Crimes of Intent

This vignette is brought to you by the altered state of mind brought on by participation in a BarBri course.

Crimes of Intent

He felt as though he were sleepwalking. The armored van stood in front of him, a dull gray block, its back doors hanging open. The driver, he saw, was walking away, calling out to someone as he opened the bank door, a jovial greeting. The shotgun leaned against the side of the van, asking a pretty woman in green for a light, starting up a conversation. Social lekking. One of the most powerful, all-encompassing, insidious urges a human being is completely unaware of.

As he walked toward the van, his ears rang. His vision blurred and grayed. The only thing in focus was the large bag in the back of the van.

But he was not thinking of the bag. He forgot, for a moment, all the reasons he might need the money. Crushing student loans, no job prospects. Credit card debt mounting higher. That troublesome lump in his armpit that he had ignored all the way through school, when he actually had insurance, but that now had grown too large to ignore.

All he could think of was the ringing in his ears, and the way the sunlight had gone gray. He reached the back of the van, extended his arm toward the bag, feeling as though he were watching a movie. He was not in control of his body. It was moving of its own accord.

Through the silence in his brain, his professor's voice echoed: "Larceny is the taking and carrying away of tangible personal property of another by trespass with intent to permanently deprive the other of his interest in the property."

He thought, "This is stupid."

He lowered his arm.

Hoodie

I wrote this the other day, actually. On the bus. Yeah, bus poetry.

Hoodie

The world is too full
of pale men with short dark hair
white shirts and
sullen faces

Buy hats, young men, or
grow your hair long

You should hide the angry cutting
lines of your cheekbones
Grow a beard

Smile

Wear tie-dye

The clean-cut look is wrong if you are angry
Get your hands dirty
Be a revolutionary
Die for a cause

If you are happy, though,
celebrate...
Wear bright colors
Be free

Do not stalk me, pale men
with your same sullen face
and same white shirt

I am done with you.

The Trip North: Day 1

First of a 3-part short essay about driving. Partially because it's fun to write about driving, and partially because I cannot possibly tell everyone all about my drive to Oregon one person at a time; there simply aren't enough hours in the day.


The Trip North: Day One

I fought the truck the whole way across the desert. Or perhaps the truck and I fought together against the wind. The wind had a grudge against the human world. It howled down off the mountains and picked up speed across the flat open desert. It kicked dust devils into the air: big, sustained dust devils, crouched permanently, it seemed, in the dry fields of hapless farmers. It hit the interstate broadside. Each gust felt like a physical blow. The semi trucks swerved almost off the road. I swerved too. After a couple of hours, my left arm and shoulder ached from continually dragging the truck back into the road against the wind.

I had packed the previous night. I had stayed up much later than I had intended, putting my Tetris skills to good use in cramming as many of my household goods as possible into the back of the truck. Several hours after my intended bedtime, I realized that the massive pile of things that had filled my living room did not completely fill the truck. This sent me on a mad dash through the house, seeking items that would fit the empty spaces without requiring me to spend more time sorting. My little-used sewing machine therefore made the trip. My old stuffed animals, which would be company in the long weeks ahead. An extra pillow or so. That sort of thing.

So on the drive that Tuesday morning, I fought not only the wind but my own fatigue, and my extraordinary packing skills. The truck is small. It is made for day trips, four-wheeling on obscure mountain roads with a picnic in the back and maybe a dog (if one has such a thing). In a pinch, two people can camp out of it reasonably comfortably. But it was never made for going fast on the interstate and it was never made for hauling half a house. It has four cylinders. It has over 100,000 miles. It has large tires, great for off-roading, but that just add friction on open highway.

The truck, already overloaded, expressed its discomfort. It groaned through the lower gears whenever I accelerated. It shimmied and shook. It would not take hills in any gear higher than third. It began engaging in odd behavior whenever I turned it off, shuddering to an undignified stand-still when the ignition key was turned off, then refusing to notice for several terrifying seconds when the ignition key was turned back on.

I began to be very careful about where I stopped. I began chattering inanely to the truck, telling it how good it was, encouraging it. “Just a little more, you can do it! You and me, baby, we can do this thing!” And then, when the starter kind of whined but didn’t immediately engage, “COME ON, DON’T DO THIS!!!! PLEASE…Oh, there we go. OK.”

Late in the afternoon, I reached the huge wind farms around Palm Springs. The wind I had been battling all morning here was harnessed, the wild energy put to productive use. I felt there should have been wind farms all the way across the desert. Perhaps there will be, eventually. I had passed several large trucks carrying monstrous generator housings and pieces of turbine blade.

When I was young, I thought windmills were these large, squat, house-like wooden buildings with broad flat blades, like you see in pictures of Denmark. Or, they were spindly framework structures topped by a cluster of rusting metal spokes, creaking slowly on abandoned Dust Bowl farms. The Palm Springs wind farm, passed through on a family trip to Disneyland, taught me differently. Windmills are massive yet lean, tall poles topped with two or three shining white aerodynamically-perfect blades that slice the air. Something so large should not move so smoothly, silently. On that long-ago trip, I stared at the windmills, imagining walking under them and watching the enormous knife blades whip past overhead. They fascinated me. They terrified me. I could not stop staring.

Today, I was still staring, which was a problem because the interstate had gotten curvier and hillier, and the wind less predictable. I kept my eyes on the road with effort. Still, I noted that you could tell the age of the windmills. One row was short, another tall. One row’s turbines were mounted on framework structures similar to my old-style Dust Bowl windmills; the next were on massive steel pillars. The tallest, straightest, most enormous were also the newest, their white paint glowing in the sun that crept in under sudden cloud cover.

Where had that come from?

I was not prepared for rain, not on this road, with this wind, with the traffic picking up as we drew closer to Los Angeles and the populated western part of California. I realized, of course, that I must get used to rain, moving as we were to the Pacific Northwest; I realized also that one of the reasons for taking the truck and not the car was that it was much better equipped to handle inclement weather. But still, I was nervous. Los Angeles made me nervous. Rain made me nervous. The fact that I was alone, and miles from home or help, terrified me all of a sudden. I was sure that if I were ever to smear myself all over the highway in a crash of massive proportions, losing everything I had and incurring unpayable medical bills that would make my student loans look like a joke, assuming I survived at all, it would be on this trip.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind, I rejected it. I would not crash. I was a good, careful driver; I paid attention (here I once again reminded myself not to stare at windmills); I kept reasonable distances between myself and other vehicles (here I slowed down slightly to stop the slow creep I had noticed between me and the car in front); I knew how to handle myself in the rain. Slow, smooth changes. More space around the truck. So what if it made the cars behind me mad; I was in the right-hand lane, I was overloaded and slow anyway, they could just deal with it.

The rain, mercifully, was brief, a minor desert squall. It was the first of many as I continued west, and I eventually lost my fear of them.

I crossed Los Angeles with relative ease. The traffic grew a little heavy for a while as Interstate 10 entered the valley. It was hear that I almost ran into someone changing lanes, the one and only time this would happen on the trip. It was something I worried about, since I couldn’t see out the back of the truck. For the most part, relying on my mirrors, signaling well in advance, and moving very slowly had worked for me. People traveling long stretches do not hang out in each others’ blind spots. But this guy, zipping along in a little red Miata-type contraption, hovered off to the left and a little behind, honked at me when I tried to change lanes, and sped past, flipping me off. I was shaken, but more annoyed than anything else.

I took the bypass through Pasadena and north of L.A. itself, and there was almost no traffic. I emerged on the far side, aiming for Santa Clarita, where I planned to stop for the night. There were hotels there, I knew; it was near Magic Mountain; there had to be someplace fairly inexpensive.

I passed a Holiday Inn Express, a La Quinta Inn, and several other motels of that nature, all of which I knew to be well outside my price range. I began to panic. I pulled off the freeway at the exit that said “Magic Mountain,” figuring, like Disneyland, the big theme park would be surrounded by a cluster of hotels, and some of them had to be aimed at families of limited means. I was wrong. I went down the road, becoming thoroughly lost, and finding no lodging of any kind. Worse, the rain was back. I had to stop and get my bearings. Ideally, I would stop somewhere with internet access, where I could go online, find a map, and figure out where to go from here.

I found a Starbucks. It was around 7 pm by then, and I was shaking with fatigue, cold, and hunger. I ordered a small mocha and collapsed into a couch, dragging out my computer and plugging it in. Never has it taken so long to start up. Never has it taken so long to get on the internet. In fact, it was absolutely refusing to connect to the Starbucks wifi. I almost cried. I restarted the system and pulled out my iPod, which found the Starbucks wifi right away, connected with no problem, and proceeded to load pages more slowly than I have ever seen it move. Apparently Starbucks’ wifi is not very good wifi.

I found a hotel, finally; called to confirm they had rooms available and at what price; and to get directions. This was a challenge, as I had no idea where I was at that moment. The hotelier gave me directions from a large main road I was pretty sure I could find my way back to and quoted me a price that was only a little more than I had planned to spend. The truck turned on immediately and smoothly with the turn of the key, just as though it had not spent the last five hundred miles giving me fits wondering whether I was going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it had needed a rest too.

The Creativity Project

Ever since I let slip that in my former life, I had been an art student, but that my true passion had been writing, Professor Bennett has been dropping broad hints about creativity, and how sad it is that many lawyers lose whatever creativity they had before law school. He kept telling me about friends of his who were brilliant artists or writers or musicians before law school who haven't touched their art or whatever since. Tragic.

I agree. So, in an effort not to stagnate, I embark on a fairly ambitious project. I aim to do something creative every day. It may be an essay, a drawing, a poem, a haiku if that's all I have the energy for, but I will do something. Furthermore, I will post it online and publish it to Facebook, on the theory that public affirmations of intent are far more likely to be carried out than private ones.

So, enjoy! :)
(Also, please bear in mind that just about everything on here is a first draft that may or may not ever be revised. Thank you for indulging my insecurities.)

SB1309 (Parental Rights) has some LOUSY ideas in it...

...so I wrote this to the House Health & Human Services committee. Given time constraints, this is hardly the tightest analysis I've ever given a thing, but I think I bring up some decent points.

Text of the bill is here; the Health & Human Services committee is here.

Dear House Health & Human Services Committee:

I write to you today in opposition to SB 1309, regarding adding a "Parents' Bill of Rights" to Arizona law, scheduled for vote on Wednesday, May 31.

The interests being served by this bill are supposed to be something like protecting parents' fundamental right to raise their children as they see fit. I agree; this is an important right. The rights of parents to determine the course of their children's upbringing are important. Parents are responsible for their children's health and welfare, and should therefore have a great deal of say in their children's lives. As a matter of policy, I have no particular issue with most of this bill, even the parts that annoy me (such as the requirement that parents opt into allowing their children to attend sex education classes rather than opt out of them). However, I do have an issue with the provisions that medical providers may not keep medical information about children confidential from the child's parents, and that do not allow children to receive non-emergency medical care without their parents' consent.

Parental rights are important, but minors have rights of their own. The right to one's own bodily integrity is perhaps one of the most important we have. Parents may have a fundamental right to have some say over their children's well-being, but children, like any humans, also have fundamental rights at stake here. I am not sure what purpose is served by refusing to allow children the benefits of confidentiality with their doctors. After all, for any procedure that requires consent, parents would have to be involved even without this measure: we do not consider minors capable of consenting to such things. All this measure does is prevent children from speaking candidly with their doctors, ultimately undermining their ability to receive health care. This goes directly against the driving force behind any parental-rights measure: that of helping parents raise their children to be healthy adults and good citizens.

We do not strip our children of their first amendment rights; why would we strip them of their rights to make decisions regarding their own health care? This is a particularly poignant question when we reach children who have reached certain milestones. We allow our 16-year-olds to marry (albeit with parental consent); we allow teenagers to petition for emancipation; we obviously trust that at some point, our children are capable of taking care of themselves. And yet, this bill says that, unless our children take drastic civil measures, they can have no say over what happens to their own bodies. At some point, parents' interests and children's interests start to diverge, and what the parent may want for his or her child, while not legally abusive, may still not be best for that individual human being.

For example, it is fairly obvious that this measure will make it very difficult for minors to obtain birth control pills without talking to their parents about it, which, in many cases, is not a feasible solution for the minors. (It makes other prescriptions difficult to get; however, I can think of no other situation where a minor would have similar difficulty talking to his or her parent about obtaining a prescription, except, perhaps, for treatment for STDs.) If the purpose is to prevent minors from engaging in sexual activity by requiring parents to consent to any medical care given, the statute is sadly misdirected. Minors who wish to engage in sexual activity but do not wish to inform their parents of the fact will simply obtain over-the-counter forms of birth control, or will simply do without. In the first instance, the purpose of the statute is not met; in the second, it is actually hindered because in addition to doing nothing to stop teens from having sex, it exposes them to disease and pregnancy.

This measure also disproportionately affects female minors because of its proscription against prescriptions being issued without parental consent. It does not forbid children from obtaining birth control. It forbids (or at least puts special hindrance on) female children from obtaining birth control.

This measure strips certain patients of their doctor/patient confidentiality. It will discourage candid communication between doctor and patient. Children who are engaged in harmful behaviors will be discouraged from discussing potential health problems with their doctors for fear that there will be repercussions at home, which leads to dangerous and potentially life-threatening situations.

Imagine being a teenager who acquired an STD. Say, further, it has not reached the point where it is a life-threatening situation - or, because your parents did not allow you to attend sex education, you don't know whether it is a life-threatening situation or not. If this bill were not passed, you could go to a doctor, tell the doctor what was happening, and receive treatment for your STD. Ideally, of course, you would be able to talk to your parents about this situation. But you're a teenager. In your eyes, parents are often totally unreasonable about this type of thing. And besides, if they know you had sex, you'll be in huge trouble. You don't want to talk to them about this problem. If you have the right of confidentiality with your doctor, there's no problem: you walk on down to your family doctor and get the problem taken care of. But if there is no such right, there is a much larger problem. You have to weigh your health against your parents' approval - or even, in some sad cases, their love. For a young person who has never had any major health issues, the choice could easily - and perfectly rationally - be to put off getting medical care until safely grown up and out of the house. Needless to say, this creates a huge health risk: minor health problems, ignored for years, can easily become major ones.

Furthermore, this measure allows parents to withhold medical care from their children completely, provided the situation is not life-threatening. Very serious illnesses will go untreated simply because, for instance, the parent believes the child deserves to suffer (most likely, for engaging in premarital sex or some such offense). It is difficult to imagine a parent who would do such a thing - but the horror stories are out there, and we cannot ignore them just because we have difficulty imagining such a parental mindset.

I am not saying children should be keeping secrets from their parents, or should be engaging in illicit sexual activities, or anything like that. I am saying that if we deny them the rights to doctor/patient confidentiality that we give to adults, health problems will develop. There is no purpose served that can justify stripping minors of their right to talk to a doctor in confidence. Please rethink the provisions in this measure, taking into account the interests of children as well as parents.

Extra! Extra! University Invaded by Insane Evangelist!

Every year this guy shows up. Every year, I can't help but hang around with the crowd watching him. He's hilarious. This year, I recorded my experiences. (The last two entries were written after the fact, and are much less detailed.)
Day 1
I couldn’t get here until 2:30 in the afternoon. The sun is already lower in the sky, and the afternoon light has a golden quality. The crowd in front of the Evangelist is small, at least in relation to crowds I have seen before. But it’s just Monday. So far, I have learned that designer jeans and red bras are a problem. And that the Evangelist was a repressed loner in high school. That’s a blatant judgment call on my part, but I think it fits.
Already, students have mustered a variety of protests. There are the Pride Alliance angels, of course – four of them this afternoon – but they are not alone. One undergraduate boy with shoulder-length dirty blond hair walks among the crowd, carrying a large poster depicting a pair of girls in each others’ arms. It is not an obscene picture in any sense of the word, but it is clear what is going on. A little ways off, several students have set up a table with a sign saying, “Ask an Atheist.” And of course, the usual gaggle of obnoxious (and proud of it) youth cluster close in, cheering or gasping where appropriate in mock reverence. Several convince the Evangelist to pose in a picture with them before running off to class.
More interesting, and something I had not noticed in previous years, is the heated theological debate taking place on the margins of the crowd. A group of young men try to explain to each other their own ideas of what is “sin” and what is not. I hear occasional raised voices, but there is too much background noise for me to hear clearly what they are saying. In this sense, then, the Evangelist is having a positive effect: Despite being opposed to intellectual inquiry in all forms, he is sparking an informed philosophical debate.
The Evangelist has started in on homosexuality. He becomes less coherent on this topic, yelling words with which he is clearly uncomfortable loudly but not crisply. Despite this change in rhetoric (or perhaps because of it), the crowd has noticeably thinned. Or perhaps, the crowd has thinned because a new hour has started and people have class, while the people coming out of class are not yet hooked. It takes time for word to spread about campus that this clot of people on the mall is something amusing, not simply people behaving strangely. (OK, it is, but it’s still funny.)
A few try, predictably, to engage the Evangelist in real debate. The Evangelist states that his authority on what God thinks and feels comes because he is filled with the Holy Ghost. I have always thought such rhetoric expressed repressed sexuality; no matter. The students are skeptical.

Day Two
Today, when I arrive, the Evangelist is telling a story about the debauchery of Greek life. Which, of course, we knew. Today, a pair of large undergraduate boys are standing with him, embellishing his statements, mockingly. The Evangelist is annoyed, and ducks away when one tries to hug him. Some frat boys take offense.
The crowd is larger today, and more rambunctious. Word is spreading. The atheist table is closer in. Pride Alliance has set up a bulletin board entitled “Free Speech” that invites passersby to write out what they think. However, they only have three angels out today.
Yesterday, before I left, I ended up in one of the fringe conversations. It is remarkable to me how very calm these people with wildly disparate opinions could be. The boy I was talking to was a devout Catholic, and I got into the conversation because he was asking what in the Constitution says anything about gay marriage. I got to talk about equal protection and due process. Through the course of the conversation, we discovered that although we are on complete opposite sides of a vast idealogical divide, we agreed on a great number of things.
Today appears to have had a number of prospective student tours scheduled. As each tour passes by, the crowd yells things such as, “Welcome to the U of A! Run away before [The Evangelist] gets you!” or “Don’t worry; we’re not always like this!” The Evangelist is not about to let this opportunity for teaching pass by. As one group passes, the Evangelist shouts, “The girls have probably already lost their virginity!” The girls, underage and innocent-looking, shoot him dismayed looks. The crowd leaps to their defense, complaining about him insulting people right in front of their parents. I agree…I think he crossed a line with that one. However, it does not fall under any of the 1st Amendment exceptions I know about, and there’s probably nothing illegal about it. I wish I had gotten that on film.
Several minutes later, the conversation has devolved into a political debate. The Evangelist has almost lost control – several of the louder hecklers have started a side debate about Sarah Palin. So The Evangelist switches over to his old standby: “The GAAAAAAYYSS!!!” Or maybe, “The JEEEWWWWSSSSS!!!” The largest of the hecklers, as it happens, is Jewish – and he is not pleased by this turn.
A choice quote: “If you don’t get the Holy Ghost, you’ll get the Holy Roast!”
He then invites his wife up to speak. He introduces her as someone who was a liberal when they met. Her shirt is red with silver letters saying “Hell awaits you” on the back and “You deserve Hell” on the front. Her lecture has to do with premarital sex, and the evils of it. ”How many good girls out there?” and you don’t qualify if you’ve had premarital sex. She also calls the boys “horny little devils.” It is, however, nice to not be a direct target of the lecture at the moment. I am married; I am bisexual; I am a law student. I think there is no hope for me, so they are not bothering.
After The Evangelist’s Wife (who told an amusing story about an unfortunate sorority girl who saw the Error Of Her Ways but who does not have The Evangelist’s stamina), The Evangelist’s Daughters sang a song. The older one was introduced as being an 18-year-old who knew she was not allowed to date. (I considered yelling something to her that legally, she has the right to do anything, but I figured that could potentially get me in trouble. She’s probably heard it before, anyway.) The girls sang fairly well. They look very sweet, and they do not yell at anyone. This is the “soft approach” after the hard one, but I still feel compelled to go talk to them. Not in the least because the older one – the one who is of age – is really pretty. But, knowing she would probably just try to convert me, I didn’t bother.
After the Daughters, The Evangelist pulls out a stool and sits, inviting the audience to “rap” with him. The loudest of the hecklers are eager. They start by asking about Haiti. The Evangelist, clearly a good follower of Pat Robertson, readily confirms that a 200-year-old witch doctor’s pact with the devil caused god to send an earthquake to kill a lot of innocent people. But – and here’s the important part – these people weren’t so innocent. They were homosexuals, fornicators, murderers, sinners of all types, and that’s why they were killed. The heckler – not heckling so much now – tries a rational approach. This gets nowhere.
I hear this particular heckler, a large person in a white shirt, telling some people that he wants to be a politician, and that this type of thing bothers him because people with beliefs similar to The Evangelist’s are setting policy for the country. I completely agree.
The Evangelist is stumped by this: Sin is allowed on Earth, because there is free will. Does that mean that in Heaven there is no free will? Or do people sin in heaven? After some hemming and hawing, The Evangelist decides that it’s simply a matter of there being no opportunity to sin in heaven. This answer is not satisfying.

Day Three
I can’t stay as long today, and that’s a bit disappointing. There is a definite party atmosphere today. The woman who was filming with her digital camera yesterday – being more obtrusive about it than I was – is doing the same thing today, but today, she is clad in only a halter top & short shorts. The “Ask an Atheist” people are out in greater numbers, cheerfully asking passersby, “Are you a critical thinker?!” and handing out flyers for the Skeptics Club. They say that The Evangelist is great publicity; their club is growing. A variety of young women are sunbathing, and many more bicyclists have stopped to watch, as I have, with their bikes propped up near them.
The Evangelist himself is in fine form, telling a story about his own youth. The story centers around an incident that happened in “My father’s 1954 chevrolet belair with leather seats!” – and every time he mentions the car, the crowd cheerfully chants along with him.
Two spectators chat about how sexy the 18-year-old Daughter is, in a wonderful girl-next-door way. One man has brought his dog. Someone blows up a condom and tosses it around like a beach ball at a concert. The university, bowing to the inevitable, has put temporary cardboard-box trash cans up around the square. The young man with the lesbians-kissing sign leads a cheer: “Gimme an A! Gimme an S! Gimme an S! What’s that spell? ASS!!” and the crowd joins in.
There are five angels today, and Pride Alliance has put up a new Free Speech board. Yesterday’s was full. Today’s is close to being full as well. The amazing thing is the short amount of time in which this happens; I was by a couple of times this morning and the square was empty.
The Evangelist has started in on global warming, of all things, as government control, and a means of establishing socialism. While I happen to agree that that particular theory has been blown way out of proportion, I strongly doubt the conspiracy-theory notion that the Evangelist relies upon today.
A man has shown up to try and get people to have signed a petition for putting medical marijuana to the vote. The boy with the lesbian sign interrupts The Evangelist to announce his presence and encourage people to sign, and leads another chant, this time spelling W-E-E-D.
I walked around to the front of the crowd for a different vantage point – and to check out the free speech board. Yesterday, there were a lot of messages about love and tolerance. Today, the masses are getting angry: the messages are mostly along the lines of “Fuck [The Evangelist]!” and “Satan Rules!” Standing in front of the board, almost – but not quite – blocking access are several men who I think are part of The Evangelist’s entourage, but I could be wrong on that. I have seen them at these gatherings before, but they could be like me, fascinated, obsessed spectators.
The man with the medical marijuana petition was joined by a man from the Green Party, asking people to sign in order to have Green Party candidates on the ballot. Several girl scouts came up with a wagon full of cookies. Students flocked around them, waving money, and soon, one of the girl scouts had to run back to their encampment on the Mall for more cookies. Another woman and I ruminated on how inappropriate this spectacle was for children.
The Evangelist’s Wife got up to talk. Today, she had a shirt saying “Read the Bible (while you are still able)!” on the back. I didn’t see the front. The crowd had less patience with her today: rather than allowing her to tell her story, they started right in with pointed questions. I know she has been doing this for a long time, but crowd control is not her talent. She allowed questions she could not give coherent answers to to be asked. The boy with the lesbian sign asked her (after she made him turn the sign around) whether she ever wore mixed-material fabrics. Of course, she said (which we knew – she’s wearing a poly/cotton shirt as we speak). Well, said the boy, did you know that is forbidden by the Bible? That commandment is not for me, she said.
Well, the crowd ate that up. “[The Evangelist’s Wife] picks and chooses what commandments to follow!” yelled one loud person at the front, and most others yelled variations on that. There was a moment of pandemonium, and the Wife looked anxiously around her. The boy with the sign went on to the real point, about how, then, do we know that the commandment against homosexuality is for us? She advised him to read the Bible. Apparently it’s implicit. But she had lost the crowd. Having a bad answer to a question like that, I think, is worse than having no answer at all.
During her mother’s speech, the older Daughter sat right in front of her, filming on her own digital camera. She looked depressed – these rambunctious college students were picking on her mother. Today, she was wearing the “You Deserve Hell” shirt, and her feet were bare. I was disappointed by the shirt, but I still felt sorry for her. I can’t imagine what it must be like to grow up being shoved in front of hostile crowds that, no matter how modestly you’re dressed, are going to be thinking of “corrupting” you as soon as you sprout breasts, and watching your parents get heckled and boo’d and made to look ridiculous by well-placed arguments.
Day Four
When I woke up, I felt miserable. Depressed. There was no reason for it I could see. I thought about what I was planning for the day, and I thought about going to see The Evangelist, and I just felt ugly. Moreover, I was starting to doubt myself. I was feeling the beginnings of guilt for my sexuality, my gender, my chosen profession – the things about which I usually feel proud.
I have read that continued exposure to ideas, even ones the listener disagrees with strenuously, will have the effect of imprinting the ideas on the listener. And suddenly, I knew why The Evangelist was so dangerous. I saw it yesterday, with the Free Speech board becoming increasingly hostile, and the crowd getting more vicious. Listening to negative ideas has the effect of making the listeners feel negative. I had deliberately exposed myself to vicious assaults on every part of my identity that matters to me, and this morning, the psychological effects were stacking up.
I stayed away from The Evangelist today. Instead, I bought a healthy lunch and took it to the Women’s Plaza of Honor. I have always thought having such a plaza was a little silly – after all, why should honoring women be restricted to one little plaza? – but today, I was grateful for it. It was a quiet space with sunlight filtering through the trees and many empty benches. A few people walked by, but few stayed. I watched the day-to-day life of a busy, happy campus and felt more like myself.
Day Five
This morning, before I went to the school, I went to the grocery store and bought several bunches of cut flowers. They are inexpensive this time of year.
The Evangelist showed up around noon. I didn’t listen to what he was lecturing about. I chatted with the Skeptics and waited until a sizeable crowd had gathered.
The Evangelist called the Skeptics up to the front to give them a signed copy of his book. That made them happy. I took a look at it; he's a lot more coherent in print but it's more of the same nonsense.
Then I started passing out flowers. People looked glad to get them. Several asked why I was doing that. I said something about counteracting negativity. One group thanked me for doing that. I even gave a flower to The Evangelist, who accepted it. He then said I reminded him of a hippie he used to know and who was going to hell. The crowd cheered.
I ran out of flowers way too fast.

I wrote this...

... to Senator Jon Kyl, Senator John McCain, and Representative Gabrielle Giffords. (I toned it down somewhat for Ms. Giffords.) Thought y'all would like to see:

Dear Senator [insert name here; I’m going to write to both of them]:

I am a second-year law student at the U. of A. James E. Rogers College of law. I am a writer on Law Review; the president of the law school chapter of the ACLU; and among the top 10% in my class. I love the study of law and I love being a part of this wonderful school.

Two weeks ago, I was in Washington, D.C. with 200,000 other people marching for LGBT equality. I marched because the more I have studied the laws of this country, the more I have realized that LGBT people - like me and my wife - are excluded from a wide variety of protections.

For instance, in Evidence just a few weeks ago, I learned that married people cannot be compelled to testify against each other in court. This is, of course, a very minor example (and something I probably already knew if I had thought about it), but it highlighted unpleasantly yet another way my family is different from those of many of my classmates.

I should not even have to describe what Community Property class is like.

In my Persuasive Communication class, our writing project for this semester has to do with the Americans with Disabilities Act. I am writing for the hypothetical plaintiff, and I found it very easy to point to provisions within the ADA to make my case. Although I am enjoying the project immensely, the subject is bittersweet. My hypothetical plaintiff has a legal remedy against the employment discrimination she experienced; when my wife was forced out of her job in response to her disclosures about her sexual orientation (which, given that we both worked at the same location, was difficult to hide), she had no remedy at all beyond very limited City of Tucson protections. Under those provisions, the maximum damages a plaintiff can get is $2000, which does not even begin to cover the legal fees that would have been involved had we pursued the matter.

I have been afraid to visit my parents since they moved to Alabama because I have read so many reports from that state of crimes against LGBT people that are not investigated, or that are perpetrated by law enforcement officers. I am sure these things happen in Arizona as well; however, I have not heard of as many incidents here, and Tucson, being as it is an island of liberalism, is very safe.

I write to you because I would like to see the vast inequalities between LGBT citizens and non-LGBT citizens remedied. We do not ask for “special rights” or anything that will harm this country as a whole. We want only the same rights that non-LGBT people take for granted, such as the right to the protections of marriage. We want to be able to work without fear of harassment or termination, protections that racial minorities, women, and people with disabilities have but that are denied to us. We want to be able to serve our country in the military without having to lie about who we are. These legislative changes would right a great wrong that has been perpetuated in the name of “tradition.”

The Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes Bill that just passed was only a small step. There are several bills under consideration that would do far more for LGBT rights. The Senate has before it a fully-enclusive Employment Non-Discrimination Act. The House is considering a bill to repeal DOMA that hopefully will pass and move along to the Senate. President Obama has indicated that he will soon push for a repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," which, while an improvement on the old military policy of actively rooting out lesbians and gay men from the ranks, still falls far short of anything like equality.

As a nominal libertarian, I understand concerns that legislating problems away for the most part does not work. I am all for keeping government small so that it intrudes on individual lives as little as possible. I am also all for allowing the democratic process to work as it will, voicing the will of the people.

However, there are times, as now, when the democratic process fails millions. Is it right to allow the knee-jerk reactions of the many to marginalize and trample the rights of the few? Is it right to allow injustice to continue and millions to live in fear simply because more legislation would violate some theoretical principle of the role of government, that has very little to do with reality? My reality is that, despite my education and prospects, I am a second-class citizen. I cannot rely on the courts to correct the injustices, as I naively thought when I first enrolled in law school. The courts are bound by precepts of law, and it is the law that is failing us now. The law must be changed, and you, the legislators, are the ones to change it.

The bills that would change my reality harm no one. They do not place any particular burden on the economy; in fact, by reducing fear and promoting inclusion of a vast number of people, they would help the economy. They do not force anyone to change their lives, beyond requiring that a few employers, service-men and –women, and law enforcement officers behave with civility. I realize that they are not a panacea. No mere legislation can change an entire culture. But it would be a start.

The attitudes in this country are changing; even many Republicans now support LGBT equality. Please support bills that would enable us to live as full citizens in the country we love.

Sincerely,

[Audrey]