How You Play the Game

When I was a kid, my self-esteem was never bruised if I was the last pick for dodgeball or sprints during gym period. I stunk at sports and had enough self-awareness to know that if the tables were turned I wouldn't have picked me either. Possibly the only kid who actually believed grownups when they said things like "It's not whether you win or lose..." I was totally accepting of my non-competitive nature, so-so eye-hand-coordination and the irrefutable fact that I, like my favorite character from fiction Ferdinand the Bull, was much happier smelling the flowers than butting heads with any wanna-be-warriors on the field.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_of_Ferdinand

My parents rarely talked about sports at home and when they did I couldn't relate to the cricket and soccer matches they recalled from their childhoods in Jamaica. And given the tight budget at my parochial grammar school, the sports curriculum (and I use the term very loosely) was limited to the aforementioned once-weekly gym classes or lunchtime games of tag and double-dutch on a paved lot behind our school building.

By the time I got to high school the die was cast. Getting worked up over sports simply was not in my DNA... with one caveat.

Give me a larger-than-life character who transcends their sport and I will ignore my instinct to leave the room at the sound of a buzzer, bell, or call to post. Muhammad Ali comes to mind as much for his poetry as his pretty face... as does Charles Barkley for his astute (if often politically incorrect) observations. I can't get enough of Calvin Borel-- the jockey from Louisiana's Cajun Country who will man up in the saddle then cry like a baby when his mount crosses the finish line first. And how 'bout them horses? In my mind, they are the über-athletes: true royals from the sport of kings. And how cool are names like Seattle Slew, Mucho Macho Man and Zenyatta which so perfectly reflect the merging of a thoroughbred's high-low culture.

And now, thanks to John Tortorella, I might have to learn to distinguish a Duster from a Puck Bunny.

Typically, everything about hockey leaves me cold from the violence to the toothless brawlers obscured by all that unflattering padding. By the same token, nothing gets my blood pumping like a good drama and Tortorella, who coaches the New York Rangers, serves up drama on an operatic scale. Whether blasting a linesman for having "cataracts" or "dementia", getting slapped with five-figure fines from the NHL, or attempting to spear a Capitals fan with a hockey stick for heckling, Tortorella doesn't play when it comes to defending his team. In a city that prides itself on telling it like it is, Coach stands out for being a little too outspoken. To be sure, columnists like Larry Brooks ("Brooksie" to Tortorella) from the New York Post would use stronger language to describe his nemesis, who once told him to "get the f**k out of here" during a live broadcast on CBS.

So the guy can be pugnacious, combative and taciturn. Who am I to cast the first stone? Truth is I'm inclined to look the other way in light of the dashing figure Tortorella cuts on the ice (show me a man who is comfortable with his silver hair and I'll show you what Mitt Romney could look like if he just allowed Mother Nature to do her thing), his penchant for wearing perfectly tailored pinstripe suits when bellowing from the sidelines, not to mention the way he maintains his swagger even when dressed down in black turtlenecks or those extra-puffy pads.

If, as my gym teachers told me all those years ago, it really is all about how you play the game then this bad boy gets an A+ for effort. And while I may be late to the game given Tortorella's tenure in professional hockey, with DJ Steve Porter's new mash-up "Next Question" (a compilation of the coach's greatest hits at post-game press conferences) getting so much play on YouTube there is no way I'll be the last...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPGtxTL-0X4


...and for this non-sporty-sports-fan-- not coming in last would be a first!

Baby Love: Win, Lose or Draw

One of the most enduring impressions left on me following my travels through southern India last year was the primacy of family for all strata of society. 

Mid-conversation, and sometimes apropos of nothing, young men would flip open their cell phones  to show me a picture of their kids-- an obvious source of pride and joy. When I told one young girl that I didn’t have any children her spontaneous “Why?!” was as touching for its candor as it was telling that this was a society where love & marriage is supposed to be followed by a baby carriage. Metaphorically speaking, at least, because in spite of crossing paths with thousands of babies and toddlers throughout Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Maharashtra, Kerala and Goa. I did not see one child relegated to a Bugaboo, Chicco Key Fit or Baby Björn. On the contrary, children were always transported via the loving arms of a mother, father, grandparent, sibling, uncle, auntie or cousin.

I'd be hard pressed to name a culture which does not espouse family values, but I've yet to see a support system for new parents anywhere which rivals that of the extended family in India. Even when couples have trouble conceiving a child the heartache is not theirs alone to bear, as evidenced by scenes like the one pictured below where families pining for a baby tie colorful swatches of fabric to tree limbs to symbolize their hearts' deepest desires.

For all the stories of abject poverty coming out of India, the truth is that children are as great an emblem of wealth as any; which why a story I recently came across on PBS's website struck me as incongruous.

http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/globalhealth/july-dec11/surrogates_08-05.html

In the second of a two-part series, PBS Newshour correspondent Fred de Sam Lazaro reports on a clinic in Western India where poor local women are paid to act as surrogates for (relatively) wealthy foreigners. Based in the small town of Anand, the Akanksha Infertility Clinic is run by Dr. Nayna Patel, who characterizes the exchange as "win-win-win."

That the situation has been a win-win for Dr. Patel and the biological parents coming from India and abroad is indisputable. A leader in what is now a half-billion-dollar industry in India, Patel has delivered over 400 babies since 2004. At a cost of $10,000 - $15,000 the bottom line for biological parents is a fraction of the $110,000 they might expect to pay a surrogate in the US. Commissioning parents typically have contracts written to protect their interests, and the practice of implanting up to five embryos (the final tally is winnowed by selective abortion should all embryos result in viable pregnancies) in India serves to maximize the chances of pregnancy. Given the usual protocol in the US of implanting no more than two embryos to minimize risk to mother and child, it's easy to see why women like 46-year-old Kirshner Ross-Vaden would choose to realize her dream of parenthood so far from home. "Coming here to India, these women, they don't want my child", says the Colorado native. "It's very cut and dry. They do not want my child. They want my money. And that is just fine with me."

But is it just fine with the surrogates?

What, besides the $7,000 - $8,000 paycheck for a pregnancy carried to term, makes this such a winning proposition for the birth mother? Who advocates for her in the event of a complication or long-term injury resulting from pregnancy or delivery? What are the cultural ramifications for a surrogate when she finds herself handing over a newborn in a society that has raised baby love to an artform? And while Dr. Patel mandates that all surrogates move into a pregnancy hostel where they receive prenatal care from the moment a pregnancy is confirmed through delivery, by definition this means that surrogates must abandon their own families for nine months in order to make someone else's dream of a family come true. (One prerequisite for becoming a surrogate stipulates that all candidates must have given birth to a biological child prior to being hired by Dr. Patel.)

Barring any questions on morality and ethics, I have a hard time reconciling the lopsided arrangement in which biological mothers like Ross-Vaden make tepid claims of wanting to keep in touch her surrogate-- "I do have her address, so I can get a hold of her. And hopefully I will be able to maintain some kind of relationship with her"-- as the surrogate acknowledges her powerlessness in the relationship. "You can't help it when you've carried a baby for nine months", says the woman who bore Ross-Vaden's daughter. "I would like to see how she does in the future." (Something tells me the contact information exchange is not quid pro quo, but I could be wrong.)

Time and again, proponents of surrogacy arrangements site the pain, disappointment and longing that accompanies struggles with infertility as if this alone were justification for achieving parenthood by any means necessary. But should the longings of one woman preclude those of another who is paid to carry a baby to term then hand it over in a supposedly "cut and dry" transaction? The language alone belies the commodification of the sacred. And while women are not generally known for their defense of prostitution-- which, after all, is simply the exchange of money for the use of another's time and body-- I am astonished at the rationalizations that flow from this same demographic when it comes to hiring another woman's womb to grow a baby as if the surrogate's heart and soul were not part of the equation.

For all the arguments of free will, self-determination, altruism and how $7,000 can change the life of an impoverished woman in India, there is no getting around the fact that when a surrogate's choices are driven by economics alone-- that's what's known as a losing proposition.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

When Facebook CEO Mark Zukerberg rings the opening bell at the NASDAQ in two hours it will be 9:30 at night in Singapore: where Eduardo Saverin, Zuckerberg's former Harvard classmate, will pass the milestone with his new compatriots. That Saverin is young, single and in as-good-a-place-as-any to mingle on a Friday night strikes me as perfect timing for the co-founder of Facebook. And given estimates that his stake in the company will be worth nearly $4bn by the time the first bottle of champagne is uncorked you'd think the 30-year-old would be lauded as the embodiment of the American Dream. But you'd be wrong. 

On May 17th, Saverin released a statement that triggered a tsunami of vitriol from critics claiming everything from ingratitude to greed. Acknowledging "the U.S. for everything it has given me", the Brazil native explained that after living and working in Singapore since 2009 he'd renounced his U.S. citizenship. In doing so, detractors charge, Saverin was seeking to avoid hundreds of millions in capital gains taxes.

I can't recall the expatriation of any American getting as much ink as that of Eduardo Saverin's. As a matter of fact, I'd be hard pressed to name a single American who has expatriated in my lifetime. Not because it's unprecedented, but because US citizens tend to view migration as a one-way street... with a paternalistic mono-focus on those lucky immigrants coming to America.

And yet, in a climate where talk of electrified fences separating the US and Mexico passes for rational border-control policy, the constitutionality of Arizona's "show me your papers" law is being questioned by the Supreme Court, and Alabama signed into law last year a provision calling for school children to be interrogated about immigrant status-- We the People are up in arms about one naturalized citizen's decision to renounce his US passport. As we wring our hands and beat our chests on these shores, I can't help but wonder if the bigger question on distant shores might not be "Eduardo, what took you so long?" 

The irony of North Americans crying foul when a Latin American decamps for Asia cannot be overstated. And though I believe in corporate responsibility to the communities which provide an educated workforce (and maintain civic stability & infrastructure) the quid pro quo relationship does not preclude Saverin's right to determine where he wishes to live and work. That he intends to do so within the bounds of the law-- paying a hefty exit tax to Uncle Sam in this case-- is not in dispute. 

As for the charges of greed and self-preservation: while the business person's propensity for making decisions based solely upon preservation of their capital is well documented, the truth is that even if every captain of industry were to disappear overnight this self-serving aspect of human nature would not vanish with them. Thus, while I am sorry to see Saverin and his taxable bonanza go, I don't begrudge him the decision that most people would make were they in his flip-flops.

Barring the debates about what, if anything, Saverin "owes" the United States, I am troubled by the jingoistic assumptions that one's motivation for renouncing a U.S passport must be ill-advised at best, suspect at worst. Might Singapore's proximity to the exploding markets of China and India make it the perfect place for a young entrepreneur with a background in social media to establish residence and do business? And might the timing of such a move be prudent given the growing economies in Asia contrasted with the stagnant (on a good day) one in the States? There is also the question of reputation, and the shellacking the United States has taken following over a decade of unjust wars and the tens of thousands of lives lost as a result. How might this tarnished reputation impact an entrepreneur's opportunities abroad?

For all of the freedoms, privileges and  opportunities that come with being an American citizen, ours is not a perfect union. Moreover, we can be willfully shortsighted when it comes to acknowledging opportunities that lie beyond our borders. Which is why we might want to at least see what Eduardo Saverin sees in Singapore before dismissing the idea outright. 

Or, as one of America's most prolific poets once cautioned:

Come gather 'round people

Wherever you roam

And admit that the waters

Around you have grown

And accept it that soon

You'll be drenched to the bone

If your time is to you

Is worth savin'

Then you better start swimmin'

Or you'll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin'. - Bob Dylan

J'Accuse!

In a wacky twist on the old "You can't fire me, because I QUIT!" syndrome, Dominque Strauss-Kahn is counter suing Nafissatou Diallo, the Sofitel housekeeper who accused him of raping her last year.

Asking for $1 million in damages, Strauss-Kahn's lawsuit alleges that Diallo's baseless accusations cost him his job as managing director of the International Monetary Fund, as well as "other professional opportunities."

No doubt, one of those opportunities might have been President of the French Republic: a distinction which now belongs to François Hollande, who was sworn in today.

Prior to Strauss-Khan's transition from insider to infamy he was considered the presumptive nominee of the Socialist Party and expected to beat Nicholas Sarkozy in last week's election-- as has Hollande. It goes without saying that there can be no more bitter pill for a man of Strauss-Khan's one-time stature to swallow... which brings me to Diallo.

Her own problems with credibility in the months after Strauss-Kahn's arrest notwithstanding, the fact remains that only two people know what really happened in that Midtown Manhattan hotel room on May 14, 2011. I would no sooner take sides, nor make assumptions about either party, without benefit of having examined all the facts of the case. By the same token, when a single allegation of rape against Strauss-Kahn is examined against a backdrop of prior accusations of sexual harassment, alleged involvement in prostitution rings and  his admission of having taken part in "libertine activities", one can only wonder at what point Strauss-Kahn might put his own political aspirations aside to preserve the dignity of the Presidency and his Party.

Among other things, this makes me question Strauss-Kahn's judgement; his apparent inability to win friends and influence people; his propensity for leaving a veritable flotilla of very angry women in his wake; his likability quotient; not-to-mention how a man with so many distractions (and this is the kindest way to put it if Strauss-Kahn is indeed guilty of any, or all, of the crimes of which he has been accused) can possibly be expected to lead France when she is on the brink of social and economic collapse.

And then there is the matter of perception: because guilty or not, the mere idea that the person representing France on a global stage may be a criminal is just bad PR: the antithesis of statesman.

This being the case, Strauss-Kahn's allegation that a chambermaid is singly responsible for having stripped him of all credibility and job opportunities is not only laughable; but suggests a myopia where big-picture thinking is needed. And that's just bad politics.

Vive la Différence

This is Lois Hobby. Her son Tim sent me this old picture of her last week and I've been captivated by it ever since. Mostly it's Miss Lois's demure expression, ladylike posture and hourglass silhouette. Every time I look at the image I think "They just don't make 'em like they used to." It also makes me think of something another friend, Matthew, observed a long time ago.

Back when I was a single lady living in Manhattan, Matthew called late one night saying that we had to talk... the sooner the better. Within minutes I found myself springing from the backseat of a taxi cab at the base of his tony apartment house before boarding a fast-moving elevator that delivered me to the hushed elegance of his bachelor pad high above Midtown. 

Lest you think this tale is about to devolve into Fifty Shades of Grey, let me disabuse you of the notion and assure you that Matthew and I were platonic friends. And, as I was about to learn, he was in love.

It took some coaxing to get him to divulge the name of the mystery woman who had planted a flag square in his heart, so I initiated the first of what would be many questions to prime the pump.

"Do I know her, Matthew?" 

"Yeeeeeeeessssssss..."

"Is she a model?"

"NO!!!"

Ouch! Not wanting to break the spell, I chose to overlook the snappy response and take no offense at the jab. Matthew was a fashion photographer and given my experience as a model we both knew the deal: sometimes it was better to love a pretty face from afar then just walk away before anybody got hurt.

Undaunted, I pressed on...

"Is she from NY?"

"Yeeeeeeeeeesssssss..."

The cat & mouse game went on for quite some time and was completely out-of-character for Matthew. I'd always known him to possess a certain degree of sange-froid that was unique to his professional brotherhood: those expert at maintaining their composure under circumstances which would leave most straight men staring, blushing, stammering or all of the above. After all, the photographer/model relationship is similar to that of doctor/patient where one wrong move of the part of either professional can cause all trust and credibility to fly out the window. Now the tables had been turned and the quintessentially cool cat was having a hot flash.

Finally, he confessed:

"It's Tracey!"

"Tracey? Tracey Who??? My cousin, Tracey?! You mean Tracey-my-cousin???!!!"

'Yessssssssss."

It was more of an exhalation than a declaration. My boy was toast.

I'm almost certain fairy dust sprinkled from the ceiling at this point, bathing Matthew in a golden glow. And if memory serves I think he even levitated a few inches off the divan. When he finally floated back down I regained my bearings and asked what it was about my cousin that made his heart do a triple lutz. Matthew weighed his words carefully before answering-- dragging out the last three syllables for maximum effect:  

"She...is...just...so... fem-i-nine."

"Feminine?" I repeated, dumbstruck. "Is that so unusual a trait in women these days?"

It was not a rhetorical question.

When a who man earns a living by taking pictures of professional beauties tells you that feminine women are rare-- you pay attention. Had I been overlooking some sad truth about women? How long had this been going on? And where was I on the spectrum, I wondered, as I twirled an escaped hair from my fuzzy ponytail, reassessed my cargo pants and stole a glance at my Puma-clad paws? 

The more I thought about it, the more I had to acknowledge that Tracey was the kind of woman who favored dresses over slacks. Whose thick tresses were always well groomed. Who rarely wore make-up. And when she did it was to accent rather than mask her beauty. Tracey was ever one to confuse dressing down with looking like she just didn't give a damn. Her charms never screamed, but instead whispered "You (boys) and I are different and while I intend to match you in the workplace where equal opportunity, equal rights and equal pay are at stake... I will never beat you at your own game of sartorial indifference.  

Matthew was right. Women like Tracey were very rare...

And yet every so often from the red carpet comes evidence that all is not lost. That the  fundamentals of women's fashion are timeless, still within our reach and the surest way to accentuate the differences between boys and girls. Of course, a faux pas here and there are to be expected, but even they serve a purpose as they render the right choices all the more delightful.

To wit:

Less...

...is more.

 "Smart" and "sexy" needn't be mutually exclusive.

Leaving something to the imagination...

...is far more appealing than too much of a good thing.

Although gilding the lily is a no-no...

...in the deft hands of the right man...

...all that's gilded can be golden.

And while metrosexuals are marvelous...

...vive la différence!!!

*Epilogue: Matthew and Tracey never made it past his crush, as she was already spoken for and his career soon took him to Hollywood, where he continues to shoot all of the pretty people and mentors up-and-coming photographers.
Here's a link to his website: http://matthewjordansmith.com/

One Man's Prankster is Another Man's Bully

Just hours after posting my last blog, in which I wrote about the two most common tacks folks take when trying to reconcile the irreconcilable (revisionist or apologist), the presumtive Republican nominee for November's presidential election has bolstered my point.

Nearly 50 years after the fact, Mitt Romney is apologizing for doing some "dumb things" while he was in high school. Romney claims to have no recollection of an incident in which he is alleged to have pinned down a fellow student and forcibly cut off the boy's long hair. The boy in question, John Lauber, is deceased. Former classmates describe him as having been "quiet and offbeat". John Lauber was also gay. But while Romney remembers Lauber, he says he "didn't think the fellow was homosexual." Adding "that was the furthest thing from our minds back in the 1960's."

Based on the little I know so far, I can conclude one of two things:
1) Either the frequency of such attacks were so commonplace when Romney was in high school that the "prankster" (as the Wall Street Journal sweetly dubbed Mittens) couldn't possibly be expected to remember each and every infraction
or
2) Mitt Romney is a Giant Toddler

The Giant Toddler (GT) is a grown-up whose emotional intelligence is akin to that of a chronological toddler. They tend to impose themselves upon their environment instead of making an effort to minimize their footprint in public places. Whether owing to a lack of coordination, not having been properly socialized, or being immune to consequences they literally and figuratively throw their weight around with little regard for any damage left in their wake. Not only is their comfort and peace-of-mind a primary consideration for the GT: it is also directly proportionate to their disregard for your comfort and peace-of-mind. The very traits that adults find so charming in actual toddlers become insufferable once the subject crosses the thresh hold of 3'6". In short, GT's are oblivious, clueless and obnoxious.

My first encounter with a GT took place in Middletown, CT on my first day of classes at Wesleyan. The school had a reputation for sheltering a "hotbed of left-over hippies from the 60's": a distinction we bore proudly. Wesleyan was a place where idealism was pervasive; students were at the vanguard of the political-correctness movement (I mean this in the best way possible. As anyone who has ever had to integrate their school, neighborhood or church can tell you: good manners are always appreciated!); and posters urging us to "END APARTHEID!!!"... "DIVEST NOW!!!"... or attend a "TAKE BACK THE NIGHT" rally were ubiquitous. Which is why the GTs inevitably stood out like sore thumbs.

The class was English 101 and our new professor, Robert O'Meally, was bookish, bespeckled, tall, dark and handsome: think Barack Obama-as-law-school-professor and you'll get the picture! Approximately 15 students were seated around the perimeter of tables set up in a quadrangle as Mr. O'Meally introduced himself and welcomed us to Wesleyan. And that is when the young man seated to my soon-to-be-favorite-professor's immediate left leaned back and propped his feet up on the table. The almost imperceptible quadruple-time beating of Mr. O'Meally's eyelids was the only indication that something was awry as he carried on in his unflappable manner.

I can still see the GT's weight balanced on the hind legs of his chair, hands clasped behind his head, elbows akimbo, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, with his grubby Timberland boots a mere foot away from Mr. O'Meally's face. In any language, this boy's posture screamed "I'm just chillin'..." This, while the rest of us were doing our level best to make a good first impression and not draw any negative attention to ourselves.

Had I entered the classroom at that precise moment I would have done a double take and exited promptly: certain that I'd accidentally stumbled into Shoemaking for Dummies, or How to Lose Friends and Encourage Your Professor to Assume You're a Moron, or Have You Lost Your Damned Mind?! 101. Who was this person? Even to my uninitiated eyes it was obvious that he had no clue that he was being totally inappropriate. In fact, if I were a betting woman I'd wager that he probably doesn't even remember a day that has been seared into my memory with crystal clarity.

Hmmm... sound familiar?

While this would be my maiden voyage into the Land of GT's, unfortunately, it was not to be my last. Within months of living at Wesleyan I noticed a pattern. As rare as charges of racism, misogyny and hazings-gone-bad were on campus, it slowly dawned on me that Ground Zero for such shenanigans was the Delta Kappa Epsilon, DKE (pronounced "Deke") fraternity house. And that, invariably, whenever the pledges were reprimanded by the administration-- their hanging a super-sized confederate flag from a 2nd story window of their Own Private Animal House comes to mind-- the frat brothers would publish an apology in the school newspaper and offer up chestnuts about "harmless pranks", "hijinks" and how "boys-will-be-boys."

Pranks?!

Hijinks?!

I'd only heard such language during the Looney Tunes cartoons I couldn't get enough of as a kid on Saturday mornings. But there was nothing funny about such lame excuses rolling off the tongues of these presumed future-leaders. (The fact that I've yet to hear anyone, anywhere, at anytime excuse the antisocial behavior of any young black man as a "prank" or a "hijink" also sticks in my craw, but let's save that double-standard for another blog.)

I find it offensive when people like Mitt Romney don't have the courtesy (or, is it courage?) to at least use adult language when making amends for actions that have obviously traumatized others. Particularly their victim is left feeling humiliated, intimidated and/or marginalized. In fact, there's a word for big guys who routinely take advantage of their size, position and perceived power to make the lives of smaller guys miserable. And if Mitt Romney doesn't know what that word is, I've no doubt that a visit to any kindergarten class ought to clear up any misconceptions he may have surrounding the definition of  the word "bully."

Then again, maybe I've got it all wrong and Mitt is not such a bad guy after all. Maybe the possible future-president of the United States is simply a Giant Toddler.

An Appalling Silence

The pictures are as iconic as they are incongruous-- whether upturned, smiling faces of men, women and children standing in the dappled sunlight of a Florida pine grove where the charred remains of a corpse hangs just a few feet away; or that of a high-schooler with text books hugged to her chest, bending like a willow but unbreakable despite the gauntlet of faces twisted with rage, one shouting "Go home, nigger!", all within arms reach. While I can't recall the exact moment when lynchings and public school integrations first penetrated my consciousness, I distinctly remember thinking several things simultaneously while staring at images from a pre-civil rights America even as a little girl. I remember because the same thoughts still come to mind today.

Mostly, I've wondered what it would feel like to be captured on film at the height (depth?) of one's ignorance for posterity? How might such people explain their younger selves to their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren? Is their telling of history revisionist ("Sugar, I realize that woman looks exactly like Nana, but I swear that is not your beloved granny grinning in that snapshot taken at some poor man's execution!"); or apologist ("Darlin', you just don't understand what it was like in those days. We didn't have Barack Obama or Oprah  back then, so how were we supposed to know that black people could be so smart and lovable? Hell, I only wish I could claim either of them as a former classmate today.")? Ultimately, once I got past such projections, I would feel smug in the knowledge that I'd been born in an era where I would never have to apologize for the unforgivable.

Or, so I thought...


"It may well be that we will have to repent in this generation. Not merely for the vitriolic words and the violent actions of the bad people, but for the appalling silence and indifference of the good people who sit around and say, 'Wait on time' ."
Martin Luther King, Jr.


When President Obama sat down with Robin Roberts of ABC News to state his support for gay marriage last night, the deluge in print and broadcast media which followed served as a reminder that for every silver lining there is a very dark cloud.

In an era where a New York Times  headline  can characterize President Obama's endorsement of gay marriage as "A Watershed Move, Both Risky and Inevitable" without irony; the president's self-described "evolution" on same-sex marriages incites debate as to whether or not all Americans are entitled to equal rights and protection under federal law... even among young people; Mitt Romney is willing to risk his political capital in an election year by reaffirming his opposition to the president's stance; and, most  shockingly, 55% of African Americans openly claim an aversion to gay marriage due to religious beliefs-- it is clear that our silence has been appalling and we are waiting on time.

I am thrilled that our president has delivered on his "Change We Can Believe In" campaign slogan. By the same token, I feel profound shame as I acknowledge that my generation owes the gay community a long-overdue apology for the unforgivable: for ignoring the Golden Rule in spite of our proclamations of family values and Christianity... for not looking out for the most vulnerable in our midst... for acting like it's a big deal when an elected leader takes the lead on the #1 civil rights issue of our day.

As Dr. King prophesied, we will have to repent. But if my insights on human nature are accurate, I can predict how future generations will regard us and-- in spite of what we tell our children-- it will not be a pretty picture.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/10/us/politics/obamas-watershed-move-on-gay-marriage.html?_r=1&hp