The Kid: What Happened After My Boyfriend and I Decided to Go Get Pregnant Read Online Free PDF Page A

else's taking it into his own hands to end the existence of an individualgay or lesbian person; in the wake of these ads came the murders of Matthew Shepard and Billy Jack Gaither. If the religious right is serious about “washing the stain of homosexuality off the face of this great nation,” as one fundy web site I read puts it, there will have to be more murders. Few gays and lesbians will subject themselves to “reparative therapy” quacks, and the vast majority of us have no interest in becoming “ex-gay.” Homosexual behavior cannot be eliminated without eliminating homosexual people.

    Still, these days even the biggest antigay bigots take pride in appearing indifferent to the presence of homos. We can sweep into almost any room, even into Republican conventions, and brows hardly rise. The bigot may grip the facial muscles, locking a casual expression in place, but he doesn't sneer, spit up, or throw things. He plays it cool.
    And that's what I thought I saw around the table at Lloyd Center: gripped faces, expressions locked into place. They were playing it cool. One minute I was thinking, They hate us, they really hate us. The next minute, I thought: Don't be so self-involved; they didn't even notice that we're both men. The next, I hoped that maybe all these nice straight couples were just as nervous as Terry and I. Maybe they couldn't have cared less. Maybe they got lost in the mall too, and they all rushed in a split second before we got there, and everyone was out of breath. Maybe this seminar was a statistical anomaly, and there were no Christian fundies in the room at all. Maybe they were all progressive Democrats, with gay and lesbian friends and neighbors, and they couldn't have been more delighted that Terry and I were there. Maybe they were all bi.
    Since we can no longer tell the difference between a bigot and our best friend, we should give everyone the benefit of the doubt and assume folks are tolerant until they prove themselves otherwise. But if we do that, we make it easier for the bigot with a smile on his face to sneak up on us. So I'm inclined to assume the worst.
    Early in the gay lib movement, gay politicos wished every closet-case homo in the country would turn blue. If we couldn't hide, the logic went, we'd have to fight. (Then a whole bunch of us did turn blue in the early eighties, and, just as predicted, we came out fighting.) These days, I find myself wishing the bigotswould turn blue. If bigots were blue, we'd only have to take a quick look around when we walked into a conference room full of straight people, or wanted to sit at a bar in Wyoming and have a beer. No blue people, no worries. We'd know whom we had to fight, and when we had to fight, and, more important, we'd know when we could finally relax.

Grieving Our Infertility

    T he director of the agency officially welcomed all of us to the two-day seminar, “Adoption: A Lifelong Process,” rousing me from my paranoid fantasies. Ruth had headed the agency for three years, but first she was a client. She showed us a picture of her adopted son and told us she knew what we were going through. Ruth had a look of practiced empathy on her face. We saw this look a lot over the next two days, from the counselors, lawyers, and adoptive parents who came to share their experiences and answer our questions. Doubtless, Ruth's concern was genuine, but she'd probably given this speech thirty-six times already. She'd probably heard a similar speech herself before she adopted her son through the agency. Empathy had become a mark she hit.
    Ruth was in her early thirties, attractive, with curly brown hair; she had that contradictory mix of concern and distance that sets social workers apart from mere mortals. The parent-wannabes sitting around the table were not quite abstractions to her, but we were pretty close—we were clients. As she spoke, Ruth made it clear that she and the agency cared very deeply about each and every one of us. But her