The last bus blog

“Your message has been sent.”

The sweetest words I ever saw on the road. Message sent and hopefully received.
Somebody reading? Anybody? Wondering? What’s next?
Will this be the Next? Or the Last?

I’m off the bus, not riding the bus, I’m off the bus, not riding the bus.
Sort of. Maybeee. I think I have my landlegs back. Not completely sure. Could be the never-ending chicken sandwich box lunches have me backed up. Maybeee. What day is it anyway?

By now we are all home. Some raced back to their timeclock lives, but not by choice. To most, this trip meant stretching the rent money a little tighter. No vacation this year. A few of us escaped such fate. We, the unemployed, the self-employed or possessed of extraordinary negotiation skills, lingered, meandering home at our own pace.

Most of us who remained a few days lobbied those who would presume to lead us. Followed up. Met the locals on their own turf to plot the Next. Will this be the Next? We are acting so. We are not defeated, that’s for sure. We even made a friend in Feinstein’s office. Will that help?

Meanwhile, Lazy Leslie spent a couple of days with Miro and Calder, Degas and Rodin. I’ve punched out. I am off the clock. Kiss that bus goodbye.
A little nostalgia on the Mall. A pause at the Friends Meeting House.
I must be the only queer around who regards DC a stop on my spiritual path. Freak.

By now we are all home. To, of course, awaiting emails and gentle prods. Was it a success? What was accomplished? Anything? Did we do more harm than good playing the marriage card right before an election, knowing that when the cards would be called, we would have no choice but to fold? Oh hell, who knows. Gay marriage came up in the debates, for good or bad, Gay Middle America is no longer invisible. Not that it ever was.

We never knew exactly what we were doing, only that we certainly were doing it. With a great degree of certainty, for such a bunch of amateurs, I might add.

Be sure, however, that the bus rolls on. The riders continue to pound the keypads like chimpanzees in fingerpaint. “Did you see the Miami Herald?” “ Can you speak at Stockton Pride?” “Check out the Washington Post follow-up story!” On and on it goes. We are not spent. Oh, oh so far from that…This bunch is just getting warmed up.

Good for us. We need to fight for our rights. I finally get it: It isn’t a question of “We want to be just like you,” as much as, “We are just as good as you.” The gauntlet has been thrown (for the umpteenth time, I know). Give in now or give in later. The deal is done.

I have a little slip of paper in my entryway at home. Looks like it came from a fortune cookie, but kind of like an Alice Water’s fortune cookie if there ever could be such a thing. It rings true for this moment: “If you wish to drown, don’t torture yourself with shallow water.”

What’s Next? I can hardly wait to see.

It is done

It is done.
5:42 am The day after, whatever day that is…

The one day during this forced march for matrimony when I could sleep in, here I am up and at ‘em. Ready to go. Must be because I don’t have any wardrobe issues to contend with…Yesterday, I did manage, at long last, to show up with the right tee shirt. Then one of the other riders gently pulled me aside and asked me if I knew I had it on backwards.

I never really sang in the choir. But, we all knew that before we left Oakland.
And, how was the rally? A rally. Low turnout, just like all the others on the road. Good media, just like all the others on the road.

The rally did what it was supposed to do, just like the tour. 44 everyday people stood in the shadow of the Capitol building and barked out those sound bites!! 44 speakers with 45 seconds to open our hearts. And, it worked. We all got our 45 seconds, by God. A few of the noble herd sacrificed 12 seconds here, 18 seconds there, to make it so.

Learning how to say what you want to say in 45 seconds is a fierce tool. We have unleashed the Love Warriors. The swords are in the air. They are not heavy in our hands.

This is where it’s at. Again and again people kept coming up to me and asking if I was worried about the turn out. Nope. Could it have been done better? Yep. This sub-set movement isn’t close to critical mass. But it will be. It’s only a matter of time.

The DC community did what it sometimes does best. Shunned the carpetbaggers. It kind of reminded me, yet again, of early Quilt displays. It took a long time before the DC community embraced the Quilt. It was heartland America’s expression. We had to do the heavy lifting. That is not the DC way.

When I first dropped off my check for the trip at Marriage Equality California’s office, I knew there was a connection that could not be denied. MECA’s office is in the old NAMES Project space. Molly’s office was where Cleve’s used to be. I tried to ignore that as I wrote my check and looked at the route map on the wall. Tour Time!

A few hours from now, we’re going to the White House with the letter signed by people at every stop across America. Stuart and John will actually deliver it and I think Rebecca may have a little surprise in store for George W, if he ever even sees that letter. A zap for Queer and Present Danger.

Stuart and John have some of her ashes. It’ll happen the way it’s supposed to. They’ll figure it out. Dust the cummerbunds? Sprinkle pixie dust on the letter? Leave the vial in the men’s room? I can see the headlines now: “Queer anthrax scare evacuates White House!”

I have only one request. No singing. Please.

It is done. We’ll be home soon.
History will record that we were here.
Grassroots activism is alive and well.
That is the point.

Sunday (School)

Sunday (School?)
Day 7

A nice day to drown out the chatter and sound bite practice by cranking up the Ipod.
Our bus/homework assignment this morning was to write a 45 second speech and deliver it to the group as we rolled through the hills towards DC. 44 speeches at 45 seconds each. How weird is that. Speed Speaking.

Tonight, I’m enjoying the quiet of my room, at last. It’s about 10:30 pm and someone has slipped tomorrow’s event schedule under my door. How does one stage-manage a filibuster? 56 speakers, 3 musical acts and a “reaffirmation of vows” for the newlyweds. Holy Mother of Matrimony.

I’m scheduled at number 47 or something, which under any normal circumstances would indicate a mid-morning room service opportunity. However, the schedule also shows the first site security shift starting at 5 am. A gathering of the true believers will convene to supervise the evaporation of the DC Park Service dew. I mentally make a note to try.

One thing I have realized about myself on this trip is that it isn’t so much a matter that I don’t take direction well, as it is that I just don’t retain direction well. I never did get the tee-shirt-of-the-day-drill down.

The event will be whatever it shall be. The National Park Service has done its usual passive-aggressive act with the site approval. Safely out of sight for the tourists out for their holiday Mall stroll. Nothing new to these jaundiced eyes. But it doesn’t really matter. That was then, this is CSPAN. All the rules have changed, thus sayeth the newly crowned queen of the blog-dykes.

It is still a little “then” however. Like 1978. Something’s right around the corner.

It will be interesting to see who will show up. HRC has been doing its usual dance avoiding any real commitment…after all, we are just a ragged band of newlyweds and allies. Not much of an income generating opportunity there. Everyone seems to be upset that Barney Frank has waffled, like this is new behavior or something. I say, let Barney be Barney. We’ll miss them all so.

The Love Warriors are elated to be here. 44 souls speaking truth before authority in 45 seconds or less.

Reunions

Day 6: 8pm
University of Pittsburgh

Tonight we are meeting with the Rainbow Alliance at the University. The meeting just started and who knows where we will go. All our stops kind of start the same, but it works best when there is a two-way conversation. The give-and-take provides riches we need to offset the milkless single-service boxes of Cheerios woofed as we gallop to the bus.

Actually, there isn’t any galloping. Nobody’s trotting either. I’ve tripped twice, though.

Today, we were in Columbus and Akron and the one issue that just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger is that equal marriage rights is really about equal family rights. In Indianapolis, our friends were not one bit shy about telling us exactly what was on their minds. Respect for their families.

Ohio and Pennsylvania were much more personal. Our mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, relations far and wide, are showing up to take a stand for their loved ones. These are real family reunions. Some of our riders are seeing family for the first time in years. For some, this means the beginning of the mending. Reconciliation.

If you even show up to greet the bus you are going to be outted as an ally. Your neighbors will see you on the 6 o’clock news. It’s one thing to love your son and his partner. This is a big next step. A pretty big hoop for the heartland. Jump!

Our two grinning PFLAG parents proudly lead by example. They love their daughter, us, even me. Family. Our two ministers from Unitarian Universalist Churches are working overtime too, busy keeping a lid on us, mostly. They bear witness to the importance of creating family of choice. Family. Everyday now, it is all about family. Maybe it has been ever so. My eyes are open a little wider (only figuratively, however) on this quest. I thought it was about the couples when I got on board in Oakland. Wrong. So wrong. Much, much more than that.

This very welcome surge of very personal affection reminds me of Quilt days. That was family too. Our families are going to tip the scale on this issue, just as they did when their sons were cast aside as disposable. You watch. PFLAG and the religious community are going to lead the way. And win. It’s only a matter of time. There will be marriage equality in this country. There is no stopping an army of fierce PFLAG moms and dads.

Meanwhile, here in the present tense, our younger riders and students are finding their voices. It is an evening for the verbally dominant amongst us to provide a safe space for fresh voices. Still, tonight it is about struggling to come out… so you can start a family.

Family values are alive and well here in the gay heartland.

Here are a couple of other hot tips. We have met Transgendered people in every city we have visited. Family. I really wish we had some trans folks on board. It sort of feels like we left someone off the bus who should have been on the bus. Marriage is a tremendously complicated and important issue for the Trans community. We need to wake up and pay attention.

Tomorrow we push on to DC. Should be a process-a-thon from Hades. Big Bus Fun!

Asking for directions....

Saturday, 6th day, 8am
Voices heard loud and clear

Another ragged start to our day. No reason to go into the details. It’s part of our daily shtick. But by now, the group has collectively determined to be kind to one another. One of our troupe, Jan, leads us in “busercize” stretches (this morning to “I’m coming out”). We laugh again. We are of good cheer. The boys and girls are playing well together, dancing in the aisle. I wouldn’t be surprised if disco balls suddenly dropped from the luggage racks. This is a good sign. A Priscilla, Queen of the Desert moment.

We can smell the barn. Columbus, Akron and Pittsburgh, today, then nothing in front of us until DC. Hah! That’s quite a little statement unto itself. We did get good news about the rally in DC. It will be covered live (11am-4pm east coast time) on CSPAN 2. Very good news indeed.

Last night, Indianapolis taught us self-proclaimed teachers another lesson. A real break-through as to what our mission is truly. The Jesus MCC of Indianapolis, Indiana hosted a town meeting on Marriage Equality with local activists, couples and bus riders on the panel. A real dialog, and near the conclusion, one of our riders, Coyote Ron stood up and asked the question we should have been asking all along: “What message would YOU like us to take to DC?

There’s been a little bit too much of a us taking-the-truth-to-the-heartland attitude when the truth is already there, if only we will shut up long enough to listen. So today’s blog will start simply: the words of the congregation of the Jesus MCC of Indianapolis Indiana:

“Tell them to stop picking on us! Point out the pain they cause all to ALL kinds of people when they separate loved ones. We don’t want to live in an us-versus-them world.”

“We just want to lead normal, regular lives. Just let us live in peace.”

“God does not discriminate, so why do you?”

A request: “Put a face to our lives.” Tell them the people of corn belt USA deserve our rights.”

And from a postal worker from Muncie: “Just be yourselves. Tell them the same thing I told my son who rejected me. If you cut me out of your life, you are missing knowing a great person. We will strengthen the institution of marriage because we BELIEVE in the institution of marriage. We want to form strong relationships and FAMILIES. You should be helping, not hindering us.”

The bus has been our sanctuary, our aviary and institute of higher learning…on wheels.

And later today in Columbus, Ohio, from a straight mother activist; “I know what it is like to grow up with homophobia and I am determined that, with my children. it will stop with me. But as an ally, I get bashed too. So I would say to you, embrace your allies.”

Akron and Pittsburgh are still ahead of us today. I hope we remember to keep asking.

And on the 5th Day...

And on the 5th day they rested…

7 am. We’re rolling.

We pulled into Kansas City late last night for a quick nap. Not sleep. Nap. We collectively are trying to catch our breath from the emotional roller coaster of yesterday. Today we have a four-hour ride to Saint Louis and then Indianapolis later. The strain of trying to herd all these queer cats is starting to show. I, for one, recognize this as a cue to keep as low a profile as possible. I don’t need no trouble from no bunch of cranky newlyweds.

My mantra: “I’m on the bus, not driving the bus, I’m on the bus, not driving the bus."

One story is the daily show. Each stop holds a surprise. Another is the continuing drama of the bus. My invisible seatmate (hah!), Rebecca used to refer this as “aviary behavior.” The pecking order. The constant juggling for position. I think I’ll keep that train of thought to myself. We are a community of good people and I shouldn’t sell us short.

So, on to Saint Louis. I’d rather focus on the exterior rather than this cage anyway. It sounds like the folks in Saint Louis have been doing a lot of work for the event this afternoon: a real coalition of groups pulling together with a projection of 1,000 attending. It’s important to not have expectations, but it is nice to have something to look forward to.

Oh, and did I mention that the toilet on the bus blew up this morning? Gee, we must be at the halfway point. I’m on the bus, not driving the bus. I’m on the bus, not driving the bus.

1:30 pm, Après St. Louis

What a warm, albeit soggy, reception from our St. Louis branch of the family. A picnic in the park. Literally! I spend a lot of time staring out the window during this trip, mostly daydreaming about lovers past and future. Or if I remembered to leave a note for the housekeeper to remind her to not let the cat out: the vital-stupid stuff of life. And, I amuse myself with billboard cruising. The bus window is like a picture frame to each world through which we pass. Wyoming gave us wide vistas, buffalo, antelope and jackknifed trucks in the center divider . Saint Louis laid out before us its Discount Bible Depots, Cracker Barrels and solid brick homes of many, many generations. Everything is solid. Everyone shakes your hand here and means it. They look you in the eye.

We knew they were glad to see us. Plenty of hot dogs to go around. Four kinds (who knew!) of macaroni salad. And, to the Widow Ewing’s highly trained eyes, some of the best looking women ever assembled in under a 300 sq. foot picnic pavilion. Sporting women. Cardinal fans. Team players. Crisp.

It felt like we were the long awaited distant relatives arriving for the family reunion. We felt embraced. As we left, a big ol’ bear took my hand in his and told me we would be in his prayers. Sounded good to me.

Day Four:3 pm

Day four, 3pm

We are in the thick of it now. Kansas. Our first taste was the finest rest stop I have ever seen, let alone used. So Kansas. However, our hearts were not at rest earlier in the day. Last night we lost one of our own. A young man of 26 left his room at midnight, alone, and never came back. Everyday, the bus mommies give us the daily drill on the buddy system, how we have no choice but to sacrifice our individual rights for our safety and our mission (yes, they actually say that). This is usually when I reach for the Ipod. Yet, this morning when we loaded the bus at 6:30 am, there was nothing but bad news. And, the first flashes of anger. We older dykes just could not comprehend how someone could be so irresponsible! How dare he wander off after we had gone over the importance of the buddy system over and over and over again. And what if he was hurt? Or worse? How could we just leave, not knowing? We had a responsibility to him, even if he had violated his to us. He is ours. Our child. We are family. Damnit!

I had a feeling that it was going to be OK. I’ve been working on Castro Street for six years. Been around a lot of dick. I know how it is. Yet, you just never know…and you worry until you do.

We had to get on the bus. We decided to leave a couple of people behind to keep checking hospitals and work with the Denver LGBT Center and police until we found him. He is ours. Our child. We cannot abandon one of our own. Laramie is still a fresh wound in our hearts.

Then, our reporter from PlanetOut, Karen, reluctantly came to us with more bad news. She had to leave the bus. We are hoping that all she is feeling is the altitude. But again, we have no way of knowing. Our left-behind angels will be doing double duty in Denver.

We left Denver not knowing. Into the void of Kansas. And, the good news is that 5 hours after leaving Denver, he who was lost has been found. And will be flogged upon his return. We continue to hold good thoughts for our comrade. Our wordsmith.

Hopefully, now that (please Goddess) the drama du jour has passed, the lull of the wheat fields will give us quiet rest. Very few speeches on board today: the process quota has been met.

And now, back on message: This morning in Denver, bus riders who have international partners spoke at length. Heartbreaking stories of forced exile all because of who you love. Trust me when I say that all of us have a lot of learning to do. Even we who call ourselves activists take far too much for granted. You just don’t know how it is until you’ve been there.

The same can very much be said for this road trip. Everyday I am reminded that it is the teachers who are doing the learning.

Tonight, the fat dykes will be taking a field trip for devil red meat barbeque. We will watch each other’s backs.

This seat is taken

Day Three (or is it fourteen) on the bus:

Another "Tits up, Girlfriend" kind of day. I'll just sum it up in one word: Laramie. All the goodness (theirs) and fear (ours) you could ever imagine. I'm sure others will chronicle the day better than I frankly care to.

To be honest, I am just too beat. And nervous. I will be speaking at the next stop, Cheyenne. It's been announced that this will be an easy stop. Not if it's your turn to speak up.

Everyone has just been pouring his or her heart out, day after day (cut me some slack I KNOW it's only day 3), hour after hour. Just like the early Quilt days. At least we let each other cry. All the "emotional support people" types seem to be in the back of the bus. I am not. Decidedly not.

In fact, one of the reasons I am such a mess is that I have become increasingly aware of where I sit on the bus. I am the only person on the bus who is sitting alone. I have no seatmate. The seat next to me is always empty.

Around a half hour ago I realized that the seat is not empty. That seat is taken: it's Rebecca's seat. Why am I not surprised.

And don't I just feel all better knowing THAT, rolling into Cheyenne.

Somebody better buy this dyke a cocktail in Denver.

8 am, second day on the bus

An interesting phenomena is unfolding before me. There's a microphone at the front of the bus and riders are sharing their stories of the last 24 hours. The bus has become church. Our sanctuary. And when the morning alter call is given, the true believers step up, give testimony.

The stories are kind of what you might expect. The spontaneous "Right-Ons" that remind us that there really is work being done, even while waiting in line for the gourmet buffet at the Red Lion Inn in scenic downtown Elko. Mostly interactions with closeted waitresses and desk clerks. We know not what we do, only that we are doing it. Some stories bring tears, some remind us that we are going to have to watch each other's backs at some point on this journey. Probably to protect us from one of our own (I've got a 20 dollar bet on it with the Chronicle photographer). We are all wearing our whistles in anticipation of Utah. Plueeze.

I, as usual, am watching more than listening. My listening is directed towards my Ipod as I type this. Rufus Wainwright's rendition of "Hallelujah" comes on at just the right moment. Every moment is perfectly on time this morning. I am at peace in my pew, 5th row back, left-hand side. However, my lower back is already killing me. I should be at my stretch class today. I miss my routine. I miss my friends, my familiars. And yes, Killacky, I got your farewell phone message singing, "Cumbaya, Lesbian, Cumbaya." You called it (and I spelled it). Yesterday started with matching tee-shirts and by the end of the day we (with the exception of the bitter, bitter Widow Ewing) had sung "This land is your land" three times. So NOT queer. But I guess that is the point, isn't it.

We roll into these towns, these Renos and Elkos, declaring ...almost pleading, "We are just like you!" Or is it "We want to be just like you."

My little voice that dare not speak too loudly begs to be heard: "The Queers are coming, the Queers are coming!" Not to worry though, I'm saving mine for DC. Yesterday, I was thinking about all my October sojourns to DC to raise a little hell. This is my ninth trip in seventeen years. How did this ever happen? I caught myself thinking about the first time Rebecca and I read names at a Quilt display in DC. Rebecca was furious at the readers' passivity. When it was our turn, we didn't just read them. She flipped the microphone around to face the White House and we screamed them to the one who didn't care. One of the best things I ever did and we never planned it. I, as so often was the case, just followed Queenie's lead. I suspect she has another surprise in store for me somewhere down the road. fortunately, I take direction well.

Meanwhile...

I must say that this tribe would make a lousy bunch of Quakers. Nobody, but nobody, is into the collective power of silence. Not this morning anyway. Maybe it's because there was a Starbuck's in the casino (remember this if you ever find yourself in Elko). And now we are really in the thick of it. The bus driver, who is a black ex-Marine doing his duty with gritted teeth, just took the mic. Had to tell us that the Utah border weigh-station guys knew we were coming and were supportive. His people.

I think it's time to crank up the volume.

Pre-bus

Five days to go and very much counting. Half of my friends are convinced that I am going to be the victim of a hate crime (yes, I will carry a whistle) and half think I am already a victim...of arrested development.

My big question is: "Why aren't there any 24hr cleaners?" I'm really running around, trying to get it together for the trip.

Meanwhile, I have other big news. Yesterday, I accepted the Development Director position at Lyon-Martin Women's Health Services in San Francisco. I start November 1st.

Wow, I really AM on the bus!

Once we leave on Oct 4th, I'll try to add something daily. Tune in. I'll have tales to tell.