APA Newsletters
Fall 1999
Volume 99, Number 1

Articles

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Johnnie D. Terry
Sierra College

I quickly drafted a letter to my colleagues asking them to send an email message of support for the adoption of domestic partnership benefits to each member of the negotiations committee. I attached a copy of the presentation packet to the message. Nervous about the fact that I could be perceived as stirring up trouble, I saved the message and called Luis. Luis saw no problem with the message, but he did see the potential for controversy. I was, after all, "sandbagging" the committee members. He also mentioned my non-tenured status. He didn’t see that this would be a problem, but human behavior is unpredictable. After we hung up, I called the campus director of diversity. I read the message to her. She suggested that I delete one paragraph and assured me that she saw nothing wrong with my request for support. She did, however, ask how my tenure review had been for the prior year. As it had been overwhelmingly positive, she assured me of her support and instructed me to request, in my email message, that all responding parties copy their messages to her. I added this request to my message and sent it off to fifteen of my colleagues.

The brouhaha began within the hour. Several people were shocked by the news that the benefits would cost the college nothing. They emailed each member of the negotiations committee, sent a copy to the diversity director, and forwarded my request to their friends. One of my favorite colleagues on campus sent his enthusiastic response to "All Subscribers" with the subject heading "Finally, a no-brainer." When he sent his message to "All Subscribers," his views went out to every faculty member, staff member, board member, and employee of the district with computer access. I sat in my office attempting to grade final exams and watched the responses arrive. Every time I received a message, my computer would make a grunting sound. When I heard the grunt, I’d look up and smile. Rebecca and I were discussing the messages in our office when Trish stopped by. Trish was a bit weepy from reading the messages. Her "domestic partner" had recently come out to her Latter Day Saints family. It had been rough, and Trish was still feeling raw. The messages of support touched her. My computer grunted again, and Trish walked across the room to read the new message over my shoulder. My stomach tightened at an early response that adoption of these benefits was not a "no brainer."

That message went on to describe the marriage bed as "honorable and undefiled." It also equated homosexuality with promiscuity. The author stated that "people who live moral lives" should not have to "pay potentially higher premiums so as to provide benefits for those who don’t." I flushed. Rebecca turned from her computer and said, "C’mon, you guys should’ve expected this sort of thing. Remember all of the positive messages—this is only one negative message." I knew she was right but I took this one personally. I was outraged by the sender’s claim that my life was immoral as well as by his smug attitude that this claim required no further justification. I clicked on "Reply to All Subscribers" and prepared to send out an immediate retort. Rebecca cautioned me to think this through. "This isn’t only your issue," she pointed out. "Why don’t you let someone else respond? Don’t make this just about you." She reminded me of the dangers of sending out an immediate response to All Subscribers. I turned off my computer screen and, like Trish, departed to give a final exam.

When I returned to my office, Rebecca was gone. I turned my screen back on and saw that, indeed, there had been several responses to the offending message. Each of these positive messages would’ve made Descartes proud—detached and objective as they were. "If I wanted to put a two-headed alien of unspecified gender on my benefits, that should be my right," read one. "Marriage is an institution that has oppressed women for centuries," read another. All of the messages were supportive of domestic partnership benefits except one. Another professor had responded in support of restricting those with "defiled beds" from coverage. His position was a political one. "Let’s keep the traditional definition of family," he urged. Several other messages condemned his.

The debate raged on into the early evening hours with the side favoring domestic partner benefits clearly outnumbering the vocal minority. Still, I remained dissatisfied. I had already witnessed the ease with which the negotiators maintained the status quo. The adoption of benefits required action! Two negative comments would suffice to "table" the benefits. It was clear that remaining objective and unidentified would foster our opponents’ ability to paint us as immoral and undeserving—a potential controversy best avoided. A face was required behind the rhetoric. Calling a category immoral was simple; calling a living human person immoral at least required facts over and above feelings.

This time, I didn’t seek permission or advice—I was pretty sure what the advice would be for a non-tenured professor. I was aware of the risks. Coming out to fight a battle on behalf of domestic partner benefits could affect me in many ways. While I felt fairly safe with my tenure committee, I’d never discussed my non-academic life with two of them. Who knows what they could suddenly notice during my peer evaluations. Likewise, my curriculum proposals could be evaluated much more closely. My budget requests could easily be denied. Custodians could easily "find things" in my trash. Computer personnel could easily find "downloaded materials" on my computer. All of these actions could easily remain invisible. While this sounds somewhat paranoid, I don’t think that it is.

I clicked on "Reply to All Subscribers" and typed a response. I read and reread. I walked down the hallway for some water. When I returned, I read it once again. At just that moment, Trish called. I told her that I was thinking about responding and I read the message to her over the phone. The message I composed was this:

"I have a family. I’m a gay man born and raised by good Christian parents in eastern Kentucky. My Christian mother was hospitalized when she learned of my "secret." My parents gave me money to leave the state. I didn’t see my parents for five years, though I tried quite often to contact them. They both passed away before there was any substantial resolution. Despite this past, I have currently been in a monogamous relationship with another man for fourteen years. For many of our straight friends, ours is the most solid relationship they know. Since we met, my partner has patiently waited while I worked part-time at a pet shop and simultaneously achieved my B.A. He also waited while I went on to finish my M.A. He still waits for me to complete my Ph.D. Half-way through my doctoral program, a pregnant woman chose us—over several heterosexual couples—to adopt her soon-to-be-born baby. Our son is now five. After seeing us with our son, another woman chose us to adopt her baby. Our daughter turned four last week. When I was offered this job, my partner gave up his career in San Diego so that we could move here. He still commutes to San Diego to work. The kids and I drive him to the airport every Thursday night and we pick him up every Sunday night. We call him every single night. Jon wants to stop commuting to San Diego by September so that he can be here full time when our son starts kindergarten. Part of the reason that Jon continues to work in San Diego is because we have to shoulder the burden of paying for his health insurance—individually. You may define ‘family’ however you’d like. Likewise, you may claim that my bed is ‘defiled.’ That won’t rattle me. However, don’t claim that I’m immoral. I’m an honest and hard working community member, tax payer, brother, nephew, friend, neighbor, professor, committee member, partner, and father. I’m gravely offended when it is assumed that my family requires justification while none others do.

"A statement was made in this discussion that ‘to grant benefits to someone simply because they cohabit seems immoral ... and unfair to people who live moral lives.’ The fallacious assumption resting behind this statement is that all non-married couples do is ‘cohabit.’ I suggest that the question is not and should not be ‘Who is moral and who is immoral?’ The question is and should be ‘What is fair?’ I’m just not sure that a college with a non-discrimination policy which includes sexual orientation ought to be in the business of deciding which families are legitimate and valuable and which ones are not." I signed it Johnnie D. Terry "Well, what do you think?" I asked Trish.

"This is easy for me to say, Johnnie, because it isn’t me." She paused. "Send it." My finger depressed the left-click on the mouse. For the first time ever, the spell check found no errors. The envelope icon on my computer flew off screen.

"It’s here," Trish said. I shut down my computer and went home to my family. That night, I checked my email from home. The "All Subscribers" debate had fizzled shortly after my response. The opposition was silent.

My personal email, however, was full. At least two dozen messages waited to be read—all of them supportive. "Your family sounds wonderful," one person said. "Though I’ve never met you, I respect you a great deal," said another. Many claimed that I was courageous. Several told me that my message touched them deeply. The next day, I found it difficult to traverse the campus due to all of the faculty and staff members wanting to shake my hand. I continued to receive profoundly supportive emails and several lesbians came out to "All Subscribers." At graduation, a psychology professor greeted me with "What a hullabaloo—all so that Jon could get a flu shot." We laughed together. The response to my message was wonderful!

I would like to be able to say after all this that we now have benefits, but the wheels of justice turn slowly. The semester ended, and the college dismissed for the summer.

The negotiations committee doesn’t meet again until September. I’ve spoken with Luis, and he tells me that the committee must face the issue now. I’ve also spoken to the director of diversity on campus. She tells me that she’s hopeful. She doesn’t see how the benefits could be denied especially since we have a non-discrimination policy that includes sexual orientation. Seemingly, coming out has been successful, however, all is not rosy—at least not yet. I know those who sought me out to shake my hand. I can’t see those who didn’t. I don’t know what others think when they see me now. I don’t know how my work on campus will be affected by my disclosure and silent politics. Recently in our immediate area, Jewish synagogues and an abortion clinic were targets of fire bombing.

No, it is too early to claim any sort of victory. I only know what I think—that my life is not a "dirty little secret." That the only effective resistance against ignorance is to put a human face on the damnable label. That confession is essential for progress. This isn’t the old priestly or psychiatric form of confession, however, this confession is no longer intended to cure the confessor. Rather, this confession is intended to cure the confessee. Being out on campus is at once satisfying and scary. It liberates me from the burden of self-censorship. It makes me "normal." At the same time, however, it renders both me and my family vulnerable. Ironically, the "family values" opposition constitutes a threat to the well being of my family. Nevertheless, the only tenable option is progress. Hiding quietly assures the victory of the status quo. Hence it seems that the old adage about working "out" applies—No pain, no gain.

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