From Claes  A friend of mine (French no less) once said this is not a country; it is an amusement park.
From a forwarded Fallbrookian  Might this apply to Fallbrook?

From Brett  One of the nice things about living in a small town: When you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else always does.

Forwarded by Fallbrook MAMMA Kim

Joan Rivers: Gay marriage, I am so against it because all my gay friends are out. And if they get married, it will cost me a fortune in gifts.

Read more Fallbrookisms…

When James Leaves

By Carrie

When James leaves Fallbrook, what memories will he retain of our “friendly village”? He likes to say that he hasn’t been taught the three Rs in school, but, instead, the three Ks — Klu Klux Klan. I know I’ve learned that if tolerance is a Christian virtue, Fallbrook is not a Christian community.

When James leaves, we no longer will need a trace on our phone to stop the incessant calls that jar us awake in the middle of the night.

“Is James there? No? Well, tell him Big Mike called. Big Mike with the big dick.” Screams of laughter before the phone hangs up.

We will no longer have harassers calling again and again while we’re eating dinner, not saying anything, or moaning.

When James leaves, we won’t have to wash the car everyday. We are tired of wiping off the words “Die faggot,” “Queer,” “Fudge-packer” and “Butt-pirate,” written in felt marker or dust on the car. We won’t have to alternate which car he drives, to keep it from being keyed, to protect him from being ambushed.

When James leaves, my younger son, Mark, might have an easier time at school. Perhaps the student body will suffer memory loss, and he will no longer be tripped, called names and asked if his older brother comes into his room at night and screws him.

When James leaves, I will not have to go to the sheriff’s office with death threats that have been left on our car. Notes that read “Die, you fucking queer. We don’t like yo’ kind ‘round here. I’m going to kill you and shit on your face.”

I won’t have to watch the officer, smelling of body odor and alcohol, look up at me and ask, “Why do they think he’s a fag?”

“Because he is — gay, that is.”

I won’t have to watch the cop straighten his shoulders with a macho shake and say, “Well, I don’t have a problem with them, as long as they don’t come on to me.” As if anyone would come on to this smelly, unshaven officer of the law.

I won’t have to listen to reassurances by him and others that I needn’t worry about it, because, after all, they’re just kids, just messing around.

When James leaves, he’ll attend a university in a metropolitan area with a greater mix of ethnic and social groups than in this little town. He’ll escape a school system where he was beaten up and knocked unconscious in gym class; held down and punched repeatedly on the arm until he repeated ten fruits; told by his teachers that his “odd” voice could be corrected by a speech therapist; called names between each of his classes and during assemblies when receiving awards.

I’m not saying that when he leaves Fallbrook he won’t be harassed again. Homophobia is too rampant for that. But at least in a larger, dare I say more liberal, community, he’ll find more people who will support him, who will accept him.

When James leaves, perhaps lost friends will acknowledge me again. Maybe I’ll be able to walk by people I’ve known for fifteen years and not see them avert their eyes. Not that I want to know them anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive this town for making me look forward to when James leaves.

Remember kiddos, MAMMA says talk about same-sex marriage every chance you get!

Thanks to MAMMA Kim for this entertaining speech by  …

Patricia Clarkson at the 2009 Human Rights Campaign Dinner

The Violets in the Mountains Have Broken the Rocks

President Barack Obama on Federal Benefits for Same-sex Couples

Wrongs We Intend to Right Today

And, MAMMA Says Yippee!

2010 Census Will Count Same-sex Couples

Wall Street Journal article from 19 June

Huffington Post article from 19 June

Radar. Gaydar.

By Joe Howard Crews

Radar. Gaydar. Ten thousand probing charges reading the spirits, searching for synchronicity — for that soul sound that goes … PING! You turn it on again and again, and each time it goes PING!

Do you have gaydar? No? Then you are not gay.

I was born with gaydar. I discovered early the gift was there — by the age of 4. Kids are born with special gifts; they discover their gifts early because their minds are open and innocent — before the grown up world draws a dark and suffocating shroud to suppress them.

My gaydar turned on the first time I met Donnie. He was also four. Our mothers introduced us properly. Mama knelt down, as she often did when she wanted to look straight into my eyes and connect with my young mind.

“Donnie is gonna be your friend. You can play and have fun together. No fighting. You will like Donnie, and he will like you. Be good to him.”

I glanced over at Donnie. He was real pretty. That’s when the gaydar came on. Donnie spent hours and days together with me while his mother was away at work. Everybody had to work. The Big War was on. I had no toys. Neither did my two sisters. Not even a doll. I guess we were poor folks, although I had no concept of “poor.” So we played games making up our own rules and creating our own imaginary kingdoms.

Now suddenly, I had been presented a friend. I remembered my mother’s words: “You will like Donnie and he will like you.” We played. Cautiously at first. Then with more and more energy. We chased each other and tested each other. I just know we were terribly raucous, but we always played in the yard. Fortunately, there were empty lots on the two sides of the house where we played.

Summers were real hot in Mississippi. Mama made us come inside when the sun was hottest, to take a nap. We were always tired by that time from strenuous play, and soon fell asleep.

I remember one day when we were lying in bed, side-by-side, bodies touching. It was hot. We had no fan. I was sweating. I was uncomfortable and sat up to take off my shirt, waking Donnie as I wiggled around. I felt cooler. I looked at Donnie and told him to take his shirt off. I helped him. Then I helped him take his underpants off. That was the first time I saw him naked. …. PING! PING! We touched each other. We both liked the touching. Then we fell back asleep. His body was still warm; nevertheless I scooted over so we could sleep with our bodies touching. Mama was in the next room sewing on her machine. I liked the hum of the purring motor racing and stopping — then racing again. Three hums, and I was back asleep.

One day Uncle Charles came to visit. I liked Uncle Charles because he always picked me up, tossed me in the air, then gave me a big hug while he talked energetically with me. But he always raked his bristly beard stubble against my tender face. I didn’t like that. But I liked Uncle Charles. And I liked his scratchy beard better than that icky gooey kiss from Aunt Zelda Mae.

“I have something for you out in my truck!” Uncle Charles announced, leading me by my hand. It was a huge wooden crate — much bigger than me.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Ohh-h-h, it’s a magic box. It’s full of magic. You just have to make a wish and whatever you want will be in the box,” he explained as Donnie and I watched him drag the huge box across the grass into the shade of the big pecan tree. He turned the box upside down, and with his crowbar removed one of the end boards, creating a small secret door just big enough for Donnie and me to squeeze through.

Uncle Charles explained we could make a fort out of it and fight the Germans. Those were the mean people who had germs. I had never seen either one — a German or a germ — but seeing is not necessary for a child to believe. We could make a castle out of the crate, and become a king. Or it could be a clubhouse just for me and Donnie … and nobody else could come in.

As Uncle Charles drove off, we raced to the big box. I quickly scrambled inside, and motioned my skeptical friend to come in. He did so with a bit of trepidation. He was afraid of the magic. I liked that.

Because it was wartime, we had blackouts when everybody in Hattiesburg had to turn the lights out and stay indoors. I didn’t like the dark and I didn’t like being so still and quiet. My big sister explained we had to do this because President Roosevelt had said the Germans might be coming, and we had to turn the lights off so they couldn’t see us.

A few days later Donnie and I entered our fort and put up the board over the secret door. I told Donnie we had to be very still and very quiet so the Germans didn’t find us. Sitting very quiet and very still next to Donnie was a special moment, because I felt I had to protect my friend. He trusted me. I could feel the palpitations of his breath. He reached out to hold my hand. My mother, disturbed by the unusual quiet, came out the front door and called our names. I whispered in Donnie’s ear “I think they’re gone.” We jumped out and started screaming “The Germans are gone! The Germans are gone.” My mother went back to her sewing, satisfied that all was normal.

One day as I was playing the king, Donnie sat beside me and said, “You are a good king.” He rose on his knees before me, kissed me on the cheek, gave me a hug and said, “I like you.”

I was sad when he and his mother had to move away. After Donnie left, the magic disappeared from the big box.

But I will never forgot Donnie — or his kiss inside the castle. And I will never forget that first PING when I discovered gaydar in 1942, during wartime, before the British discovered radar.

©2009 Joe Howard Crews

MAMMA (Middle-Aged Mothers for Marriage Equality) recommends sharing this essay with folks who think homosexuality is a “lifestyle choice,” as a way to start a conversation about same-sex marriage.

On the Anniversary

October 12

By Kate Harding

A Wyoming twilight. Nine years ago.
A cyclist saw a scarecrow tied to a wooden
split rail fence. Not a scarecrow. Matthew Shepard.
Bruised. Beaten. His skull crushed. Left to die.
His blood-caked face washed by tears.

On this anniversary of Matthew Shepard’s death,
I try to read, sip tea, count my valley’s few stars.
No sleep. My son Danny’s would be killers
could be prowling San Francisco streets tonight.

Broad shouldered football players. Thick jackets.
Tourists from the Midwest. Careful to walk
a few feet from each other. They have been drinking.
Later tonight they will have to share a hotel room
in this expensive city. A bump of an elbow,
a brush of a hand, could be misunderstood.
Mist blows in from the bay.
They tell each other it is girls they like. Girls.

They are nothing like my son,
with his pretty face and long hair.
Humming to himself, Danny is coming home
late from teaching, He wears the pink shirt
and tie we bought him. His light footsteps quicken.
Their footsteps echo his. Their beery breaths burn
the back of his neck.

©2007 Kate Harding poetmother@gmail.com

MAMMA (Middle-Aged Women for Marriage Equality) suggests sharing this poem with the people who oppose same-sex marriage, as a way to start a conversation; share it and ask them what they think about it.

And here’s another same-sex marriage conversation starter we just found:

The California Council of Churches’ Congregational Study Guide, Living Lovingly: Talking About Marriage Equality From a Faith Perspective, by Rev. Dr. Linda Pickens-Jones, has very helpful talking points, including discussion of civil rights compared to sacramental rights. MAMMA highly recommends this downloadable guide for those who want to take a loving and rational approach to a faith-based discussion. The introduction is a little dated, but the primary content makes the whole thing well worth downloading.

Welcome to MAMMA’s first post.

We are a group of middle-aged mothers who want our every son and daughter to grow up and be able to marry a nice girl or boy — or boy or girl. Yes, we’re talking same-sex marriage — marriage equality — so gird your loins and join us. You don’t have to be a MAMMA to be part of our family (that’s Middle-Aged Mothers for Marriage Equality).

Some of us have gay children, gay relatives, gay friends, and we all treasure our civil rights enough to fight for them, like a mother for her babes, except we do battle with literature and poetry, images and discussion.

In fact, joining us means talking about same-sex marriage with people who don’t support it. If that’s a scary thought, not to worry, Sweetie. MAMMA’s here to help. You can subscribe to automatically receive our posts and visit our pages for more resources. We have some nice content to help you start conversations with opponents of marriage equality — even those who haven’t yet learned to play well with others.

We might be profound or profane on occasion, pert or pedantic, prissy or pissy (too many ‘p’ words to keep that going), but whatever else we are, we are passionate about equal rights for all.

Even nose pickers. Now just imagine if folks tried to prohibit nose-picker marriage. We wouldn’t have enough mouths left to feed misinformation — no, homosexuality does not equate to pedophilia, it’s not contagious, your kids cannot be converted by their gay teachers and it’s not a chosen lifestyle! Hmm, do you suppose nose picking is genetic, too?

Anyway, yes, we are passionate about equal rights for all — especially in Fallbrook, where California’s anti-same-sex marriage ballot measure, Prop. 8, passed in November 2008 with 67.9 percent of the vote (compared to 52.3 percent statewide). That’s 11,298 voters whose hearts and minds can be changed to extend equal rights to all — as can hearts and minds across the country. Think of our effort as just a little attitude adjustment.

Or we could turn same-sex marriage opponents gay by close association. (Yes, of course that’s a joke! If you take life too seriously, Dear, you won’t have any fun at all.)

We will try anything, though, whatever it takes to jog memories of the poignant U.S. civil rights movement of the 1960s and encourage folks to step beyond their fear, to internalize our nation’s heroic invitation to diversity — and our charming knack for becoming better for it.

To keep this effort vibrant — and heart- and mind-changing — please submit your suggestions for content to your MAMMA. We’ll post new content as often as our motherly duties allow. Original poetry, short fiction or essays; videos and images; anecdotes, articles or links to other folks’ content worth sharing — send it all! The more ways we deliver our civil rights message, the more hearts and minds we will change in support of marriage equality.

We have some treats for you, to kick off MAMMA:

1. For those in Southern California, on Wednesday 10 June at 6:00 p.m., Fallbrook’s Writers Read has a poetry and prose reading in Fallbrook, Come Out of the Closet and Read! Closeted writers, folks already out of the closet; come one and come all.

In recognition of the CA Supreme Court’s recent failure to rule in favor of marriage equality, we encourage sharing work about living gay or having a LGBT family member or friend in your life.

2. If you have not seen former Vice President Dick Cheney‘s recent statement at the National Press Club, or if you’re dying to see it again to better analyze his every nuance, here it is for your viewing pleasure — or obsession. Bear in mind, some folks are critical of his parsing support for same-sex marriage by relegating that “freedom” to the states to offer or withhold, rather than supporting federal legislation. But remember the source  — this is Dick Cheney we’re talking about. This is a pretty darn good thing. MAMMA recommends sending the Cheney video to everyone you know who opposes marriage equality and tolerates Cheney. Hmm. …

Then, on the lighter side, we offer up Stephen Colbert‘s parody of the National Organization for Marriage “Gathering Storm” ad. MAMMA recommends sending this video only to folks with a sense of humor.

So, enjoy the videos, talk about them with others — and join us in supporting marriage equality.

Comment on this post.

(Editor’s note: This piece is cross-posted at www.ivorytowerz.com.)