In which I am grateful for my father

A GROUP FROM MY CHURCH back home put a proposal in favor of same-sex marriage before the church's vestry, which is like the church's board of directors.

My mom has been involved in the effort from the beginning, which is wonderful, if not entirely surprising: her middle initial, L, effectively stands for liberal. The woman has never met a minority group she didn't adore, which she made abundantly clear by attending a gay pride parade just weeks after I came out, and years before I could have stepped foot near a leather daddy wearing chaps and nipple clamps.

On the day of the presentation to the vestry, however, my mom, who is a member of the city's school board, had a last minute meeting to save public education, and was forced to pull out of the presentation.

Then something even better happened: my dad agreed to attend. He even agreed to speak in her place.

I can't tell you how proud this made me. My father never makes public statements on political issues, and his private statements on, say, foreign policy have been known to include the statement "Bomb the bastards back to the Stone Age." Moreover, like any good Yankee, the man has a strict "Don't ask, don't tell" policy when it comes to sexuality - homo or otherwise.

What's amazing to me is that my parents, while motivated by my stake in the issue, both made it clear that they aren't doing this on my behalf. For them, this is about doing what's right, what's just, and what's good.

I want to share what my father said said because it's beautiful.

(Warning: there are a few sentences where he goes on as fathers will about their children. I am not trying to be immodest in posting those sentiments; I'd prefer to share this whole cloth).

I am not here this evening to speak as a member of the St. Francis parish, although I have been for a quarter century.

Nor am I here to speak as the father of a son who is gay, who I love beyond any words. That said, when I think of him, I think of Ernest Hemingway’s profound observation that “Courage is grace under pressure.” The courage and grace he has shown in dealing with his sexuality - first to his family, then to his friends, and then to the great unknown that is society - leaves me in awe. I don’t know if I could have ever summoned his strength and his belief in the essential goodness of people.

No, tonight I’d like to speak with you about a matter that goes beyond St. Francis and the Episcopal Church, but strikes to the most American of values. We are a people who believe deeply in fairness and equality. They are qualities that more than two centuries ago sparked a flame that allowed the rest of the world to dream of - and embrace - democracy and which make us a universal symbol of hope to this day.

No one wakes up in the morning and decides they want to be gay. Why would they want to be loathed by people who don’t know anything about their dreams and hopes and fears? Why would they want to be the subject of cultural ridicule? And why, finally, would they be willing to face discrimination from the institutions they value most, including their church where, in my son's case, he was Baptized, received First Holy Communion, and served as an Acolyte before he outgrew the robes.

I am not well-versed in the intricacies of Episcopal dogma or politics, either at the international, national or, most importantly, local level - and honestly, they don’t particularly interest me. What I am concerned about is this fundamental issue of humanity.

In 1966, Bobby Kennedy traveled to South Africa, a country then suffocating under the boot of their loathsome and, ultimately, self-destructive, policy of Apartheid. Kennedy spoke at the University of Capetown and said this:

“It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

Today, the question before us is more subtle but it calls to us the same essential questions Bob Kennedy asked:

If not now, when? And if not here, where?

Up on the roof, arising a clatter.

IT WAS ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL CHRISTMAS at the Wizzle home. We woke up early, my brother and sister upstairs in their bedrooms, me on the foldout downstairs now that my bedroom is my father's office. (I am not at all bitter about this). By the time all us kids were ready to go, my father had already been awake hours - I know because he, as usual, turned on the TV and started unloading the dishwasher hours before sunrise. (Again, not at all bitter).

We have a sacred Christmas morning tradition at the Wizzle home, one that must be upheld regardless of where one sleeps. Only half awake, I stumbled upstairs, careful not to look at the tree. The three of us queued up at the top of the stairs and closed our eyes, then my mom led us all down the stairs until we were all facing the tree.

"Open your eyes."

We all "Ooh" and "Aah" over the presents and the tree, and tell my parents what a beautiful job they've done again this year. My parents stand there beaming, and look at each other, my father clasping his hands together, shoulders a little hunched, my mother stepping in closer to him. They are proud and satisfied and happy. It's the best part of Christmas.


THAT IS, UNTIL WE start opening presents. You should see this hoody jacket my brother gave me! This shit is so fly. I put it on, and instantly felt beautiful.

The other gift of the day was from my sister and her boyfriend to my parents. It was this gorgeous decanter they'd all seen at a silent auction a few weeks back. My parents had bid twice on it, but were ultimately outbid. Thinking hope was lost, Jeff says to my sister, "Why don't we win it and give it for Christmas?" (The guy's racking up point's left and right, starting with when he stepped out of his jeep to meet my parents for the fist time. I was on the phone with my mom at the time, and when she sees him she goes, "Oh! He's cute... oh... okay... oh my... okay, I need to go.")

From there, we get all dressed up in our new clothes, stand around the tree, take a picture, and call it a day.


Merry Christmas.

Nick Pitera - "Silent Night"

If you shut your eyes, it's remarkable.

Getta getta a dissaway?

AMONG THE MANY WORDS of widsom that my father has spoken over the years, "You know you know but you don't know" is surely one of my favorites. It's either entirely nonsensical, or it's a brilliant reduction of Faith. Given, however, that it was generally muttered when one of us kids did something moronic, I'm going to lean towards the second.

Another winner, "Boys are like streetcars: when one passes you by, there's another coming around the bend," has held me in good stead as well, perhaps because it leads to the obvious corrollary that boys are easy to flag down and ride.

Perhaps my favorite, however, is the old Wizzle family addage, "Better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you're an idiot than open it and prove them right." Poor Britney Spears needed this advice, and she needed it bad. My girl released a demo track full of actual gibberish.

The beat is kind of hot, but what is happening here? Is the track waiting on a songwriter? Maybe it's some sort of commentary on the vacuous nature of most pop music. Like, let's just give up on lyrics entirely, put on some ripped fishnet stockings, bare our navels, hump around a stripper pole, and sell ten million copies on iTunes.

Leave it to some poor drag queen to choreograph a "routine" to this mess. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Miss Britney Houston.

Britney Houston - "DFA Demo (by Britney Spears)"

"He hit my heart/And he hit me hard."

This drag queen also goes by Lil Britney, and she did an amazing video remix of Lil Mama's "Lip Gloss."

Lil Britney - "Lip Gloss (by Lil Mama)"

But where's the bubblemaker this time?

Hook me up with some high quality footwear, hokie!

MY LITTLE BROTHER, who's graduating from high school next week, wears these moccasins all the time, including out and about in public. It's one of the things that makes him cool, because if you think about it, it takes some serious balls to wear slippers out in public, much less to an urban public high school.

This winter, he had the following exchange.

"Yo! Where'd you get those kicks?"

"Um... L.L. Bean?"

White people!

Just 2 Guys

"Spinach dip, real hot chicks."

While I'm talking about my brother, he and a couple of his friends formed a fake rap group called The Wang Gang. Spectacular. Unfortunately, they can't post any of the videos to the Tube because one of the members is a potential future Olympian (for real) with potential future real endorsement deals. Wah wah.

But this should give you some idea of what they're all about.

Bing Bong Brothers

"You guys..."

Go turn on my tree

SEASONALLY INAPPROPRIATE, but who's keeping track?



My mother has a similar obsession with Christmas trees. Every year she becomes unreasonably attached to the idea of the perfect tree. The woman can point out a tree's bare patches like none other. We all stand around at the tree place while she has our tree attendant and/or my father shake the tree's branches free, then walk it in a circle so she can take a good look. Despite her best efforts, once the tree opens, there's usually lopsided patch anyway, which we have to hide with the bigger ornaments.

Every year, my parents fail to account for our enormous tree stand and inevitably wind up buying a tree that is at least six inches too tall. Turning the tree upright always scrapes the ceiling, which leads to a bout of muttered cursing by my father -- usually of my mother, who insisted that a smaller tree would be diminuative in our GIANT CONNECTICUT HOME. He then has to chop the top foot off the tree in order to affix the star at the top.