Remembering Harvey on his birthday!

Originally posted on August 12, 2009; reposted on July 13, 2018

November 27, 2008, was the 30th anniversary of the murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone in San Francisco’s City Hall. Today, August 12th, 2009, President Obama honored Harvey posthumously with the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

"He would become, after several attempts, one of the first openly gay Americans elected to public office. And his message of hope, hope unashamed, hope unafraid could never be silenced," said President Barack Obama. Thank you, Mr. President.

Robert Aitken once said to me, “We don’t realize that we’re making history while we’re living it.” Yesterday I had a long conversation with a young gay man from Pakistan. I was surprised that he knew so much about Harvey. He hadn’t even been born when Harvey was killed, but he had so many questions. He grew up with hope. Harvey you did good.

Here’s something I wrote 8 years ago.

Remembering Harvey!

If Harvey were alive today, he would only be 78. Though he didn’t live to see much real effect of the gay revolution, if he were still alive he’d be thrilled to see the massive demonstrations across the country protesting the passage of Proposition 8 here in California. He’d also be raising hell, tempering passions, and organizing a skillful, resolute opposition to the religious faction that opposes the rights of gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender people.

I met Harvey face to face many times, but I don’t know if I really registered in his world. That doesn't matter much. I liked him, and supported him in every election—among gay men he was not universally popular—yet I didn’t get as deeply involved in politics as I did after his assassination. In the early 70’s I wasn’t totally out. This middle class kid was not entirely comfortable in the Castro, but I knew that it was as close to gay heaven as I would ever get, and I was having a great time.

Rick Audet, San Francisco, USA

Harvey’s desk in the camera shop was in such perpetual disarray that you might have wondered how he could track his customers’ film, but he never lost any of mine. I would sit on the famous beat-up red couch while we did business and then was invited to stay for as long as I wanted. I always felt welcomed and, when I spoke, listened to.

During those times I mostly sat and listened. He did love to talk, and I sometimes had a hard time following his conversation. In the course of an hour, as customers, political friends, kids from the street, other Castro merchants came and went, he might talk about the flood of gay kids looking for work, experimenting sexually, VD, pumping up rents, leaving litter (and doggie poop!) in the gutter, upsetting the old line merchants, and scaring the widows who still lived in the neighborhood. 

I remember one afternoon very well. Three older, well dressed Irish ladies came in to complain, and ask Harvey to do something—his influence was already established—about what they considered the open sexuality of their new neighbors (I’d even say provocative judging the Castro of the ‘70’s by today’s standards). Worked out guys cruised shirtless on the corner of 18th and Castro in front of the old Hibernia Bank, known as Hibernia Beach, and the women thought it was, well, just too much. Harvey was masterful, listening carefully and answering every question honestly, but he didn't give an inch. The women might have left with some understanding of their new neighbors though not completely mollified.

He could laugh at any topic or take it with complete, serious concern depending on his audience. I always had a sense that he was probing for the deeply felt needs of the neighbors who ultimately became his constituents. When anyone asked him a question, that person became his total focus. It was clear that he had thought long and hard about the issues, and he always linked your concern to the general good. He was a real leader, crafting solutions while measuring the complexities and the barriers to full participation and acceptance in all levels of society.

But no matter how far ranging his conversations, he never lost sight of his primary focus: that gay men and women were entitled to equal rights without having to masquerade or make deals that would push us back in the closet. Though many talented gay men and women have followed him in San Francisco politics, I don’t think it was martyrdom that set the bar so high. He was just a born politician and became a true master in a very short time. 

On the marquee of the Castro Theater where the movie Milk opened last November 26th, there was the image of a political button: “Never Blend In.” I don’t remember if I ever heard Harvey say those words, but I do know that he embodied the openness about your gay lives they express. And it was the reason why many gay men didn’t much like him; they truly believed that “blending in” was the only strategy that would allow them to lead the kind of lives they wanted for themselves. [For a very thorough treatment of “blending in” and how it affects our rights as gay men and lesbians, I recommend, Covering: The Hidden Assault on Our Civil Rights by Kenji Yoshino]

Today is a good day to remind ourselves of what Harvey taught with his life: Never give in. Never think that you have to be other than you are! Keep up the fight. The only thing you have to lose is your humanity.

Occam's razor and the debate about condoms in Africa

“Keep your eye on the ball.”
Originally posted 13th December 2009

Occam's razor and the debate about condoms in Africa. A case for the ethical use of condoms to combat the spread of HIV/AIDS

In 2009 Pope Benedict made some remarks on his first visit to Africa that outraged health agencies trying to halt the spread of HIV and Aids. “. . . [S]peaking to journalists on his flight, he said 'the condition was a tragedy that cannot be overcome by money alone, that cannot be overcome through the distribution of condoms, which even aggravates the problems.’" (The Guardian 17 Mar 2009)

The passage of time has allowed human feelings to subside, mine included, I suppose, if I discount those who died because of the pope’s pontifical pronouncements. However, something might still be learned from the exchange. Here is an analogy that I hope brings home some of the contending impulses that get in the way of thought and action.

Fire at Samuel Wesley's House

Imagine that you are just walking along, minding your own business, and suddenly you notice a crowd of gawkers around a huge building that is being engulfed by flames. All of us would agree that the most humane response would be to call the fire department and help get those in harm’s way to safety as quickly as possible with the least risk to yourself and anyone else close to the flames.

But when you begin to take any action – shout to people in the building so that they might be able to find a way out, ring the fire alarm, grab a bucket – various bystanders try to stop you.

One group shouts that one floor of the building has been taken over by crack heads and that it’s better to let them burn than possibly influence their kids, and turn them towards the path to addiction.

Some preachers declaim that prostitutes live in part of the building and they spread venereal disease and, besides, the injunction in their holy books says that they should be punished by death. The fire itself is their god’s wrath.

Another man says that his wife is on one of the upper floors, but that she has been unfaithful. It makes no difference to him whether she lives or dies. He is cheered on by a larger group of men who do not believe that men should put themselves in danger trying to rescue any women.

A group of women blockade any help because their husbands are in the building. Each and everyone of the men is HIV infected. They say that the fire is the hand of God saving them from certain infection.

Some priests claim certain knowledge that the fire was set by an arsonist doing either God’s or the devil’s work. They shout that the only possible solution is to avoid fires in the first place, that it’s immoral to intervene in a situation where the laws of nature have been violated, and that dousing the flames with water will not work in cases like this anyway.

A group of social workers stand to one side shaking their heads. They are not without compassion, but they say they are helpless. And besides, this situation could have been avoided entirely if the basic needs of the folks in the burning building had been addressed earlier, if they had been educated, fed, trained in fire prevention, and given classes in self esteem.

Meanwhile the fire engulfs the building floor after floor. More and more people die. The professional firefighters cannot do what they know how to do--suppress flames with water or chemicals. They can handle catastrophic fires and reduce the loss of human life. But they cannot do their job.

Each group has seemingly sound reasons (or justifications) for blocking any intervention by the firefighters. One points to tons of studies that allegedly prove that proximity to drug addicts increases the risk of addiction. The group that is content to let prostitutes die shouts age-old taboos about sex and virginity to justify themselves. The man whose unfaithful wife is going to be burned feels justified because his honor will be satisfied. The women whose husbands are HIV infected feel that finally nature has set about to reset the balance of power between the sexes. The priests use myth about being possessed by the devil to justify their claim that water will not put out these flames. The social workers feel that their profession might finally be recognized for the possible benefit for all mankind when finally the fire has taken its toll and they can sift through the ashes.

We cannot allow considerations from other disciplines, practices, myths, cultures, religions, or magic to cloud the thread of the argument. Promoting the use of condoms is an ethical and necessary step towards preventing the spread of HIV, and that the conversation about the use of condoms to stem the spread of HIV in Africa has to be kept simple and direct. Only unencumbered language will allow us to arrive at an effective strategy to stop AIDS. That has to be the goal – reduce the rate of HIV infection among poorer African populations.

Here is a modern gloss of Occam’s razor: any good baseball coach teaches young players to keep their eye on the ball. It is that simple – there is only the ball flying through space, only you with a bat, or your glove, can stop its trajectory. When you hear people screaming at you from the stands, “if you catch it, you’ll be no better than the devil, you’ll go to hell, there’s a spell on that ball, it carries drug addiction and disease,” what do you do? Eliminate the noise as best you can.

Occam’s Razor: entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem, "entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity." It is also expressed this way: Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate, "Plurality ought never be posited without necessity".

HIV/AIDS is a medical problem. Whatever else should be handled separately.

gobbledygook /ˈɡɒb(ə)ldɪˌɡuːk/

“The meaning of life is found in the experience of Being, and the answer of the meaning of life lies in the knowledge of Being.”

Claudio, what does that convoluted sentence even mean?

?Are you still looking for an answer to the question about the meaning of life? But we just found that in Being, didn’t we? ?Or is there a further question about knowing something about Being that arises once you get your answer? I’m confused. English was your second language, and you weren't a philosophe, but really. 

Maybe I’ll ask Monty Python--or just fire the team making your memes. Gobbledygook.

Did I miss Holy Week completely?

Easter was yesterday. Why didn’t it make a dent?

I noticed something that I found quite strange. 

I live in a non-Christian culture. There are Christians in India, of course, a sizable minority, but they are not visible. Their priests do not walk the streets of northern India, at least, dressed in distinctive clothing. Their churches are few. Their holidays are official, but they are often crowded with more than 30 others from Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, and Islam. I have only a few Indian Christian friends; I do not seek out Christian rituals and communities. I am no longer seduced by the cultural trappings of religious Christianity, although I do from time to time feel what I can only describe as nostalgia.

Saturday was a difficult day for my small community. One of the families lost their only son, a bright, handsome young man, just 19 years old. He died on the back of a motorcycle coming home from the local Mela gathering; the driver, another young man, is still in a coma at the public hospital. Together with my friend Kumar, we went to the village ritual that accompanies death. The family was in a state of total shock. The women were gathered on the floor of a dark room with his mother, who sat silent and motionless. When I bowed to the father, the uncle, and brother of several of the men who work and do work for me, tears came to my eyes. 

Later at home, I realized that it was Easter in the West. In Europe, a well-intentioned Pope was doing something and saying something, but it seemed that most people were focused on the senseless barbarism of Putin’s army in Ukraine, actions that cannot in any way be connected to the ethic of Christianity. In America, people were arguing, fighting about vegetables, murder, and sex, and somehow connecting that with the slogan ”he is risen.” There was a Twitter storm with a clip of some lanky guy proclaiming his faith with a guitar and some terrible hymns to a captive audience of passengers on a plane at 36,000 feet. I wouldn’t have requested a parachute unless it went on the length of the Orthodox mass, but really, his faith has no manners. It just seemed like self-serving arrogance coupled with a strong dose of narcissism.

At this point in my life, I can no longer properly call myself Christian. The stories about Jesus seem to me to be just that, stories that may or may not strike a chord about living a full life with the rest of humanity trying to live their lives as best they can. They spring the myths and rituals of the pagan world in which they were born; perhaps some of those myths provide deep access to the mystery of human life, but for the most part I find them a distraction, even misleading. If push comes to shove, I would have to classify them as the artifacts, the “bricolage” of the predominant mystery cult, the one that won.

In the past, perhaps just a few years ago, when I was living in a more Eurocentric culture, I might have found myself at least paying some attention to the actions of the Pope during Holy Week. There was even a time when I did go to Church on this occasion. But what I noticed this year was barely a blimp on my emotional register, neither positive nor negative (even the singing nun type on the plane merited just a chuckle, no outrage). But I did catch a glimpse of how it is culture, the artifacts of dress and ceremony, the words of religious people, the songs, the conversations of friends and family, that carry and perpetuate what we call religious faith. And I asked myself, without them, what is lost? I was still able to be with a grieving family and share their sorrow. I did not miss Easter or Holy Week.