I’ve been thinking of a way I wanted to write this post. It’s been chipping away at my heart for years. I believe the best course of action is too come out and type the words.
I’m not gay. Not. At. All. I’m not even a little bit homosexual. My fashion sense fluctuates between awful and what the hell were you thinking when you left your closet? Until I met my wife, I thought decorating meant Christmas and Halloween. I had mismatched couches for almost two decades. I despise Barbara Streisand. Musicals make me want to punch walls and people. I’m pathetically straight.
I felt compelled to tell you this because it seems to a large part of the country, what a person does with their sexy time is important. Votes against gay marriage are justified by claims that letting same-sexes love each other the same way straight folks would create a slippery sloped ice bridge to marrying your pets or your sister or your Starbucks. I know some of you want to marry your morning coffee but come on, we all know the argument is dumb.
Yesterday, CNN’s lead anchor, Anderson Cooper told the world something it had already known since his days hosting The Mole Game Show. In an open letter to blogger Andrew Sullivan, he announced he was gay. Give the man credit for being a journalist who got his facts straight, ironic pun intended.
My personal experience with same-sex people didn’t begin until college. After picking up my burger and fries from The Ferguson Center at The University of Alabama, I headed to the student radio station where I was begging for airshifts. Standing in front of the Reese Phifer Building, on a hot August afternoon, two fellow aspiring female radio personalities exchanged a long, passionate kiss followed by a grope and some light petting. The prevailing thought was how it looked nothing like the stylistic scenes I had watched on Cinemax. Their public display of affection was a lot like mine that I have with my wife, sometimes. It was sloppy, weird, passionate, awkward, and brutally normal. Determined to break out of my sheltered suburban shell of eighteen years, I became close friends with the two. A month or so later I visited my first gay bar. The two things I took away from that experience were 1) the music is worse 2) the people are better.
Being a Christian and living in the deep south, I know I’m in the minority when it comes to being tolerant of homosexuality. That doesn’t stop me from becoming outraged at the level of ignorance that government, schools, other parents, and my own friends and family show. My children have no discomfort with same-sex friends of ours. My three daughters consider homophobia to be unacceptable hate. It’s my belief that when my youngest daughter, now two months shy of her eighth birthday, is my age, 41, her generation will view ours and our parents in the same way we see our grandparents regarding civil right of African-Americans.
The post is mostly me saying that the anti-gay attitudes have to stop. It’s about me telling anyone who reads My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog that for a straight white Christian man with three daughters who can’t dress himself or tolerate the music Grease, I support gay marriage and the acceptance of anyone, regardless of their sexual preference.
I probably should play It’s Raining Men by The Weather Girls or some Erasure or perhaps Melissa Etheridge. But it’s my blog and even if I was having a party where the guest list was 99 percent gay, I’m still listening to my music. Ya’ll know how I am, get over it. My girl on girl kissing friends Angel and Laurel loved The Cult. We played the album Electric so much, I know we broke all three of our copies. Eventually we had a radio show together. They’d broken up by then but stayed friends. Laurel passed away five years later in 1993. At her funeral I was hoping the organist would break into Peace Dog.
Stop the hate and open your arms, straight or gay, for everyone. For now, rock out.