The Value of Equality

My work, which is with a private contractor that answers telephone calls for various U.S. government agencies, has allowed me to conduct initial telephone background checks on firearms purchases, assist people looking and applying for government grants, and help federal employees with their travel arrangements.

My co-workers and I have spoken with a wide range of people on these various issues, from country music stars and U.S. senators to pawnbrokers and people on the verge of homelessness.

The type of work we do requires an acceptance of the fact that the job requires us to be anonymous voices answering a telephone, subject to each caller's mood and interpretation of how we sound.

It's somewhat akin to being a voice actor --- you can adapt to a wide range of situations without having to change your appearance or shift your position in your chair. You just have to listen and respond accordingly.

I'm the oldest person, by a few months, in the office bay where I work. I've become aware of the fact that my voice occasionally makes me sound much younger than I am --- some people who call who are close to my own age will refer to me as "young man" --- sometimes in an affectionate manner or sometimes condescendingly, depending upon the nature of the call.

I've had enough speech training over the years to cover the Southeast Ohio Appalachian drawl (filtered through North Carolina and Kentucky) that I've grown up with and affect a neutral-sounding Midwestern accent similar to that used by network news anchors. I've also learned something about letting bits and pieces of regional accent creep in, depending upon the caller and the situation. For the most part, Ah do --- uh, I do --- just fine. I reckon.

As I said, the people who call me, or any other person who answers telephones for a living, only knows what little we give them of ourselves --- the rest is up to their imaginations and their mood when they call. I've had people cry because I sounded sympathetic, scream because they were in a mood to scream, flirt with me, mother me, threaten me and offer to hire me away just because of the way my voice sounded to them.

None of them know that I'm 57 years old, the father of adult children, shave my head, use Just for Men on my beard, am built like a long-past-his-prime heavyweight contender, or live with a male partner whom I call my husband. They do not know my politics, my religion, whether I can sing like Andrea Bocelli or Roseanne Barr, whether my eyes are blue or my skin is brown or anything else --- unless I tell them.

As a result, our over-the-phone-wires relationships are based on business and mostly first impressions. If I come off as competent, friendly, and helpful, I can usually soothe an angry or distressed or frustrated caller and leave them in a better frame of mind at the end of the call. Not all the time, but most of the time, if I'm doing my job properly.

I've had dissatisfied people ask to speak to my supervisor. I've also had callers ask if they can talk to me specifically if they need to call back again. The good and the bad. It's all based on what our experience was with each other.

Obviously, the good calls are the best ones --- you get a sense that it's going well when the caller starts to joke, tell stories about himself or herself, or gets interested enough into you to ask personal questions. We're trained to keep it light and neutral --- and not reveal too much about one's self or the inner workings of our company.

I've had callers, feeling comfortable with me, assume that I might be "their" kind of people. These folks will volunteer their political affiliations ("I voted for the woman," a brusque Boston accent told me in a call just after the Massachusetts presidential primary) and sometimes their prejudices ("Grants for minorities. Yeah, you can't be white these days if you want government money!").

Occasionally you get clues about someone who is, shall we say, a fellow traveler. "My SPOUSE and I went kayaking and camping in Alaska last year," a business-like female caller told me in a purposeful non sequitor from our discussion of her grant application. (Yeah, I thought. My SPOUSE and I went to Miami last year and ogled some cute gay boys. My gaydar's working on you, too, sister.)

Because our office is located in southeastern Kentucky, a lot of my co-workers are locals whose values (and accents, more often than not) reflect the culture in which they were raised. On the first day of our training class, we were asked to introduce and tell a bit about ourselves. I was one of the first selected to speak and, sticking to a vow I made a few years ago to never again be closeted in the workplace, came out and said that I was the father of adult children and I was on my third marriage to my first husband.

The training class instructor, obviously in new territory with this revelation, took on a tone of false heartiness and said, "Well, we don't have to get TOO personal, here," although I didn't see that what I said was too much different from my co-workers who got up and told about their families, some of which included babies with different daddies.

I figured if there was going to be any backlash from anyone in the class, I'd set up the situation so I could get it out of the way at the beginning. Instead, on our breaks in training, I found different class members coming up to me and whispering, "My brother's gay." "I have a best friend whose family kicked him out." "My husband doesn't know it, but I have a girlfriend." "Do you need a hug, James?"

In other words, apparently these southeast Kentuckians' culture included something I, as a relative newcomer to their community, didn't expect: A respect for people's individuality and a willingness to accept and maybe try to identify with someone who different from themselves.

Our class bonded very closely, much like a unit of military recruits who went through the rigors of boot camp together. We struggle with the same work-related issues and know bits and pieces of each others' stories and living situations. People ask me about my husband much in the same way they'll ask someone else about a heterosexual spouse. I'm just James. They're just them. We do our jobs, get along with each other, do our work at the workplace and the rest of our lives in our appropriate elsewheres.

I've found that my co-workers are very much like most of the people who call us for anonymous assistance. What I do with my life before and after work isn't really their concern. It's how we interact together in a professional situation that is important.

My co-workers are typical of the people I've met in Kentucky, for the most part. They may have not traveled widely or been exposed to a lot of different cultural experiences, but they were raised with the basic principle, "Live and let live." They tend not to be involved with politics --- most of them ignore the frothing Fox News coverage, in the company breakroom, of the minutiae of the presidential race. They are religious, but leery of people who are "too religious."

And for the most part, they could care less, unlike certain politicians who cater to the extremist elements of the religious right, about "protecting" the institutions of marriage and the family from homosexual influences. Most people use their energies to focus on their own marriages and would resent anyone else trying to butt in and "help" them, unless they asked for the assistance first.

In other words, the average Kentuckian values fairness. He or she just wants to get along with everyone else and is willing, as most of us have been taught from childhood, to live and let live. Don't interfere with their lives and they won't interfere with yours. Any politician or religious leader who suggests otherwise is either listening to a limited constituency or has never worked in an environment where diversity is respected and valued.

There are all kinds of people in the world, with all kinds of interests and needs. None of us can tell anyone else what's right for him or her --- but what we can do is treat each other with the same courtesy, respect and equality that we want for ourselves.

The Farfelberfel Voting System

Hello, this is Miss Jenkins with the (insert a presidential candidate) campaign. We'd like you to participate in a short survey about presidential politics ...

We hate it when that happens at our house, and it's been happening more and more lately.

I'm the one who usually snaps first. Last time I spoke with Miss Jenkins or whatever name's she's using at a particular moment, it was about a local Democrat, Scott Alexander, who was running in a special election for a state senate seat in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. When I heard what the call was about, I interrupted Miss Jenkins:

"Miss Jenkins! I'm so glad you called! I wanted you to know that we are registered Democrats! Mad, tunnel-visioned Democrats! We would vote for a Democrat if his name was Adolph Hitler! We LOVE Democrats! We want MORE Democrats! We especially love Scott Alexander and plan to vote for him and invite him over for Sunday brunch! Do you think he likes biscuits and gravy? My partner, Robert, says that EVERYONE likes biscuits and gravy, but Miss Jenkins, I told Robert that Mr. Alexander might have special dietary needs and it would be such a dining faux pas if we triggered Mr. Alexander's diverticulosis or something. I suggested that simple ham and eggs might be appropriate, but Robert asked, 'What if Mr. Alexander is Jewish?' You can't serve ham to a senator-elect who is Jewish!' I told him that you can't serve biscuits and gravy, either, because it's made from the same pig, just a different part. Robert said that sausage and ham are made from the same parts of a pig, they're just prepared differently, and I said, either way, you can't serve it to a Jewish senator-elect. What do you think, Miss Jenkins? If Mr. Alexander gets elected, do you think he'll still be Jewish, or will he convert for the duration of his term? Miss Jenkins? Hello? Are you there, Miss Jenkins? ..."

Needless to say, it worked. Miss Jenkins or whoever she was hung up and Robert and I were delighted to discover that we had found a wonderful new way to deal with telemarketers and other nuisance callers: You talk to them until THEY hang up. (And by the way, Scott Alexander, an apparently nice young man who distributed campaign flyers that showed a photo of him looking like a slack-jawed deer caught in the headlights, lost.)

I should have realized this solution was out there --- members of my family have been using it to discourage political and religious proselytizers for years.

For example, my oldest son, Patrick, discourages door-to-door church ladies who would come to his door on Saturday mornings (when they should have been at home nursing hangovers, as is his custom) by listening with apparent stupefied politeness to their sunny pitches for Jesus and then, when they pause from their fervor to take a breath, injecting, "Hey, can you hold that thought a minute? I'm sacrificing a small wee child to my Great Lord Satan and the water's coming to a boil in the kitchen --- be right back!" He'd step away, get a cup of coffee, and usually by the time he'd return to the front door, God's Tag Team would be running down the front steps as fast as their pot luck fed legs could carry them.

My mother, a devout Mormon Democrat, would leave church tracts and Democrat literature on a bench on the front porch with the message: "To all Republicans and Jehovah's Witnesses. Take one copy each, read it and then you've repented. I'm an old lady and don't have time to explain it all to everyone."

Robert and I used to live in fear of the telephone, especially at dinnertime, which, I've discovered, telemarketers and other people with commercial messages, have decided is the best time to catch everyone at home. Now, we sit at the table with one eye on our cole slaw and another on the telephone, hoping someone will call. We're ready for 'em:

Hello, you have reached the Ferfelbarfel residence. We are not at home now. If you would like to leave a message for Flavia, press "1". If you would like to leave a message for Luther, press "2". If you would like to leave a message for Goldene, press "3" ...

On the subject of politics, my favorite family political story has to do with my maternal grandfather, Bert Harder, who, if he were alive today, would be 136 years old. Sadly, his life was cut short at the age of 94, another victim of a lifetime of tobacco use and generally bad living.

Bert was a diehard Democrat from his first vote in 1896 to the day he died in 1966. He expected his family to do the same. Grandpa was 79 years old when I was born. He lived in my parents' house until his death, when I was 15.

In 1960, when I was 9, I remember hearing my first political argument at the family dinner table. It seems my mother, Minnie Spires, casually told her father that she was not entirely sure if she would vote for Democrat John F. Kennedy that year. She hinted she might consider Richard Nixon, the Republican candidate.

Grandpa swore — something I never heard him do at the table — and explained, loudly, that he and his family had always voted for Democrats, even back in 1920, when nearly everyone else voted for Warren G. Harding. Mother shrugged and got up from the table.

"When I enter that voting booth, Dad, what I do and who I vote for is between me and my conscience and my God. And sometimes I don't even tell him," she said, taking Grandpa's dinner plate away from him before he had finished his creamed squash.

Grandpa scowled at my dad. "Don't look at me," Dad said. "She's stubborn. Runs in her family."

Grandpa shouted at Mother, "Minnie, you're just like your mother!"

Dropping a handful of silverware into the soapy dishwater, Mother said, "Thank you, Dad. she never told anyone how she voted, either. Are you sure she didn't vote for Warren G. Harding?"

Grandpa's mouth fell open. Then he started to cry. At least he brushed at his face like he was wiping a tear away.

"A fine thing," he muttered. "You raise a child, try to teach her right, then she votes for that (expletive deleted) Nixon." He got up from the table and went back to his room to pout.

"Sis, Grandpa's crying!" I said to my older sister Julia.

"He's just faking," she said. "That 'tear' was on the the same side as his glass eye."

... If you wish to leave a message for Farfelberfel's Septic Tank Service about having your septic tank cleaned, press "4". If you wish to complain about your septic tank service, press "5". If your message is about Fido Farfelberfel barking all night, press "6" ...

Fast forward 40 years, to the year 2000.

Mother was by then a frail lady of 85, her mind as sharp as a guillotine. She obsessed on politics like Bill Clinton in a room full of fat women with a tub of butter. She believed in voting and voting regularly. For Democrats. Just like her dad.

Part of it was Nixon's fault. In 1972, she sent $50 to the Democrats to help George McGovern's ill-fated attempt at winning the White House. The check was never cashed, never returned. Mother, a meticulous bookkeeper, balanced her checkbook at the end of each month and grumbled loudly each time she still had $50 unaccounted for.

When the Watergate hearings started, she was convinced the Nixon campaign stole the bag of mail containing her check from the Democrats' national headquarters and shredded its contents. After about 20 years, Dad gave her a new checkbook and told her to start fresh. She did, but vowed, "When I get to Heaven, I'm going to spend a half hour in Hell every day grilling Richard Nixon about what happened to my $50."

... If your chewing gum truly loses its flavor on the bedpost overnight, press "8". If you would like to hear a recording of Eartha Kitt singing, "Somebody Bad Stole De Wedding Bell," press "9" ...

In 2000, Mother, now the grandmother of four young men of voting age, took each grandson aside to inform him that he would vote for Democrat Al Gore. One of them, a young Army sergeant, hesitated, then told her he might vote for Bush. Grandma reached to her eye and started to wipe away a tear — at least it looked like that's what she was doing.

But the soldier boy grandson was a tougher nut to crack.

"Grandma," he said, "When I enter that voting booth it's between me and my conscience and my God, and sometimes I don't even tell God how I vote."

He said later, after his ears stopped ringing, that he didn't think Grandma even knew words like that, let alone used them.

Mother died on Oct. 29, 2000. The day before, she mailed off an absentee ballot with Gore's name checked. Someone stuck a Gore-Lieberman bumper sticker on her casket. She would have liked that.

And God help Richard Nixon, wherever he is.

... If you would like to have us forward our messages to your answering machine, press "0" and leave a message stating clearly what times your meals and bedtime take place. If you would like to join the People's Party for Feminist Opportunity and Dogfighting, press "Star". If you would like to hear these messages again, press the "Pound" sign. To leave any other message, take a deep breath and hold it and wait for the beep ...

The Next President: Better Than Dubya, at the Very Least

When I was a boy --- I wish I could think of a way to start this without that phrase, but I'm just too tired --- the only presidents whose birthdays we observed were Abraham Lincoln's (Feb. 12) and George Washington's (Feb. 22).

I remember my second grade teacher, Mrs. Shirley Swoyer, assigning us to write little essays --- if we could remember one fact, it counted as an essay --- about each of these distinguished gentlemen. Creepy little Addams Family creature that I was, I proudly stood up in front of the class and announced, "Abraham Lincoln had his brains blown out by a nutcrazy actor, John Wilkes Booth, while watching 'An American Cousin'in Ford's Theatre on April 15, 1865. He bled all over his wife's party dress and the last words he heard were an actor saying, 'you sockdologizing old mantrap!'" I would have gone on --- I certainly was holding the rest of my classmates' attention --- but Mrs. Swoyer said, "That will be enough, Clifton."

George Washington's life did not provide very many grisly details, so I made up a few: "When George Washington crossed the Delaware River in the dead of winter, several of his soldiers got frostbite and lost their toes which turned black and fell off!"

Nowadays, Lincoln's and Washington's birthdays have been replaced by the more sanitized Presidents' Day, and I suppose second grade students now draw names and provide mini-essays on the likes of Chester Alan Arthur ("He became president when James Garfield took a gut shot at a railway station"), William Howard Taft ("He was so fat that he got stuck in the White House bathtub") and Warren G. Harding ("He and his cronies got their hands caught in the Teapot Dome").

I was born during the Harry Truman era ("He beat the snot out of a reporter who said his daughter sang like a shaggy dog baying at the moon.") and became a teenager during the presidency of John F. Kennedy ("He shagged Marilyn Monroe and a Mafia hooker and had his brains blown out all over his wife's pink Chanel suit while cruising in a convertible in Dallas, Texas, on Nov. 22, 1963 --- Mrs. Swoyer? Why do you always cut me off?").

The first vote I ever cast was against the re-election of Richard Nixon ("He was a big crook who got kicked out after a big black lesbian from Texas named Barbara Jordan made a speech against him in Congress."). The only presidents I've voted for who actually won were Jimmy Carter ("He was attacked by a killer rabbit after he announced he had lust in his heart for a Playboy foldout.") and Bill Clinton ("He liked McDonald's French fries, big fat women and cigars.")

And the current president we have is George W. Bush ("He was a prep school cheerleader, couldn't stand up and utter a coherent sentence at the same time, and goosed the lady prime minister of Germany.") After him, let's face it, Millard Fillmore ("Kia gave away soaps-on-a-rope that looked like him as a Presidents' Day promotion.") would look pretty doggone good.
Consequently, whoever is elected president in 2008 has the advantage of Not Being George W. Bush. As of this writing, the next president will be Republican John McCain ("He was a prisoner of war and called a smart-alecky kid at a debate a little jerk") or one of the two Democrat finalists, Hillary Rodham Clinton ("She won a primary in New Hampshire by crying.") and Barack Obama ("All the people who go to snake-handling churches think he's a Muslim because of his name."). Happily, all three are strong candidates who would probably make good presidents under any circumstances.

I personally like and admire, but will not vote for John McCain, partly because I disagree with many of his positions on issues, but mostly because the Republican party does not deserve to have another president after giving us eight years of George W. Bush, a pointless war in Iraq, a collapsed economy and aid and encouragement to the religious right, whose agenda is alarmingly similar (if somewhat couched in more subdued language) to that of most European fascists during World War II.

Consequently, that leaves me with a choice between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, one of whom will eventually become the Democrat nominee. In Kentucky, we have a late presidential primary, and until lately, have not paid much attention to a race which we expected to be decided by all those early primary states like Iowa and New Hampshire and South Carolina before we had a chance to appoint our poll workers, make them swear off dueling (a requirement for all state workers in the Bluegrass State) and open the election booths. A lot of us liked John Edwards, who's out of the race now. Me, I simply figured that Hillary or Barack would have already scored enough delegates without the Commonwealth of Kentucky's to clinch the nomination, and just planned to vote for whoever the Democrats in other states chose.

But it looks like I may have to make a choice. My partner says he's for Hillary. Me, I go back and forth every day (today's a Hillary day). For me, the main issue is which potential president is most likely to be supportive of gay rights --- looks like Clinton and Obama are both ready to be supportive as long as we don't go "too far," whatever that means. Personally, I still wish Al Gore and Dennis Kucinich were running.

So, it boils down to which candidate is likely to beat McCain. Today, I think it might be Hillary --- she's a tough egg, even if she does seem like she'd be no fun to take to The Garage --- Norfolk, Virginia's sleaziest and most entertaining gay bar. She's been attacked by everyone for years, plus had to undergo the humiliation of being cheated on by her playboy husband while he was president --- and then with a woman whose butt was even bigger than Hillary's!

Barack Obama seems like a nice young man --- I like his message of idealism and hope. But as someone who has lived in the South, I know that some white folks who say they'll vote for a black candidate won't actually do so. Maybe the time has come when that's no longer true --- I surely hope so. But I worry that the race thing, which is supposed to be a thing of the past, may rear its nasty head again and defeat him in a one-on-one with McCain.

John McCain is an American hero and an independent thinker unrestrained by party dogma and I would not hesitate to vote for him if he were a Democrat. I like the fact that he offends the extreme right wing of the party and that gorgons of conservative commentary like Ann Coulter and the cyclopses on the religious right (like James Dobson) who are the gorgons' soul mates are so put off by him that they say they would rather vote for Hillary than McCain --- or even better, just sit out the election.

Have a seat, folks --- please.

McCain is volatile and unpredictable. Hillary Clinton is cold and tough. Barack Obama is untested and unspecific at times. All of them are flawed human beings, like the other presidents we've had. But at least they are all intelligent, interesting people. And anyone of them will be much tolerable to watch on the evening news than the pathetic little monkey occupying the Oval Office right now.

I Have a Dreamgirl

Yesterday, at my day job, which involves answering telephones and helping people with technical issues related to their applications for federal government grants, I stood up to stretch and suddenly felt the need to sing the old Supremes' song, "Where Did Our Love Go?"

These moments happen to everyone, I believe --- not necessarily a desire to suddenly channel Diana Ross and burst into song in an inappropriate setting --- but to release pent-up energy and shake the cobwebs from one's brain. Some people may shadow-box; others may go outside and smoke a cigarette. Small children have it down to a science --- when all else fails, you simply start spinning in circles.

But in any case, seeing and hearing a husky, 50-something man suddenly stand up and, with appropriate Dreamgirls hand gestures, start warbling, "Baby, Baby, Baby, Where did our love go? Oh, don't you want me? Don't you want me no more? ..." --- well, it does cause them to look up from their computer screens and take notice.

"You can't be Diana Ross in here," one of my co-workers, a friendly guy in his late twenties, said.

I became indignant and immediately turned into Flip Wilson's old Geraldine character.

"What you mean I can't be Diana Ross?" I said. "You saying because that just because I am a white man I can't be a black woman? Honey, I'm telling you, that is discrimination! That is hate speech! This is a matter to take up with the Human Resources office! And as soon as I can find two people to be Mary Wilson and Cindy Birdsong I'm going to do just that!"

(Now before I continue, I want to state that I realize that many people regard Ms. Birdsong as a zaftig usurper who replaced the original Third Supreme, the late Florence Ballard, but I referenced Cindy because I think her name is funnier than Flo's.)

In any case, the joke was well received and we all went back to work. But it also got me thinking about the recent Martin Luther King holiday and the current U.S. presidential election.

We officially observe Martin Luther King day because the late civil rights leader continues to be ranked among the most influential and inspirational Americans of the 20th century. He is remembered for his eloquent speeches evoking peaceful change and progress in the world and for his call for all people to be judged on "the content of their character" and not the color of their skins and, by implication, the way they worship God, and, by implication, their genders and sexual orientation.

If it weren't for the efforts of King and other people of all ethnic, racial, religious backgrounds, genders and sexual orientations, I probably would not be able to stand up as an openly gay man in my office and joke about wanting to be Diana Ross. The key word here is "open" --- I've made no bones about the fact that I share my life with another man and am proud of the picture of the two of us together that I keep on my desk. Camping it up and pretending that I want to be a black woman is a joke I would probably not be able to pull off if I remained in the closet --- my co-workers, who might suspect I was gay, would wonder if I was joking or serious and just give me a blank look. But because I've made it clear who I am --- a middle-aged gay guy who also happens to be a biological father --- they feel they know enough about me to know when I'm joking and making fun of stereotypes.

In other words, I was judged by the content of my character and not unclarified assumptions about what I was doing and saying. Thank you, Rev. King.

This year, we're seeing a quantum leap in the fulfillment of Martin Luther King's dream: The final two candidates for the Democratic nomination for president are (may I have the envelope, please) ... Hillary Rodham Clinton, a woman, and Barack Obama, a mixed-race man whose father is a black man from Kenya. With John Edwards, the third-strongest candidate among the Democrats, now withdrawn from the race, it is inevitable that the Democrats will make history this year by nominating a presidential candidate who is not a white man. Whether it's Clinton or Obama, it's obvious a glass ceiling --- gender or race --- is going to be broken through.

Of course, whether Senator Clinton or Senator Obama gets the nomination, they will still have to run against the white male the Republicans select for president this year. And the highest glass ceiling --- the one that covers the Oval Office in the White House --- may have to wait until another election. But this year, it's obvious that Democrat voters, at least, already are looking beyond color and gender and at the character of their two finalists.

I am still undecided about who I am supporting for president --- Clinton and Obama (and Edwards) are/(were) strong candidates with platforms with which I am comfortable, for the most part. All of them stop short of supporting a key issue for me --- that all people, regardless of sexual orientation, may have equal access to marriage or civil unions under federal law --- and so, I am withholding judgment until the Democrat convention. I will support whoever the Democrat nominee is because it is obvious that another Republican president will simply cause more of the social stagnation and economic recession that we have experienced during the last eight years under the incompetent "leadership" of George W. Bush.

If Al Gore were running for president again, I would be whole-heartedly supporting him --- he's had the cojones to support equal status for same-sex partners, at least. But he's not, and Clinton and Obama (and Edwards) are playing/(played) it safe.

But I can put up with compromise --- for now. Lord knows we gay folks have put up with it before. It's enough for me this year to see that part of Martin Luther King's dream of equal access for all people is being fulfilled. The American people have the opportunity to put a woman or a black man in the White House and no one has to report anyone to the Human Resources office to do that.

And it's nice to know that I can be Diana Ross if I want to, even if I don't pass the physical.

Being Where You're Supposed to Be

At my co-worker's invitation, the lady sat down and joined us at our table in the workplace lunchroom.

I'm new to the company for which I'm working and so every day provides an opportunity to make a new acquaintance and hear a fresh human story.

In this case, the lady originally was from Ohio, just like me, and so I used that as a starting point for conversation.

"What brought you down here to eastern Kentucky?" I asked politely.

"Oh, it was my brother's death," she said, explaining that he was killed in a truck accident.

I figured she meant she came for his funeral and decided to stay. She said that was not the case --- he actually was killed in Texas, and that was a sign she needed to make a change in her life.

Confused, I said so.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said. "But I don't get how it brought you to Kentucky."

She explained, in a rambling fashion, that his death triggered a religious reawakening in her and somehow that led her to Appalachia, one Kentucky county away from the Tennessee-Virginia border. She then, in a pleasant way, started to describe how the Lord was doing good things in her life these days and she felt like she was on the right track.

Now, I have to admit, that I am wary of anyone that just comes up and discusses their religious beliefs with strangers. To me, it's a social faux pas, akin to bad-mouthing a local politician before first finding out if you're talking to one of his relatives.

But on the other hand, the lady seemed pleasant enough, and I thought, "What the hell," --- which, looking back, was perhaps not entirely in keeping with her line of thought --- and decided to pick up on her thread.

"Well, I agree, that sometimes if you just follow your instincts, you might just end up where God wants you to be," I said. "I think that's what happened to me."

She beamed.

"Oh, what brought YOU to Kentucky?" she asked eagerly, no doubt expecting a story about a similar tragedy involving a deceased relative.

"Well, it was romance," I said. "I met someone online from this area and within six months I had moved down here. That was a year and a half ago and we're still together and very happy."

Although it was not the tale of gore she seemed to be hoping for, she still smiled.

"And you two are planning to get married?" she asked.

I hesitated for one of those moments in which one has to decide whether it's better to end the conversation with a simple "yes" or "no," or use the moment to do some diversity education. I decided I had the energy to elaborate and said, "No, we can't get married."

Her brow furrowed.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's because he and I aren't allowed to in this state."

All the happy energy drained from her body and her eyes glazed over. Uh-huh, I thought.

"It's not that we're against the institution of marriage," I said, feeling the little gay horns trying to force their way out of my shaved head. "Between us, we've been married and divorced from three different women. When we met each other, I guess we finally figured out what we were doing wrong."

She laughed, despite herself, but then got all serious again. I saw her eyes dart around the lunchroom, looking for someone else she knew so she could get away.

"But just the same," I continued. "I know exactly what you mean about God leading you in a particular direction. Why every morning, when my man and I wake up in each other's arms, we know that God is blessing us. It would be nice to have a ceremony to celebrate that blessing, but it would primarily be for others and not us. We already know God loves us."

I smiled sweetly and then helped her out by saying, "Well, break's over. Better get back to work. See you around."

The relief in her eyes was evident.

And as I walked back to work, I knew what it's like to be a Jack-in-the-Box and not on the receiving end of the surprise.