AFTER
ALMOST
A
decade
of
editing
gay
newspapers,
this
was
the
year
that
our
struggle
against
ignorance
and
intolerance
for
me
became
personal—really
personal.
For
most
of
my
30s,
covering
our
fight
for
equality
and
fairness,
from
government
and
from
society,
was
more
a
matter
of
principle.
If
you
believe
in
American
and
Judeo-Christian
values,
and
I
do,
then
you
believe
that
informing
people
about
the
injustices
of
the
world
is
the
first
and
most
important
step
toward
correcting
them.
I
have
never
approached
this
task
with
rose-colored
glasses.
I
have
lived
almost
all
my
life
in
the
Deep
South,
and
I
know
a
thing
or
two
about
how
misguided
even
good
people
can
be
about
our
lives
and
our
“agenda.”
But
each
and
every
week,
as
we
reported
about
hate
crimes
and
unjust
laws,
I
felt
mostly
empathy.
Not
anymore.
On
April
30,
2005,
the
same
month
I
turned
40,
my
boyfriend
and
I
were
beaten
by
seven
young
Moroccan
men
on
the
streets
of
Amsterdam,
of
all
places,
because
we
were
holding
each
other’s
hand.
And
because
we
had
the
temerity
to
stop
and
ask
why
one
of
them
had
spat
in
my
face
for
doing
so.
I
wrote
about
that
experience
on
this
page,
and
since
then
my
boyfriend
and
I
have
both
been
gratified
by
the
overwhelming
support
we
received
from
gay
and
straight
alike,
over
in
Holland
and
back
here
in
the
States.
My
broken
nose
and
black
eyes
have
long
ago
healed,
and
the
city
of
Amsterdam
invited
us
back
for
a
truly
wonderful
Gay
Pride
celebration
in
August,
but
the
emotional
scars
remain.
Like
any
victim
of
a
violent
crime
will
tell
you,
there
is
a
certain
amount
of
involuntary
recall,
where
time
and
again,
when
I
least
expect
it,
I
relive
every
moment
of
what
happened,
and
its
aftermath.
I
also
learned
the
hard
way
how
the
impact
of
hate
crimes
is
felt
differently,
and
more
broadly,
than
other
violent
crimes.
Not
only
do
I
use
extra
caution
on
the
streets,
but
I
often
flashback
to
that
night
in
Leidseplein
when
a
male
friend
gives
me
a
public
peck
on
the
lips
hello,
or
when
my
boyfriend
reaches
for
my
hand
on
the
sidewalk.
We
weren’t
just
beaten
up
for
being
gay.
We
were
beaten
up
because
we
were
gay
and
so
nonchalantly
open
about
it,
with
the
expectation
that
we
could
live
our
lives
under
the
same
rules
of
social
conduct
as
any
straight
couple
would.
The
message
from
the
men
who
cowardly
attacked
us
was
to
go
back
in
the
closet
where
we
belong,
or
face
the
consequences,
even
in
the
“gay
capital
of
the
world,”
in
the
first
country
to
open
up
civil
marriage.
BUT
A
BEATING
on
the
streets
of
Amsterdam
wasn’t
the
only
lesson
my
boyfriend
and
I
received
this
year
about
homophobia.
Our
very
relationship
is
challenged
by
homophobia
and
intolerance.
We
are
citizens
of
different
countries,
and
he
cannot
move
to
the
U.S.
because
this
country
does
not
recognize
our
relationship.
In
1996,
a
Republican
Congress
passed
the
Defense
of
Marriage
Act,
and
“gay-friendly”
Bill
Clinton
signed
it,
and
as
a
result,
our
relationship
works
against
his
ability
to
come
to
America,
even
as
a
tourist.
He
lives
in
a
developing
country,
and
any
proof
of
ties
to
the
U.S.,
especially
a
romantic
relationship,
would
be
viewed
as
evidence
he
will
overstay
his
visa,
and
it
would
be
denied.
But
the
irony
is
even
more
twisted
than
that.
He
lives
in
a
country
where
hostility
toward
gays
is
so
great,
and
the
fear
of
violence
is
so
real,
that
even
the
Bush
administration
regularly
approves
asylum
applications
for
gays
from
his
country
already
in
the
U.S.
At
the
same
time,
the
government
in
his
country
is
enlightened
enough
to
be
one
of
17
worldwide
that
would
recognize
our
relationship
for
immigration
purposes.
So
I
could
move
to
his
country,
an
involuntary
exile
like
countless
other
gay
Americans
in
binational
relationships,
and
risk
reliving
Amsterdam
in
all
too
vivid
detail.
Or
I
could
remain
here
in
the
U.S.,
and
live
the
daily
struggle
of
an
intercontinental
long-distance
relationship.
IT’S
NOT
JUST
my
relationship
to
my
boyfriend
that
was
dealt
a
personal
blow
by
intolerance
and
prejudice
this
year.
My
relationships
with
my
faith
and
my
family
were
impacted
as
well.
This
was
the
year
when
I
officially
renounced
my
membership
in
the
United
Methodist
Church,
the
faith
that
was
so
central
to
my
childhood
and
...
