Category: Democracy

Wrist-banding Together

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When you’re living through a full-blown constitutional crisis–and feeling vulnerable–you need to find ways of coping and caring for the ones you love.

So, I bought two of these beaded rainbow wristbands from the Human Rights Campaign for Tom and me to wear.

We are wrist-banding together.

This is a symbolic gesture. I want the world to know that this gay couple isn’t going anywhere, though it is a period in the United States where some would prefer that those of us who are different would go away.

But I–we–remain visible.

As I write this blogpost, I realize it is number 500 … a true milestone for any writer.

When I began blogging in May 2018, I had no illusions of where it might lead.

I simply wanted to give my books and literary voice more room to grow, more visibility.

For that reason, I suppose it is fitting that today I choose to write about my gay identity and continue to exercise personal aspects of my voice … visibly.

In many respects, the life my husband and I lead is not all that different from any couple.

We shop for groceries together. Go to the gym together. Enjoy quiet moments and meals together. Love and nurture each other.

We do our best to support each other and our family members during highs and lows.

We spend time with our friends. They are young and old, straight and gay, black and white.

We love and respect them, and they love and respect us.

I think it’s accurate to say this about our friends: we enrich each other’s lives, no matter our skin color, religious beliefs, cultural perspectives, gender identities, or sexual orientations.

It is a personal jolt to realize–and read on trusted news sources each day–that our differences are under attack and being eroded in my home country … the country I still love.

I don’t think I’m depressed. But I am definitely sad and angry. Definitely grieving. Me and a boatload of others of all backgrounds and persuasions.

There are times when I want to scream from the top of a mountain. “This is my country, too. How dare you try to take that away from me!” But then I wonder, “Is anybody listening?”

So, I bring this here, instead and I type these words in blogpost number 500.

At any rate, thank you for joining me–possibly even enduring me at times–on this blogging journey since May 2018.

As long as I continue to feel I have something important and relevant to say (to shed light on the topics of the day … to celebrate a literary success or the latest Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performance … to pay tribute to those I love … to tell a funny story about our stray cat Poly … to observe and honor the beauty of nature … to share a vivid, meaningful memory about my childhood … or to pen a poem that is in need of artistic space and oxygen) you will find me here.

I hope you have been informed or entertained and will continue to tag along with me on this organic literary odyssey, wherever it may lead.

As I walked the treadmill at the gym this morning–on Abraham Lincoln’s two-hundred-sixteenth birthday–a weird, dark, and discomforting question swirled through my brain.

What if we–all the diverse people in this country, all the people of color, all the LGBTQ folks–were gone?

That fearful quandary led me to write this poem.

****

If We Were Gone

If we were gone,

you would miss

our minds, our hearts,

our beauty, our tenacity,

our sensitivity,

our sensibility,

our kindness, our love,

our compassion, our humor,

our leadership, our style,

our guidance, our wisdom,

our friendship, our support,

our joy, our pain, our truth,

our sun, our moon, our stars,

our books, our movies,

our artistry,

our contributions,

our serendipitous stories.

But, most of all, you

would miss us.

You would miss

the clarity and

strength of our

distinctive lives

and beautiful voices.

That would be

the greatest loss of all.

In the Old Days

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In the old days (the pre-Covid days)–just five years ago this week–I hawked my books with my husband by my side at a local author book fair at the Scottsdale Public Library.

We didn’t know about the dark days ahead. Holed up in our cozy condo. Wondering if we and our closest family and friends would survive. Wondering if the race to create a viable vaccine might save us.

Fortunately, science did produce a vaccine that saved lives (for those of us who had the gumption to protect ourselves and others).

We did survive and Tom and I have gone on to create new chapters at the library … him leading several successful film series; me guiding those intent upon writing their own memoirs.

Strangely, those Covid years feel quaint now as our nation disintegrates daily. Tom and I cling to one other, as our nation turns a blind eye toward anyone who is different.

Yes, we have many friends and family who love us. But, to put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe. This experience of living in 2025 in the United States (we aren’t really united) has cued old tapes in my psyche that remind me that–once again–I am living in a straight, white world of shallow masculinity.

I will keep trudging along. Loving my husband. Guiding my adult sons. Speaking my mind. Telling my stories. Holding my closest friends close. Giving to organizations that might make a difference. Advocating for those less fortunate. Donating my time, talents, and voice to the Scottsdale Public Library and the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Most of all–like many of you–I just need to keep breathing today. And, for tomorrow and the next day, I need to save any reserves of energy and sanity I have to fight the good fight.

Laid to Rest

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My mother was a collector of fine furniture, ceramic pitchers, and–occasionally–commemorative coins.

On March 17, 1977, she purchased this Franklin Mint medal. It celebrates the inauguration of Jimmy Carter, the thirty-ninth President of the United States.

This bronze coin has occupied a space inside a box in my father’s WWII army trunk for the past few decades.

I was nineteen and a first-time voter when I cast my ballot for Carter in November 1976.

Most of my college friends at the University of Missouri were Gerald Ford supporters.

I suppose they were willing to forgive him for pardoning Richard Nixon.

I wasn’t. I opted for Carter, the peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia.

As history would have it, Carter’s four years as president (1977 to 1981) included many ups and downs.

For instance, Carter successfully negotiated the Camp David Accords, political agreements signed by then Egyptian president Anwar Sadat and Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin.

Carter also signed into law bills that created the U.S. Department of Energy and Department of Education.

However, the Iran hostage crisis (when fifty-three U.S. diplomats and citizens were held hostage at the U.S. embassy in Tehran by a group of Iranian college students who supported the Iranian Revolution) and related oil crisis led to his unraveling popularity.

In November 1980, Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter. His loss was punctuated on January 20, 1981, when the hostages were released on the first day of Reagan’s presidency.

Of course, we now know Jimmy Carter wasn’t through yet. He lived another forty-three years and made good use of his century-long (1924-2024) life.

After leaving the White House–with his wife and life partner Rosalynn Carter ever by his side–he established the Carter Center. He worked tirelessly to promote and expand human rights.

That led him to receive the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002.

Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter also became famous for the houses they helped build for Habitat for Humanity and the faithful lives they shared with family and friends in their community and all around the world.

***

This morning, after watching C-SPAN coverage of Jimmy Carter’s funeral at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.–and listening to a parade of praise in eulogies given by past Republican and Democratic leaders and grieving family members–I extricated the bronze medallion.

I brought it into the light. I placed it on the shelf of our bureau in our Arizona sunroom. I pondered Jimmy Carter’s astounding legacy of faith, hope, service, and perseverance.

I wondered if–as he was laid to rest–our nation’s democracy might not be far behind.

I hate the trite phrase “only time will tell.” But it certainly applies as inauguration day–January 20, 2025–approaches.

Consider this. Tucked inside the box that normally houses the Carter medallion is a little booklet with information about the tradition of the presidential inaugural medals. Here is an excerpt:

“The Official 1977 Inaugural Medal commemorates the solemn ritual, repeated every four years, through which Americans and their President refresh the nation’s commitment to free government.

During the inauguration, the President, in the presence of Congress, pledges to serve faithfully and to uphold the Constitution to the best of his ability.

Americans have always treated this ceremony as a portentous moment in the life of the republic, a time of celebration and of renewed dedication.”

But we live in 2025. Will the incoming president uphold the Constitution to the best of his ability?

That bit of history–beyond the funereal pageantry of today–has yet to be written.

They Fought So Hard

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Albert, Louise, and their three adult children–Thelma, Violet, and Walter–led ordinary lives.

In the fall of 1944, they were a big-hearted, hard-working, working-class family–living in a flat on Labadie Avenue on the north side of St. Louis.

To be precise, Thelma and Walter lived with their parents. Violet and her husband Harry lived nearby.

At any rate, they were a close family with strong opinions, loud voices, and a propensity to gather around the radio for FDR’s inspiring Fireside Chats.

Like all patriotic American families of that era, they planted a Victory Garden to grow their own vegetables, rationed household supplies, and bought war bonds to support American troops fighting overseas in Europe and the Pacific.

They did it all for the sake of protecting and maintaining freedom in a war-torn world.

Walter, Albert, Thelma, Louise, and Violet in late 1944.

When Walter was drafted and deployed to Europe (Harry, too) you might say the family had extra skin in the game of war.

He left New York Harbor–aboard the Queen Mary ship with hundreds of other soldiers–on New Year’s Eve 1944.

Five days later, he landed at the Firth of Clyde in Scotland … and, in short order, he found himself on the front lines scurrying from foxhole to foxhole in the Battle of the Bulge in the forested Ardenne region of France.

As the war in Europe wound down in 1945, he marched with the first group of US army personnel who met with the Russian army on the Elbe River on the eastern front of the war.

Walter survived the ordeal–in part because of the regular flow of love letters and encouragement he received from his sisters and parents.

Walter returned to the US on the U.S.S. Monticello in July 1945 … for a thirty-day leave prior to going to fight in the Pacific.

He was supposed to depart in mid-August, but on August 6, the US dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan and the war ended shortly thereafter.

Walter’s fighting days were over. He was discharged from the service on October 11, 1945.

A few years later–sometime after he met his future wife Helen in January 1948 at Westminster Ballroom in St. Louis–he confided that the Russian soldiers were some of the roughest, battle-hardened men.

At any rate, despite the “shellshock”, nightmares, and frozen feet Walter brought home with him, he (and Harry) came home in one piece.

***

I’ve thought a lot about Walter and Helen (my dad and mom), Thelma and Violet (my aunts), Albert and Louise (my grandparents) … the Johnson family … since the election last week.

All of them have been gone a long time, but in a sense–today–I feel I am grieving my own loss of freedom, as well as their legacy. The one they fought so hard to uphold.

I’m not giving up, but that is how I feel on Veterans Day 2024.

Early this afternoon, I pulled out Dad’s World War II army trunk.

It contains pieces of his uniform–including the wool hat and golden medallion he wore eighty years ago as he was preparing to preserve freedom on behalf of his country.

Finding it there with his few remaining possessions gave me strength.

In the coming days, weeks, months, and years, I’m going to do my best to draw from the resiliency in my family’s DNA to find specific ways to uphold democracy in my Arizona community.

You can be sure I also will continue to exercise my voice–through prose and poetry–and influence others in a positive fashion as we head into an uncertain and potentially ominous period in our country’s history.