Today is Saturday, November 19th, 2005. Some people have painted themselves blue and gold, and have been drinking beer since last night at 8:30 to prepare for the big football game. I don't know about any of that: I was up late too, but spent my hours stiff-arming little kids to get a better place in line for
Harry Potter. Even with my strategic efforts, I didn't get in until 10:45pm, nor out until 1:00 in the morning. Richard Friedman was there, watching his kids play air hockey, and carrying a red Aspen casebook under his arm. The man is never far from the law.
Aside from the Ohio State game and Harry Potter, the third biggest excitement is the return of Fred Phelps to our campus. There was a lot of consternation about what kind of welcome he should get. Some folks thought silence would be most appropriate. Fred Phelps, they said, was a bully who thrived on getting a rise out of his mark. (link to
article.) If we ignore Fred Phelps, he'll eventually go away.
I think they're absolutely right, but I also think they've missed the fact that organizing against Phelps would do us more good than it would do him. Who is "us"? That's what we began to find out when our villain emerged: "us" was a lot bigger than we might have expected. (link to
OFU.) Even groups that might not traditionally support our position on same-sex marriage (etc.) still drew the line at religious condemnation and dehumanization of gay folk. They might not agree on policies surrounding gay rights, but human dignity is not susceptible to policy arguments--it's all or nothing, and a lot of groups, churches, and just ordinary people have shown they believe that to be true.
My Copyright professor, Susan Kornfield, brings bagels and muffins on days that she thinks we'll need a little pick-me-up. We got bagels after an unfortunate string of on-campus muggings, we got bagels for DeLay's indictment and the Meyers nomination fiasco, and this time we got bagels for Fred Phelps. "Fred Phelps," she said, "the man who protests at soldiers' funerals and carries signs that say 'God Hates Fags' is coming to Michigan. I recommend you all go out to see the demonstrations that will be held, whether you agree with him or not, because you'll see the First Amendment at work, and you'll see that it is at its heart an ugly thing."
The tone of her voice was a mixture of human sympathy and legal optimism: this is exactly the kind of situation the First Amendment is designed to foster. Fred Phelps is supposed to speak his mind so that we can organize a counter-speech, and the conversation can go back and forth forever, with each side blowing off steam until they're blue in the face. The suppression of discontent is far more dangerous than its airing. Other countries disagree, but I think it's right.
I plan to outline for finals most of the day, and then head out to the theatre to see what it's all about. The story will continue...
[EDIT: 11/21/05]
It took me a few days to get back to this story, because I'm in law school and that's how it works.
Outside of the Mendelson Theatre (which I've probably misspelled), the cops had strung up police line, placed a few orange traffic blocks, and scattered themselves around Fred Phelps' people. There were only a handful of Phelpsians there, all holding high-contrast neon signs with messages on them, sometimes direct ("GOD HATES FAGS") and sometimes mysterious ("THANK GOD FOR IEDs").
The response group was much, much larger: queers, friends, churches, a high school swim team, and folks who just walked up to see what all the commotion was about. People joined arms and engaged in symbolic protests: some were turning their backs on hatred, others were standing for justice. I was shivering from chilliness, but I did it with all the progressive spirit I could muster.
Mostly people mingled and sang. Impromptu (and pre-planned) choirs sprang up with renditions of "We Will Overcome" and "Amazing Grace," but eventually ran out of ideas and just went through the soundtrack to
Sister Act. Other groups re-wrote lyrics of songs. "What if God was GAY like us...just a HOMO on the bus." It was all off-key, but the spirit was there.
The Phelpsians didn't do or say much. If you wandered near their circle, you could yell at them. I didn't, but others did. A few high school kids and undergrads verbally poked them with sticks, just to see if they would bite. They did, and that devolved into shouting matches, but mostly because of the enforced distance between the two groups. In all, it was wonderfully boring.
I'd like to say our side came out like perfect angels, but that wouldn't be true. Someone had a sign with a picture of two men (with long hair and robes) copulating (the caption read "Jesus f***ing Christ") and everyone on our side of the barricade was horribly (and visibly) embarrassed. "Good," said one of the boys carrying the sign, "I hope THEY hate it even more." I don't think anyone could have hated it more than I did.
And then it was time for the show. Everyone wandered into the theatre and left the Phelpsians standing there with their signs, walking in circles, and shivering.
I thought we amassed a nice response, but as someone at the Outlaws meeting recently said, "Phelps isn't the face of bigotry in America. He's a quack. The stuff we really have to deal with is buried deep below the surface; it's much more subtle." I agree.
We won no victories by standing up to Fred Phelps, who wasn't even technically there. As queers, standing in the cold with friends was easy: it took more courage to come out to our families, to stand up for ourselves at school and work. Fred Phelps was a pussy cat compared to that. Every movement, however, needs a villain, and it's unfortunate that Fred Phelps can't be ours. Phelps stands under neon signs and yells and hollers. He's easy to spot, easy to avoid, easy to laugh off. Real discrimination isn't so accommodating.
