex marriage, heterosexuals will still define their marriages as being between a man and a woman. Legalized same-sex marriage does not bear with it a conversion clause that all straights must go gay. (Besides, with the struggling economy, the homosexual recruiters are out of toaster ovens.) Legalizing same-sex marriage simply allows gays to accurately define their own marriages, while straights continue in happily hetero bliss (or divorce courts). But seriously, now, Brother Brian and his Newspeakers should not be so silly as to suggest that straight and gay marriages cannot cheerily coexist, because, in essence, they do. Say amen!

Next…

If courts rule that same-sex marriage is a civil right, then people like you and me who believe children need moms and dads will be treated like bigots and racists.

I have accepted the holy burden of speaking God’s truth on this issue, so, although it pains me to say it, it must be said: Brother Brian and his “opposite-sex marriage” marauders are indeed bigots. And God knows that gay marriage does not put heterosexuals’ parenthood at risk; only their ungodly behavior does that.

Nonetheless, in the spirit of tolerance and love, let me try to temper that sad news with this: In our great United States, Brother Brian and his “traditional marriage” cult have every right to be bigots, and we will continue to love them despite themselves — as we pray for their salvation from the sins of discrimination.

They do not, however, have the right to force the rest of us to join in their idolatrous bigotry. Try as they do, they cannot force the entire nation to kneel before the false god of “Marriage and Religious Liberty” they have so cleverly sculpted with words and hate and Beelzebub’s wily ways.

No, indeed, Brother Brian — and I pray you are listening. Leading your followers to vote away the rights of a class of people in the name of “Religious Liberty” is a thing of the Devil! Encouraging the fearful to celebrate their prejudice — presumably in God’s name! — is downright satanic, Brother Brian, satanic! And I fear for your soul. You are slip-sliding toward Hell in a bigot basket, straight toward Hell. The Evil One has tempted you with the sinister lust for white heterosexual male privilege, the craving for power, and you have succumbed. Your soul is at risk of an eternity of fiery damnation, Brother Brian. Repent before it’s too late! You must drop to your knees and pray to God. Pray for God to exorcize the demons from your heart. Pray for God’s great and abundant forgiveness for the sins you have perpetrated on the voters of Maine and California, New Jersey and New York, Delaware and Washington, D.C., Rhode Island, Texas and Illinois. Throw yourself before God’s merciful heart and thank Jesus for suffering for your bigoted sins. Repent, Brother Brian, repent before Satan’s snaky tail has an unbreakable grip on your soul and you are lost to his hellfires forever!

Yes, well, Brothers and Sisters, I am sure you can understand the need to bathe Brother Brian and his hornswaggled disciples in the truth and the light. There is no other way to save them.

Although — and I admit this because I remain only an imperfect child of God — it would be so much easier if the poor boy would get caught with his drawers down, figuratively speaking, of course. Come to think of it, the revelation of a spanking fetish would be so, so delicious! Say amen!

With love, your Brother in Christ,
Brother Buddy

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

UPATE: Two more Koalans’ identities confirmed (see below). I suspect their mamas will not be proud.

We were sitting at the old soda fountain counter at the newish cafe in downtown Fallbrook, which is actually a small town, but everything is relative, I suppose. We were there, my daughter and I, because the café is where we go to escape other things — too much noise or not enough, the ennui of college homework, boorish thugs, the like.

We were also there because it’s entertaining, hanging out with the fellows who gather to shoot the shit with the owner, Michael.

Michael is from Brooklyn. And Italian. One of my favorite combinations.

The other fellows are all sorts of things, mostly seasoned things. Hence, the schmoozing is rich with masculine experience, varying sources of wisdom and lack thereof, all of which makes for a hearty dose of bawdy humor.

They let us join them because we laugh in the right places and we challenge them without being boorish thugs, and because I’m “pretty nice for a feminist,” or so I’m told.

So, we were sitting there with the guys, and we started talking about trust and mistrust, fear and hate, and their origins.

Doc said trust comes from fear. We drew a diagram, with trust building strategies in the middle.

Michael let out a Brooklyn snort of disagreement. “Nah. That’s not East Coast. On the East Coast, we trust everyone — until someone screws you.”

Then I got a call back from the FBI. Because I’m from the East Coast. Because I trusted boorish thugs to behave within the law.

And now it’s probably time for a recap:

The boorish thugs are the folks who publish The Koala (or the “Koala Klan,” as a North County Times reader so aptly dubbed them). The supposed student tabloid is actually a for-profit business that, according to San Diego County records, is owned by George Lee Liddle III and Sammy Elhag.

Starting back about 2001, Liddle was the student editor-in-chief of The Koala at the University of California San Diego (UCSD). At that time, The Koala appears to have been a student-run tabloid: just juvenile prattle attempting to pass for shock humor, but instead, tripping into bigotry and hate.

Sammy Elhag is a bit more difficult than Liddle to pin down. There is a Sammy Elhag who lives in San Diego. There’s also a Sammy Elhag who co-owns some Internet properties.

Whoever he is, in 2005 Sammy Elhag and George Lee Liddle III filed a fictitious name statement for The Koala with the County. Do you suppose they hoped that hate would be profitable?

Liddle and Elhag now have three editions of The Koala, the original at UCSD, where it is a university sanctioned student organization and receives Associate Student (AS) funding; one at San Diego State University (SDSU), also a sanctioned student organization, but not currently receiving AS funds according to that university; and the newest, at Cal State San Marcos (CSUSM). According to CSUSM staff, the Koalans at CSUSM withdrew their application to become a recognized student organization and since then have steadfastly attempted to remain anonymous to the campus community, with some but not complete success (see staff roster below).

There is also one lonely fellow who says his name is Jeff Weaver. He posts narcissistic videos on behalf of a Cal State Long Beach Koala (which appears otherwise nonexistent), and is listed on the CSUSM edition’s staff roster.

An effort to launch at UC Irvine, may have withered on the vine, with it’s last posted issue dated January 2006.

Recent efforts to expose the identities of Koalans have made them very unhappy. Those who hide under hoods, literal or figurative, don’t function so boldly in the light of day.

And the latest from the Koalans? Well, having an incomplete understanding of the First Amendment, they reacted quite strongly to criticism of their tabloid’s content and their anonymity, and as primitive natures might, they went on the attack, one front of which is best described in their own words, with full names added where known. Warning: profanity ahead.

SDSU

this dumb bitch [who would be me] seems to be the ONLY person “outraged” over you guys

http://obrag.org/?p=32362

that same cunt has posted the same article in three different places WOW

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kit-Bacon … 1228966521

this is her fb page as well, shes fucking retarded she uses her full name as a handle on every website. If she ever gives you guys real problems it wont be hard to hack her email and turn up some dirt on her

She seems to think you guys should feel ‘shameful’ for your content. I say, get some koala shirts and wear ‘em loud and proud. Worst case scenario you’ll get laid. If any more ‘paparazzi-esque’ attempts are made by her to get photos of you I say take advantage of you, she’s treating you like rock stars so go with it.

SDSU

this is her cell phone number 1 760.522.1064

this is her email kbgressitt@gmail.com

step 1 is to sign her up for all sorts of shit so her phone doesnt stop ringning (preferably for lesbian dating sites)

step 2 is me finding someone that knows what to do in order to get her password

ill let you know if i come up with anything

MattW

How would we ever get her password

Aaron Jaffe

Lets just go ahead and delete all the shit about hacking. Take that stuff to PMs or phone messages/calls.

George Liddle

I’ve got a better idea. Don’t worry so much about this chick. She’s a fucking nobody. Focus on getting straight with your advertisers and then you’ll be in the clear. As long as you’re solid with your advertisers, let the haters hate. We can choose to have some fun with this lady or not, but signing her up for spam is lame. If you’re going to go after someone, at least do something interesting.

Now, back at the café, we folks don’t always see eye-to-eye. Sometimes we really infuriate each other. On occasion, one of us might actually storm out, for instance the morning after President Obama was elected. One poor man left his coffee and scone sitting on the soda fountain counter. But he returned the next day and jumped right back into the repartee. He trusted us not to attack him. And we all still love each other, despite our many differences. It’s the feminist way: Embracing diversity, striving for equality; they are darn fun, much more fun than fear and hate.

But what do you do with a group of men who haven’t learned to challenge others without being boorish thugs, who cannot overcome their fear?

My brother thought a visit from a special ops team in the dark of night might give them adequately extreme wedgies to keep them on the straight and narrow for the rest of their lives. Ah, that visceral fight response.

My husband, the Marine, just called his law enforcement buddies. “Networking, Honey. Networking is everything.” Spoken like a leader who wears his Blackberry on his belt.

My kiddo just shook her head and laughed. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”

Apropos of a writer, I figured I would stick with words. Although the Koalans deny it, language is powerful enough to cause love or hate, to create community or harm it, to reveal truths or deceive in the guise of comedy.

And because I’m a feminist and I know those who embrace thuggery most often do so out of fear, I feel some sympathy for the Koalans. They broadcast their fearful hate of women, of homosexuals and ethnicities, of nonwhite races and people with disabilities. Perhaps Doc will explain to them some of his trust-building strategies.

However, because I’m also a pragmatist, I’ll accept whatever assistance law enforcement might give me. Because conspiring to hack into my systems and usurp my online identity, and scamming my family’s credit card are not comedy; they’re a bounty of bad behavior. And that’s not relative; it is absolute.

As I’ve written before, what goes on the Internet stays on the Internet. And one day the Koalans will be looking for jobs in competitive marketplaces where respect for diversity and clean criminal records will be deciding factors.

Or they can try making a living off George and Sammy.

Love,
K-B
(*With an appreciative nod to John Kennedy Toole’s Confederacy of Dunces)

The Koala Owners: George Lee Liddle III and Sammy Elhag

The Koala at San Marcos Staff: Jeff Allen, Garret Crispi, Shane K. Walsh, Jeff Weaver and…

Crossposted at:

OB Rag

Progressive Post

San Diego Gay and Lesbian News