What felt like mere moments later, the show was under way. Tina Fey and Steve Martin took the stage. They read the nominees for Best Original Screenplay, opened the envelope, and here’s all I can really remember from the next few minutes:
Steve Martin opened his mouth and said, “And the Oscar goes to: Dus—”
Bang! I was out of my seat before he even got to “Lance.” I wasn’t wasting a moment. I can’t say for sure what guided me in the next few minutes, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was a lifetime growing up with my tough, loving mom; all the dreaming she’d encouraged me to do, including the night before; and one big, healthy dose of whoever God is.
I don’t remember taking the Oscar in my hand, but I do remember seeing that big red clock and its rapidly shrinking numbers, and getting myself to the microphone. Then, I somehow pushed down all the nerves that had crippled me way back when in the Jingle Bell Band and channeled the skills my mother and the South had tried to teach me along the way: I stood up as straight and tall as a writer can, and when I opened my mouth, I did my best to take the bull by the horns, to say the words I wished I had heard as a child, to stir up some good old-fashioned trouble, and lead.
FROM GLAAD’S 2009 OSCARS TRANSCRIPT:
Oh my God. This was, um. This was not an easy film to make. First off, I have to thank Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg and all the real-life people who shared their stories with me. And Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, James Franco, and our entire cast, my producers, Dan Jinks and Bruce Cohen, everyone at Groundswell and Focus, for taking on the challenge of telling this lifesaving story. When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life, it gave me the hope to one day live my life openly as who I am, and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married.
(He chokes up, audience begins to applaud.)
I want to thank my mom who has always loved me for who I am even when there was pressure not to. But most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he’d want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they are “less than” by their churches or by the government or by their families that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value, and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you, and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights, federally, across this great nation of ours.
(Wild applause from the audience.)
Thank you, thank you, and thank you, God, for giving us Harvey Milk.
My mind began recording memories again somewhere in the elevator ride up to the press room when Jennifer Aniston kindly handed me a much-needed bottle of water. Then I was ushered into a room filled with previous winners, some of the most famous and accomplished film folks in the history of cinema, and the first sign that I hadn’t completely screwed up was when Whoopi Goldberg wrapped me up tight in her arms and said, “You did it, baby.”
In the massive press gathering that followed, I could feel the heat of a thousand flashes, and I reiterated my call for the LGBTQ movement to take our fight for equality to the federal government, “in the footsteps of every great civil rights movement.” There was a new feeling in my bones, and it wasn’t just the adrenaline or bubbly. Where there had always been chalk, steel was beginning to form.
Nearly an hour later, I walked back into the Kodak Theatre during a commercial break and went right for my mom. She was still in tears, positively shaking with pride. “You got out of that chair awful quick, Lancer,” she said. I gave her a tearful laugh in return, her shimmering eyes helping me begin to comprehend what had just happened. And then and there I made a decision. I put my Oscar in my mom’s lap and said, “Hold on to him tight, Mom. He’s yours.”
That night at the Governors Ball, my mom chitchatted with celebrities until she grew bored of their tuxedos, silk, and sequins, then pulled Ryan in close. She wanted to finally speak openly about our move to Los Angeles so many years ago—about her fears that he was an unholy influence back then, and how now she understood more and saw Ryan as a son. Perhaps painfully aware of her own mortality, she added, “Promise me you’ll always look after him.” She locked eyes with him. This was an order, not a request.
“I always have, and always will,” he assured her.
The rest of that night was a dream. On a quick stop by my house to freshen up after the Governors Ball, I found that my neighbors’ kids had painted me a “Congratulations” banner and hung it across my garage door. Marcus, Todd, and Allison, who had been watching from the Focus Features party, came home to scream, hug, and relive the moment from their perspectives before I was whisked off to the Vanity Fair party, then to Madonna’s party, where P. Diddy was rapping my name as I walked in.
But the cherry on top was when legendary, openly gay CAA agent Bryan Lourd pressed me up against a wall at 3:00 a.m., a proud, paternal smile on his face, and said, “Do you realize what you’ve just done?”
He may have meant that my pay grade had just shot up, but what came to mind was that I’d just called on my wider American family to accept their LGBTQ children as a people loved by God. I had also called for what many considered too much: federal action from a movement that in my opinion had been begging for partial equality at the state and local level for far too long now. And I was no fool; I knew that what I’d said was bold, and I felt sure that a backlash was coming; I just didn’t realize that it wouldn’t come from those you might expect—the religious right, the South, or conservatives. Save for two online death threats, the America of my youth had little to say about my speech. Mostly I received letters from Southern moms and dads thanking me for opening their eyes to their sons’ and daughters’ plights. The real backlash came in whispers at first, then online, and eventually in emails and face-to-face confrontations—a chorus of criticism from many of my LGBTQ mentors and heroes who had begun privately and then publicly branding my call for federal action as too much too soon, naïve, ignorant, arrogant, and irresponsible.
I was disappointed but not entirely surprised. These were the same words my mom and I had heard our entire lives whenever we dared to dream too big. The same words Harvey Milk heard from gay leaders when he first ran for office. But I’m not going to lie: coming from the folks I respected and admired so much, these familiar words stung. Just not enough to stop me. I was hungrier for the sweeping nature of federal action than for anyone’s approval, because I needed my big brother to feel the hope I’d felt. I wanted him to be able to return to the South, where he felt most at home, and be able to love who he pleased.
Since the pain of the passage of Prop 8, a fire had been lit. I had begun to dream that my brother and I might one day live in a less divided America—one willing to see its variety with a bit less fear and a touch more curiosity and compassion. Not “my” America, not “their” America, not some put-on notion of “one” America or the divisive ring of “two” Americas. I had no name for it yet, but I prayed for something more inclusive, accepting, and united than those labels suggested. And I wouldn’t let anyone extinguish this dream. Not even heroes.
CHAPTER 20
SCOTUS Hiatus
I
The awards show had taken its toll on my mom. She was exhausted and faced more radiation back home, but she was eager to keep “kicking this cancer’s tail” and get her retirement properly started. The good news was that the doctors felt the cancer was on the run. But polio had long since forced my mom to function with a severely compromised neuromuscular system, and the side effects of radiation were wreaking havoc on what muscle strength she had left. She already felt significant weakness and pain in her hands, and my mom’s hands had long been her legs.
In the days that followed the Academy Awards, my
agents at CAA were busy fielding incoming calls. I had left Big Love because the executive producers forced a decision between it and Milk when the productions’ schedules overlapped following the Writers Guild strike. I missed my writer pals, the actors, and the delight-to-write characters of Big Love, but my work plate was still full. I was already hip-deep in a new project with Ron Howard and Brian Grazer’s company, Imagine, exploring J. Edgar Hoover and the dire repercussions of staying in the closet—in many ways the mirror of Milk. This project would eventually team me with none other than my great teenage crush, Leonardo DiCaprio, and the former mayor who’d helped lure my family to California, Clint Eastwood. It would seem my wildest dreams were coming true, but the question now was whether I had the bandwidth for both Hollywood make-believe and the very real promises I’d just made.
Before leaving for LAX, my mom sat me down beside the big front window of my little bungalow in the Hollywood Hills to talk about my Oscar speech a few nights earlier. With her eyes glistening, her weakened hands held mine as she confirmed that, as I had said in my speech, she had never stopped loving me when I came out. She said that mostly she had worried for my future—in this life and beyond—but that those concerns had long since faded. Now she had a new concern. I leaned in, curious, as she reminded me of a lesson she’d tried to hammer home in my youth: “A promise is a big thing, Lancer. A promise is sacred.”
Oh right. That. “I know, I know,” I said, feeling the weight of my words from that big stage a bit differently now.
“We’re only as good as our word.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Good. I’m glad. I’m so proud of you, Lancer.” Her tears had dried by now, leaving behind salty streaks of sympathetic steel. She knew I was going to need all the metal my bones could bear.
Like millions of others around the world, my mom had heard the promise I’d made to young LGBTQ people, a promise for equality “very soon,” and at the federal level. She wanted to make sure I understood the responsibility of saying big words on big stages.
With that in mind, the incoming CAA call that really got my attention wasn’t the one from Warner Brothers looking for a fresh start to our relationship (they would eventually take over and green-light J. Edgar): it was from my feature film agent, Craig Gering, telling me that a man near my age from Arkansas who had worked in Clinton’s White House when he was just a teen wanted to meet with me. Craig said, “Come to our office. Sit with him. I think you two might see eye to eye on a couple of things. Maybe you can make something of all of this.”
When I arrived at CAA, I received a hero’s welcome. I hadn’t ventured out much since the big show, certainly not into any professional settings, and here I got the first taste of what such a win might mean for my film career.
Craig showed me to a conference room with a giant window for a back wall, a delightful arrangement of sparkling water, sodas, and coffee, and one striking fresh-looking face in a suit and tie. “Chad Griffin, Dustin Lance Black.” Craig made the introduction and excused himself.
I remember being struck by how young and handsome Chad was. I had done my homework. I knew he ran a philanthropic and political consulting firm in Los Angeles that had worked with the likes of Rob and Michele Reiner and Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie on issues such as stem cell research, big oil, and big tobacco. Impressive. And with all the calls coming in from LGBTQ organizations asking me to speak at award shows, sit on boards, or even start my own foundation, I thought that at the very least, this adorable Chad character might be able to help me make hay of those opportunities.
But when Chad opened his mouth, I was struck by two new pieces of information: Chad still had a bit of his Hope, Arkansas, twang. My aunt Josie and uncle James still lived in Texarkana, so Chad’s accent sounded a lot like family to me. I immediately relaxed.
Then Chad made it clear that he knew exactly the position I was in at that moment: “I bet you’ve gotten an earful.”
“Yes!” He didn’t mean an earful of well wishes and congratulations. He knew I was fielding a good bit of criticism.
“ ‘Too much too soon’?” Chad said knowingly.
“In over my head, a ‘neophyte,’ mostly from gay folks in gay organizations.”
“Nothing from lesbians?”
“Mostly just gay men. ‘It’ll bring on a backlash.’ All that. Guess they think I’m dangerous.” That last bit seemed so silly to me.
But I remember Chad pausing, perhaps sizing me up, debating whether it was safe to share what had been simmering.
I took that moment of silence to gaze past him out the window to the bright blue sky above Beverly Hills. A sky suddenly filled with so many new moviemaking opportunities. If Chad could explain in a way that made any sense to me why my ideas were dangerous, perhaps I could acknowledge what I privately feared: that I was indeed in over my head. Then, instead of trying for fifty-state marriage equality, I could get back to building the dream film career of my youth—my own company, with development departments for film, television, and theater—and our current LGBTQ leaders could all breathe a sigh of relief. Win-win.
Instead, Chad said, “I think you’re right. I think we have to show a little self-respect and take this fight to the federal government.”
He was the first person in a suit and tie to take me seriously. My gaze returned squarely to him.
We talked about several paths: creating a new organization at the grassroots level that would confront senators and members of Congress in all 435 congressional districts, forcing our federal representatives to respond to our demands nationally. It was ambitious, would be very expensive, and would likely be seen as an attempt to unseat the Human Rights Campaign (HRC) in Washington, D.C., as the LGBTQ community’s primary federal lobbying organization. Personally, I had donated to HRC, and I had enjoyed their black-tie dinners, but many on the ground felt that HRC had followed in the footsteps of other big corporate equality organizations: going soft, becoming safe, and getting too “patient.” After all, if it’s your full-time job, and you manage a massive D.C. office building filled with countless dedicated, hardworking employees, you might not be quite as eager to win equality and put a lot of those good people out of work. But building an organization to rival HRC was a goliath idea. And I wasn’t sure this was the right time for such an internecine battle.
Chad had many other ideas, big and small, but now that he had a sense of who I was, he floated one more: “What about the United States Supreme Court?”
There were currently a half dozen different ideas swirling around about how Californians might fight back against Prop 8’s passage, but most centered on when and how to get marriage equality back on the ballot. Only “crazy people” talked about taking such a fight to the highest court in the country. Given the mixed reaction among insiders to my simply uttering the word “federal,” Chad was well aware that most in our movement would find any idea that included SCOTUS premature and dangerous.
Why would some find a U.S. Supreme Court case too bold? Because we could lose, and the message a broad constitutional loss might send about LGBTQ Americans’ lack of fundamental rights and protections could have had devastating, unintended consequences nationwide. But the other side of the coin felt powerful. Just filing a case in federal court would demonstrate a mountain of pride and confidence, and as a Texan, I thought it might even win us some respect. When confronted by a bully in Texas, Arkansas, or Louisiana, you couldn’t beg for half of your lunch money back. That would only earn laughter and a good beatdown. Where Chad and I grew up, we knew we had to stand up straight and tall, and have the guts to invite that bully out to a proper fight, usually on a dusty street corner just off school grounds, and ideally with everyone watching. The outcome of that fight mattered less than demonstrating confidence in front of your classmates. That’s how you won respect where we were from: demand all that you’re due and be willing to fight f
or it even if you think you might lose.
To my ears, the compromises set forth as progress by LGBTQ leaders of the time had been sending a clear and dangerous message: “We gays believe we’re only half as worthy as you straight folks. That’s why we’re down on our knees in just a few cities and states asking for selective slices of equality. The whole pie? Well, that would be way too much for us.” I could almost hear my uncle James saying, “Guess ya don’t think yer half as good as us straight folks, ’cause all you seem to want are scraps.” The U.S. Supreme Court wouldn’t be scraps.
Chad could tell that my interest was piqued. I wanted more details: who, how, and when. Instead, in as casual a way as possible, and with a little chuckle thrown in to offset the enormity of the decision he was about to ask me to make, Chad said, “You know, I represent people in your business, and the thing is, I’m not sure you can do both activism and film well, not at the same time.”
Sitting in CAA of all places, filled with agents eager to help build me a cinematic empire, Chad knew exactly what he was up to. He was asking me to choose between doing all I could to fulfill the promise I’d made on that stage and all of the glittering new opportunities in front of me: the new films waiting to be born, the financial stability I’d never known as a child. I could almost touch it all. But then there was that steel my mother had poured into my bones, and her words before getting on that plane back to the South. Not to mention all the scars I could still see and feel from my own childhood lived in fear and shame, and my determination that kids should no longer have to endure those injuries. So honestly, when it came down to it, this wasn’t a tough choice to make at all. It was quite simple.
“We’re only as good as our word,” I said.
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