On purpose

“I love you on purpose.” Emma, age 3 ½

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you find a nugget of hope and inspiration in the most unlikely of places. I found mine with a stack of French toast at a breakfast outing a few weeks ago with some much younger women – twin sisters Emma and Molly. Their mom shared the story of Emma recently declaring that she loved her “on purpose.” Mommy was very touched, of course, but also a bit bemused, and questioned Emma if she knew what “on purpose” meant – to which Emma quickly replied, “I mean it.” Gulp.

Emma’s beautiful words have challenged me. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to love on purpose – in the big picture, as in the world – and specifically, the United States. Some days, I feel like Ouiser from Steel Magnolias who famously declared, “I’m not crazy – I’ve just been in a very bad mood for 40 years.” My bad mood is only going on six years and its origin story can be directly traced to November 8^th, 2016. Like so many good souls, I went through the five stages of grief after Hillary’s loss to Donald Trump. You know them – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The problem is that four (it only felt like 37) years of Trump made me relapse into a permanent state of stage two – anger. Joe Biden’s victory in 2020 granted me a brief sabbatical from my fury, but not a total absence – my anger was more like a simmering sauce pan on the back of the stove for a few months.

That saucepan has morphed into a full-blown dumpster fire the past several weeks – beginning with the horrific school shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, TX. I learned of the carnage the afternoon before my dear wife and I were departing on a two-week vacation to the Pacific Northwest with our good friends Lori and Sue. Suddenly, picking out the right shoes to pack didn’t seem so important anymore. We had planned to watch the series finale of This is Us that evening and had joked that nothing says leaving on vacation like a good cry. Ironically, This is Us, premiering in the fall of 2016, became a balm for many of us during the dark chaos of Trump’s reign of terror. The fictional Pearson family often reminded us of the unexpected joys in everyday life. Yes, they also made us ugly cry every single time (dammit). True story – my wife and I would joke that “we hate this show” every time we cried – sometimes even before the opening credits were finished. But that was okay – we needed a safe place to cry, and the Pearsons were there for us for six moist seasons.

We didn’t watch This is Us that evening, but we cried plenty of tears watching the news coverage of the massacre of 19 children and two teachers. I don’t have children and I always think of my younger friends who have school aged kids when these shootings happen – over and over again. I often wonder what my parents worried about when they sent me and my siblings off to school. They might have been anxious about us getting hurt playing sports or not doing well on a math test, but the idea of some other kid with an AR-15 rifle mowing us down was beyond their wildest nightmares.

Our flight to Seattle left early the next morning and I felt a bit relieved – and guilty – that I would be away from the news cycle for six hours or so. My wife and I usually reserve two aisle seats on flights – they provide a little more leg room and you have at least an outside chance that the middle seat might be empty for your flight. After I sat down, I started my usual screening of the folks filing towards me down the aisle. You know the routine – you really hope that frazzled mother with the cranky baby is not your seat mate. And you really hope it’s not the dude in the Dockers who screams manspreader and will knock you out slinging his carry-on bag into the overhead bin. I lucked out and got seatmates right out of central casting for the reboot of Dawson’s Creek. The pair were a young couple in their very early 20’s. The guy even looked like Kevin Pearson – the younger version – and he was completely unaffected by his good looks. His girlfriend was beautiful, too, and wearing shorty shorts – the kind I was never comfortable in even when I was 10. I usually give an eyeroll to this sort of airline attire, but she looked like she was on her way to pick flowers for her grandmother – just that creamy perfect skin and an irresistible smile. They apologized for making me have to get up so they could take their seats, and I could feel myself smiling too much at my good fortune.

**Even at 30,000 feet, the grief was palpable.**

I was a bit apprehensive that there might be a lot of PDAS between these lovebirds on the long flight – nobody wants to see that. They did hold hands a lot and giggle softly in each other’s ears and for a few precious hours, I believed that love could heal our broken world. And then they shared a pair of earbuds to watch a movie on one of their phones – Finding Nemo. I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Seriously? They were so freaking cute together. I wanted to get the addresses of their parents and write them thank you notes for creating two such lovely humans. They appeared so unblemished from cynicism. They were like that perfect new composition book you carried with you on the first day of 7^th grade – full of possibilities just waiting to be written.

**Spoiler alert: Dawson and Joey end up together in the reboot.**

As we began our descent into Seattle, you could see the snow-covered crest of magnificent Mount Rainier appear. Young Kevin was snapping pictures out of his window seat, and I leaned over and asked if he would take a few on my phone for me. He smiled that sparkly smile and chirped, “Yes, ma’am.” And that didn’t even annoy me. I was invested in this young couple’s future – or at least, their trip to Seattle. I got a grip on myself and dialed it down as I said goodbye when our flight deboarded. They were probably climbing Mount Rainier later that afternoon. Anyway, I hope they can change the world with their bright spirits.

**Depoe Bay, Oregon. Why don’t I live there?**

And so, our great Pacific Northwest adventure began and something truly remarkable happened. I did not turn on a television for two weeks and somehow Nicolle Wallace and the rest of the MSNBC tribe managed without me. I read the headlines on my NYTimes app, but that was it. My screen time was filled with mountains, waterfalls, forests, flowers, coastlines and vineyards. I have been to Seattle a couple of times but had never been to Oregon – big mistake. Huge. I was absolutely gobsmacked (you don’t get many chances to use that word) by the breathtaking beauty of the state. I was totally immersed in nature, okay, and a fair amount of pinot noir, and I felt better than I had in months.

I was also touched by the genuine kindness of so many folks we met along our journey. Sure, we saw plenty of hipsters, but mostly a lot of outdoorsy people who were friendly and laid back. They just go with the flow out there – literally. Rain does not prevent Oregonians from hiking, biking or anything else. I love that! They don’t bother with umbrellas because, well, they’re a pain and it rains a lot. I think they know how lucky they are to live there so they’re just naturally kind of happy. A craft beer bar and a coffee shop every 30 yards might have something to do with it, too.

One day in the Willamette (rhymes with dammit) Valley, we had planned to have a picnic lunch at a vineyard but learned upon our arrival that they did not allow outside food. We turned around and drove a bit before we pulled off onto a dusty patch next to a silo. We were unpacking our picnic when a guy in a pickup truck pulled up near us. I immediately went into full Ouiser mode preparing my retort for when he told us we couldn’t park there. Then the guy smiled at us and asked if we were lost. He said, “I saw you turn around up there and I wondered if you needed directions.” That’s the part in the cartoon where the dumbass (me) character’s face turns into an actual heel. I was disappointed in myself that anger was my default before I even knew what this man wanted with us. Wine country is a small world and the next day we ran into the same guy at Laurel Ridge Winery. He recognized us from the day before and said, “Hi, I’m Lucas – I’m the winemaker here.” I tried to make amends for misjudging him the day before by buying six bottles of his wine. Some apologies are easier to swallow than others.

**Wine bandits. Give us your pinot and no one gets hurt.**

The morning we left Oregon to return home, I took a walk on the beach by myself. We were staying in a very cool Airbnb in the tiny town of Netarts at the mouth of Netarts Bay on the edge of the coastal rainforest. I called it Pop-tarts because I’m goofy like that. The coastline is dazzlingly beautiful – so pure and untarnished – sort of like that young couple on the plane. I stood on the beach and tried to commit to memory everything I was feeling in that moment – the cool air on my face, the sound of the birds, the gentle lapping of the water. It was the one souvenir I wanted to take home with me – peace – and maybe a shred of hope that maybe we the people don’t have to keep screwing everything up.

**The last time I wasn’t hot. Netarts Bay, Oregon.**

Reentry into my real life was harsh. We returned to a heat wave and my car had to go in the shop for five weeks. Oh, and the Supreme Court went on a justice bender and overturned Roe v. Wade and Justice Clarence Thomas intimated that same-sex marriage could be on the chopping block next. And there were more shootings – and more shootings – and more disturbing revelations from the January 6^th Committee. My moment of Zen from Netarts became a distant memory. I felt like so many of the things I had worked for most of my adult life as an activist were circling the drain.

And then I had breakfast with a couple of three-and-a-half-year-olds who seem wise beyond their years. Children are so present – what a gift that we alleged grown-ups abandon so easily. All that mattered to those two in that moment were the stuffed beavers we had brought them back from Oregon. Hey, I may not have children, but I do know how to get on their good side.

Beavers, sticky fingers, lots of giggles and a side order of inspiration were just what my weary spirit needed that morning. So, lately I’ve been trying to listen to my inner-child and put Ouiser on mute. I know it’s a tough challenge – I was a grouchy old woman long before my time – but I’m trying to be more present to the everyday gifts this broken beautiful world can offer.

I’ll keep trying. I mean it.

**I’m delighted to report that the beavers are very happy in their new habitat.**

Night swimming

This might sound strange, but I have been sleeping better during this pandemic. Of course, there is a low bar for strange these days – and months. I’ve suffered with insomnia for several years. I fall asleep okay and then I find myself eyes wide open at 3:00 AM. I usually drag myself to the couch while my dear wife sleeps like a drunken sailor. She sleeps better than any person still alive and it makes me freaking jealous.

Pandemic sleep for me has been very deep. Remember diving for quarters in the deep end of the pool when you were a kid? It was such fun and I loved that sensation of swimming closer to the bottom – feeling the water getting colder and the sounds from above becoming more muffled. I could hold my breath for a surprisingly long time and I often went home with the most quarters.

My dreams have run the gamut from sweet to crazy to frightening to funny. Just last night I dreamed I was hanging out with Nicolle Wallace from MSNBC. Yes, she is my spirit animal but that’s just funny. I call these my Insta Dreams because I follow these folks on Instagram. The best one so far was a few weeks ago when JLo and I were sitting on a patio and I was telling her how much I loved her Super Bowl appearance and that I named my new car after her. She got me.

I have dreamed a lot about my dead parents over the past few months. I am grateful that these dreams have been peaceful and comforting. In most of them, we are together and doing something quite ordinary – like making dinner.

The other night, I dreamed I was with my mother in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. I was telling her goodbye because I was heading back home. In this dream, I lived in California which is pretty cool because I’ve always dreamed of living there. I guess that falls under wishful dreaming. Anyway, my mother was wearing a dark blue velour robe – which was historically accurate – and we hugged for a very long time. Almost as long as I could hold my breath in the deep end all those years ago.

I’ve dreamed of former partners – one sweet, one not – again, historically accurate – and friends I haven’t seen in years. A few nights ago, I was on the Metro in DC with Ann and Cathy, two much younger women I worked with over 20 years ago. We were chatting away like it was yesterday, and the cherry blossoms were in bloom. That period I lived in DC was one of the happiest times of my life and it was lovely to revisit it in a dream.

Of course, not all my dreams have been sweet. I’ve dreamed a lot about broken relationships with family and friends that remain unmended. Some nights I feel like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life reviewing all the what ifs of my life. These dreams are distressing and yet I linger in them and when I wake, I am often filled with regret and despair and this pandemic feels even more ominous to me. The hangover of these dreams can last a while and I carry a heaviness throughout the day. I feel like I’m wearing one of those lead aprons they put on you when you get an X-ray at the dentist’s office. Those days are longer than most.

George Bailey. My dream doppelganger some nights.

I have spent a lot of time pondering what these dreams mean and I always come back to mortality and the unfinished things in my life. Light, right? Sometimes I wish I were a puzzle person – that seems like a far less bleak pandemic activity than pondering one’s own mortality, but I don’t have the patience for that. I think about trying to put the pieces of those broken relationships back together, but it feels so overwhelming – a 5,000-piece puzzle of the color white.

This is one of the five – and counting – puzzles my friend Chris has completed during lockdown.

So, I write to try and help me make some sense of these things that make no sense these days. My friend, Jen, is a professor of English literature at UNCG. She is the kind of smart that makes you feel like your brain is not set on the same speed as hers. She is always taking notes – as if to not miss anything – and she recently wrote a beautiful essay, “Finding the Courage to Write.” Click on the title to read it – and I really hope you do. Jen talks about writing against the despair of this pandemic and connecting with as many others as you can. I love that phrase – “writing against the despair” – it feels hopeful and makes me feel like if I keep writing, I can hold my breath long enough to make it back to the surface with that quarter safely in my hand.

Keep swimming against the despair, friends.

Taking flight

I don’t know about you, but for me, this pandemic has been a daily roller coaster ride. And I hate roller coasters. I try to start out most days with a moderately positive attitude so I can navigate the deep dips that may come – as they invariably do. Yesterday, was a most pleasant reversal of this ride – more like a Ferris wheel. And I love Ferris wheels.

Yesterday morning, I was below ground level after my weekly trip to the grocery store. And honestly, it had nothing to do with the grocery store, but the unmasked shoppers I encountered. I just don’t get it! What is so hard about wearing a mask? I had a running conversation with myself as I passed person after person without a mask. The twenty-something guy without one – stupid or just arrogant? Probably both. The old – like really old people – not wearing one. Death wish? Resignation? I had no answers, but plenty of side-eye as I passed the unmasked. Unfortunately, my side-eye, rather legendary, has apparently been rendered ineffective behind the veil of a mask.

Red state. Blue state. United States. Just wear the freaking mask!

I was just so damn mad and disgusted when I left the grocery store that I decided I needed what my dear wife likes to call a “corrective” experience. I ran home to give the groceries a quick Silkwood scrubdown and decided to take a drive to a local strawberry farm to pick up some seasonal deliciousness. This farm advertised drive-thru pickup, so I felt relatively comfortable with the outing.

It was a magnificent spring day – a Tarheel blue sky that NC is famous for. I made myself not listen to MSNBC on my Apple CarPlay on the ride out to the country and went with the Joni Mitchell channel on Spotify. Good call, right? I could feel my mask malaise dissipating as I turned down the little dirt road to the farm. I was greeted by a young man – wearing a MASK, thank you – holding a box of beautiful strawberries. He greeted me kindly and asked what I would like. I said, “Those.” I gave him my debit card – he ran it – and just like that I was driving home with my strawberries riding shotgun.

Mother Nature is a remarkable thing. As I looked back at the field of strawberries, COVID-19 felt far away – sort of like when you look down at the ground when you get to the top of a Ferris wheel. It was a feeling as sweet as those berries on the seat next to me.

I kept listening to music on my way back to town and decided to really live it up and go through the Starbucks drive-through for a cappuccino. I pulled into the parking lot and there were just a few cars ahead of me. I was on a roll. I ordered and when I got to the window, a very friendly young man – MASKED, thank you – handed me a perfect dry cappuccino – just like I like it. For the uninitiated, a dry cappuccino has less milk than a standard one and is topped off with a thick layer of milk foam. You can tell immediately if it has been made correctly when you lift the cup – it feels half-empty – just like the one in my hand. How high could this day go?

I was feeling so good that I decided to leave my bestie Carla a Marco Polo message. Marco Polo is a video chat app that lets you send messages back and forth with folks. As a dinosaur, the only Marco Polo I was familiar with was that annoying tag game we played in the pool when we were kids, but Carla keeps me young and on Day 2 of quarantine, she made me download the app. It has been our most used mode of communication these past two months. I like that it is so in the moment – good, bad, and ugly – and it has really kept us connected. A few weeks in of Poloing (our word) – Carla upped her game and started sending me videos of her playing the guitar and singing. This was a surprise to me because I didn’t know she could do either of those things, much less so well. We call these videos “Kiki’s Coffeehouse” – and I love them. It’s so fun to get a personal tiny desk concert now and then.

My last few Polos to Carla had been rather blue, so I wanted to share my up morning with her. While I was recording my video, I noticed that a lot of people were pulling into the parking lot next to Starbucks. Then I noticed two firetrucks and several police cars. I finished my chat and looked around to see lots of people standing by their cars staring up at the sky. Did I miss a pandemic eclipse? Then I remembered that the NC National Guard’s Airlift Wing was conducting flyover salutes to medical staff and other frontline workers. Somehow, I had landed smack dab in the perfect viewing site. Could this day get any better? Yes, it would.

I got out of my car – with my MASK – and surveyed the crowd. And it was a crowd. Families with little kids, lots of law enforcement as spectators, but running the lights on their cars to make it all a bit more festive. There was that excitement in the air you feel on the 4^th of July while you’re waiting for the fireworks to begin or the parade to start. People were happy and talking to each other in that benign friendly way we speak to strangers. I had a nice chat (socially distanced) with an older man wearing a Marine baseball cap.

I looked over across the street to the parking deck of Wake Forest Baptist Hospital and saw a huge group of hospital workers (DEFINITELY MASKED) standing by the wall looking up toward the sky. And that’s when I got the first lump in my throat. Then I heard a loud roar from the sky and there it was – coming right at us – a huge C-17 airplane. Disclaimer: I know less about planes than I do about cars – which is nothing. I looked it up. The C-17 is a large military transport aircraft.

It was so close I felt like I was ducking when it raced over my head. And then I heard people clapping and cheering. And that’s when the lump in my throat came out as tears – lots of them. What was this familiar feeling that started in my toes and rose to fill my heart? It was that feeling you get when the National Anthem plays before a football game. Goosebumps. That feeling of being an American. God, I haven’t felt that feeling in so very long. It was glorious and I didn’t want it to be over. No one did. Everyone lingered long after the plane was gone – not wanting to go back – to where we are now.

This pandemic has felt so different than 9/11. I mean, of course, it is different, but there has not been that tsunami of unity that a lot of us felt after that unspeakable tragedy. It might have been for just a few weeks, it’s easy to romanticize compared to our current shit show, but it felt like for a very long time, we were connected as Americans. I wonder if those not of age then will ever experience such a feeling. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever know that feeling again.

But I did – yesterday. And after I had sucked in every breath of that magical moment, I finally got back in my car to drive home. I turned Spotify back on and what song was playing? Carolina in My Mind. Even I couldn’t make that up.

Sweet baby James makes everything better.

I stayed in the top car of that Ferris wheel the rest of the day, letting my feet dangle with not a worry in the world – smiling down at what I had been so deeply missing. My country.

The view from the top is beautiful. Old Glory.

Walking my way home

My version of the Park and Walk. Bucket hat optional.

I drive to a lovely historic neighborhood near my condo to walk almost every day because where I live doesn’t have sidewalks. Today, I was halfway there when I realized that I had forgotten to put my Fitbit on my wrist. I almost turned around to go home and get it until that tiny voice of reason in my head said, “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

Bad attitude.

I started my current walking practice – and that’s what it is for me – about a year into Trump’s presidency. Prior to the electoral apocalypse, I would mostly get my exercise at the gym near my home. I would listen to a playlist on my iPhone while I did the cross trainer for 45 minutes or so, but even with my ear buds on, I could not avoid the sea of televisions hanging above me like Mission Control. Almost all the sets were turned to cable news and invariably, I would see the BREAKING NEWS crawl on every screen and even though I couldn’t hear what the announcers were saying, it made me anxious – even MSNBC – my propaganda of choice. I would leave the gym filled with sweaty angst. Trust me, not a good look.

Must Not See TV.

I just couldn’t take it anymore and decided that I needed a more nurturing venue for exercise. So, I started walking. I mean seriously walking because, well, it’s not like I haven’t been walking for several decades. Now I don’t mean power walking. I certainly respect your choice if this is your deal, but power walking is just too portentous for me. And besides, it makes me flat-out giggle.

My sister-in-law got a Fitbit a few Christmases ago and crushed her step goal every day and got into great shape. I was still not convinced I wanted or needed another device to keep charged and updated, but when I made a break from the Television Zone at the gym, I decided I might as well measure my efforts each day.

If only it were that easy.

At first, I really liked the Fitbit. It was kind of fun to see how far I could go without collapsing and it is certainly a very encouraging and friendly device. It shoots off a display of fireworks and vibrates when you reach the all important 10,000 steps and sends you fun badges each time you hit a milestone. I was a Girl Scout, so the badge incentive really appealed to me. The Fitbit also gently nudges you to get up and walk every hour. And it keeps track of things like your resting heart rate and how you slept. I don’t really enjoy that feature because I don’t need empirical data to tell me that I don’t sleep well so I usually take it off when I go to bed.

I count sheep, but still see red.

I also don’t wear it out like a regular watch. It’s not at all pretty and I enjoy wearing a nice watch when I’m not exercising. Yes, I know Fitbits come in pretty colors now, but at the end of the day it’s still a device and not a fashionable accessory. This is not negotiable.

Wonder Woman kicks Fitbit’s ass.

The Fitbit does reinforce discipline which has never been my strong suit – so I do appreciate that, or I did, until today. Today, I just walked – naked if you will. Just me and my podcast. And it was delightful. I wasn’t checking my wrist every so often to see how far I had gone – or how far I had to go. I just walked like in the olden days before Fitbit.

It was a gorgeous spring day – finally – warm and sunny and bursting with colors. I passed the tennis courts on my usual route and saw a tennis ball on the sidewalk in front of me. There were several folks playing doubles on the courts near me and someone must have lobbed one over the fence. I thought I should be a nice person and toss the errant ball back closer to the courts, but I guess I’m not that nice and I decided to pick it up and keep walking. And then I did something I haven’t done in years – I started bouncing the ball while I walked. And gosh darn, it was fun.

Multi-tasking.

So, I kept walking and bouncing my way along and I felt like a 12-year-old – only 12-year-olds don’t really bounce anymore unless it’s on an app. I finished one podcast and started another and saw the time on my phone. I had been walking about an hour and twenty minutes – pretty much my usual trek, but somehow, I had enjoyed it more.

I got back to my car and pondered what to do with the contraband tennis ball. Yep, I’m keeping it – right there in one of the cup holders. I definitely see more bouncing in my future.

I’m also going to try and be more mindful of why I started walking in the first place. There’s a rhythm to distance walking that I find very settling and peaceful. And I often feel connected to the other folks I pass along the way – strangers mostly, but we almost always acknowledge each other with a smile or hello. It makes me feel happy and I don’t have a clue what cable news they watch.

I just hope ya’ll are way better with directions than I am.

The spiritual teacher and author Ram Dass says that on our good days we’re all just walking each other home. I like to think this is true. And I love being outside with the birds and trees and so many delightful discoveries. I started taking pictures on my walks and posting them on Instagram with the tag #walkinginardmore. I often write in my head when I walk, and I love getting lost in the words and images. My intention is for these posts to convey hope and kindness and maybe even a smidge of joy – so many of those precious things that have been stifled for what feels like a very long time.

Here are a few gems that caught my eye over the past several months and they are all way better than BREAKING NEWS:

I love finding these treasures on my walks and most days when I finish, I feel more grounded than when I started. That said, I have no plans to kick my Fitbit to the curb any time soon. It helps keep me honest about regular exercise and no harm can come from that. No, I’m just going to try to remember today’s lesson: Walk like no one’s counting.

Just do it.

Pearl of wisdom

Pearl Berlin.

I suppose we’re lucky if we ever get to meet our heroes much less actually know them. They always appear larger than life – not to scale like us mere mortals.

I never met Harvey Milk – he died at the hands of an assassin in 1978, long before I ever dreamed of coming out as a lesbian. And yet, he changed my life in immeasurable ways. He was the first openly gay elected official in the state of California and is still regarded as the most influential LGBT activist in history.

Harvey Milk.

I have often turned to his voice for inspiration when I have felt defeated and depleted in the long march to equality for LGBT Americans.

All men are created equal. No matter how hard they try, they can never erase those words. That is what America is about.

I didn’t know Edie Windsor either, but this late octogenarian paved the way for the dissolution of DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act) and the legalization of same-sex marriage. And it all began because she thought it wasn’t fair that she should have to pay almost $400,000 in estate taxes when her spouse of over 40 years died in 2009.

Edie’s words have also encouraged and sustained me as I wondered if I would ever see marriage equality in my lifetime.

Edie Windsor.

Marriage is a magic word. And it is magic throughout the world. It has to do with our dignity as human beings, to be who we are openly.

Well, I was lucky enough to know Pearl Berlin and for that, I will always be grateful.

Pearl. Everyone in the Triad knows who I’m talking about. You don’t need the last name – just like Cher or Beyoncé or any of the other one name superstars.

And make no mistake – Pearl was a star, a petite one, but my God, did she shine brightly, particularly in the LGBT galaxy. She died last week at the age of 93.

I met her 22 years ago when I moved to Greensboro and joined the Triad Business and Professional Guild – a now defunct LGBT networking/social group. And, of course, you couldn’t meet Pearl without meeting Lennie, her wife of almost 52 years.

They were always LennieandPearl with no space – almost spoken as one syllable with no breath in between. I remember asking someone who “that” couple was sitting at a table near me at my first Guild meeting. The person glared at me like I had just sneezed on them and said, “THAT’S Lennie and Pearl and they have been together 30 years.” I felt like I should bow my head or curtsy. I was truly among gay royalty. Back then, most of us didn’t know any openly gay couples who had been together that long.

Lennie and Pearl. Gay royalty. Photo courtesy of Lennie Gerber.

I had to check my math twice the other day when I figured out that Pearl was 71 years old when I met her. The lively woman I met back in 1996 was over 30 years older than me but I had no doubt that she could run circles around me. I mean like literally run.

She was vivacious and enthusiastic and warm and funny. So damn funny. And she was so interested in everything and everyone in our group. I learned that she was an esteemed professor retired from UNCG, very involved in local politics and that she and Lennie were world travelers who had been everywhere at least once.

Lennie and Pearl in Luxor, Egypt. They traveled the world together. Photo courtesy of Lennie Gerber.

I was impressed to say the least – and maybe just a wee bit intimidated. This was one dynamic duo. But I quickly learned that they were as kind and generous as they were accomplished and imposing. They just sort of oozed gravitas. They were the most grownup grownups in the room and their opinion on just about anything mattered to every member of that group.

It was a different climate 20 years ago – not nearly as accepting as today – and our group had to navigate a lot of tricky and delicate issues such as the prospect of publicizing our meetings. Several Guild members were teachers, but they were not out at their work for fear of losing their jobs. We wanted our group to grow but we also wanted everyone to feel safe. Lennie and Pearl were always the clear and strong voice of reason on any issues we debated back then. And believe me, it might not have been as raucous as an episode of Morning Joe, but we had some lively discussions back in the day.

Lennie and Pearl began moving into a bigger spotlight during the Amendment 1 battle in 2012. That was the insidious referendum to the state constitution banning same-sex marriage and civil unions. They spoke at many events that spring – advocating for radical things like love. At one infamous rally on the steps of the Greensboro Government Plaza, Lennie ended her remarks by planting a sweet kiss on Pearl’s lips. It is one of my favorite photos of them – even though the News & Record deemed it “too much” to run in the print edition.

The Kiss. Photo credit: Lynn Hey, Greensboro News & Record.

I invested a lot of sweat and tears in that battle to defeat Amendment 1 and on election night as I watched the crushing results come in – our side lost 61% to 39% – I was inconsolable. The next night, I sat alone in the dark in front of my TV and watched Lennie and Pearl be interviewed by Lawrence O’Donnell on MSNBC. There they were – as determined as ever to stay the course. They acknowledged that the path to equality is never easy and Pearl noted the remarkable progress in gay rights she had witnessed in her lifetime.

There she was – running circles around me again.

The day after Amendment 1. I was horizontal. They were still fighting.

But Lennie and Pearl didn’t wait for the state or the federal government to catch up with their love. They married on June 2, 2013, their 47^th anniversary of being together. I can still see Pearl, on her cane, practically racing down the aisle of Beth David Synagogue. Some walks down the aisle are longer than others and she had waited long enough to marry the love of her life. They say rain on your wedding day is good luck and Lennie and Pearl were showered by a downpour of tears that day. I know because I contributed a good bucket or two myself.

The brides on their wedding day. Mazel Tov! Photo courtesy of Lennie Gerber.

Lennie and Pearl were our Shero Sherpas and we would have followed them anywhere because we knew that they cared so deeply for our community and would never guide us into anything we couldn’t handle. For as long as I can remember, they have been the beloved elders of our tribe and our hearts are saddened by Pearl’s death.

But it’s hard to remain sorrowful when I think of Pearl. She seemed to always have a smile – even in more recent years as her health was declining. There’s a great clip from the wonderful documentary, Living in the Overlap, that I think really captures the essence of Pearl. She’s speaking at a panel and wraps up her remarks with a little relationship advice.

Never mind the looks, they can deceive. Never mind the money, sure it’s nice to have, but it fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile. Find the one who makes your heart smile and you’ll have it all.

Thank you, dear Pearl. You were right again.

LennieandPearl.

The beginning of an epic love story. Circa 1966. Photo courtesy of Lennie Gerber.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

MSNBC