20 October 1998: Entering the Middle Ages

I woke up just as pissed off as when I went to sleep. It was my 35th birthday. Officially middle aged. Middle aged and pissed off. Great start. I had cancelled my original birthday plans to go see the movie Happiness in favor of going to the memorial service for Matthew Shepard up at St. John the Divine.

I have found it so very difficult to concentrate at work, with all this biliousness bubbling to the surface. I read the front page story about the protest in Newsday. The New York Times buried it in the metro section. The Daily News and the Post had them as front page news items as well. Over these two days, I wrote letters to all four daily papers (click here to see them), and a single letter to both gay newspapers.Click here for that letter.

On these two days in particular, I found it very difficult to concentrate, even when I had vendors in to meet with me. As they blathered on about their products, during the portions that were complete PR puffery, I found my mind wandering into thoughts like "Shouldn't I re-read the Constitution?" and "What comes next?" In the greater scheme of things, the latest trend in application development seemed fairly meaningless.

It was hard to maintain a completely unsettled feeling all day, as it was my birthday and people were wishing me well. I even got a phone call from the lovely Lindsey of London. A strong presence of love and caring is an undeniably wonderful force that counteracts depression and badnesses quite effectively.

A co-worker and I usually go downstairs at some point in the afternoon. She smokes, I inhale it second-hand. When we came back to my office, everyone who was in the office was in my office--or rather, one I share with someone. They had a big fat cake there for me and little party hats. Someone said to me, "Isn't it nice to know that all these people love you?" And it is. Or at least the knowledge that these people liked me enough to fork over some dough to buy me a chocolate mousse cake.

I went to St. John the Divine after work for the service in Matthew Shepard's memory. I had been given the (false) impression it was an interfaith service and that Rabbi Kleinbaum from CBST (the gay shul I go to now and then) would be there, but I was misinformed; or perhaps I misunderstood. But it was still a beautiful service. The woman who led his funeral in Wyoming, the Reverend Anne E. Kitch, who is an assistant at St. Peter's Church in Peekskill, spoke. She actually knew Matthew and is married to his cousin, James Peck.

For those of you who have never been to St. John the Divine, it is a genuine cathedral right here in Manhattan, on Amsterdam Avenue at 111th Street. It is a massive place that is still officially "under construction." To say it is cavernous is an understatement. This is where they have the annual blessing of the animals on St. Francis's day, and they can even accommodate elephants. It is, I kid you not, as big as two football fields. Just being someplace so huge is awe-inspiring.

The parts of the service I attended were really thoughtful and beautiful, and I was pretty much close to tears a lot of the time. The Rt. Rev. Richard E. Grein wrote a strong message on behalf of the bishops of New York addressing the root causes of bias attacks and calling for people to tell politicians that "we will no longer tolerate a politically nurtured culture of hate. Above all, let us change our own hearts."

Now while I don't need to hear rabbis or priests approving of me and how I live, I have to admit that it is essentially affirming to have those in a position of authority and well-entrenched in ancient institutions saying what we need to hear from them. To hear someone at a pulpit of a nongay church saying things like "differences are valued and lives are held sacred," and "Pray for the strength to be who we are and live proudly as God made us" is very life-affirming, pride-inducing, and continues to fill me with optimism.

There had to be at least 1000 people there and everyone held lit candles, and even the media present were respectful. I found the whole experience a good antedote to the badness of the night before.

I met Tony at 8 pm and we ventured down Broadway to Flor de Mayo, a china-latina restaurant between 100th and 101st Streets. It's a good place--cheap, double-ethnic, and flavorful. Tony had the polla a la brassa and I had some very bony duck, supplemented by broccoli sauteed in garlic, some wonton soup, and an eggroll. The 40-block walk after dinner is the only justification for such excess.

Sitting nearby was a family of three--parents and boy who couldn't be more than four years old. I was touched to see the father openly playing with his little son and kissing him and being affectionate. Clearly he is a happy, loved child. I couldn't help but think of all the people who feel they weren't. I later heard it was someone's birthday over there, so before we left I asked whose birthday it was, and it was the father's, so I wished him a happy birthday as well, since we shared the day.

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Copyright (c) 1998, Seth J. Bookey, New York, NY 10021, sethbook@panix.com