The New Kings of Nonfiction

by Ira Glass

  Someone found some red, white, and blue bunting in the back room, tossed it over an easel, and we pledged allegiance to that. The easel was needed post-pledge, so the red, white, and blue bunting to which we had just pledged our allegiance was tossed on the floor.

  We had to elect delegates before we could get to the resolutions. I won’t bore you with the Robert’s Rules of Order stuff, or the impossibly convoluted process by which the eighty of us in the cramped, steeple-roofed, fluorescent-lit room elected seventeen delegates to the State Republican Convention. Suffice it to say it was crushingly dull. To entertain us while we waited for the ballots to be counted—four times—Republican Party activists and candidates gave little speeches. Some of these speeches were pure fantasy: one woman read a prepared speech about the United Nations working in concert with abortionists to take over the country.

  The other recurring fantasy had to do with us “re-taking” the 43rd for the Republican Party. One man reminisced about the time, not too long ago, that the 43rd was a solidly Republican district: “We can make this district Republican again, just like it was when I joined the party twenty-five years ago. All we have to do is get out there and doorbell, and identify the voters in this district who are sympathetic to our issues!” Again and again, pretty much the same speech, and usually the same guy: the 43rd could be a Republican haven again if only we got out the vote.

  Heart pounding, I stuck my hand in the air. “Have any of you been out of the house, or walked down Broadway, in the last twenty-five years?” I asked, standing and looking around at the toughest crowd I’ve probably ever played. The 43rd District, I pointed out, had gone gay all of a sudden. So long as the Republican Party was identified with homophobes and anti-gay bigot-activists, the Republican Party could kiss the 43rd District good-bye.

  When I sat down, a different little old lady, one sitting behind me, pointed out that she knew a very nice gay couple in the Republican Party, so she—and by extension, the party—was not homophobic, and I was wrong: “The party isn’t against gay people, that’s just a false impression you have.”

  Gee, I wonder where I could’ve picked up that false impression? Maybe Jesse Helms; Bob Dornan; Bob “$1,000” Dole; anti-gay-rights rallies during the primaries attended by all the Republican presidential hopefuls (even “moderate” Lamar Alexander); Pat Robertson; Ralph Reed; Newt Gingrich; Linda Smith; Ellen Craswell; Spokane County Coroner Dexter Amend; the Washington State Legislature; the Christian Coalition; “Family Values Forever—Gay Rights Never!”; Jerry Falwell; anti-gay-rights planks in local, state, and national Republican Party platforms; the Gay Agenda videotape; and Lon Mabon. Or maybe it’s the Republican Party’s sponsorship of anti-gay-rights initiatives, anti-gay adoption laws, anti-same-sex marriage bills, Republican support for the ban on queers in the military, Republican opposition to gay and lesbian civil-rights legislation, Republican-led attacks on queer art, safe sex information for gay men, “mean” lesbians, etc., etc., etc.

  During a break, an attractive middle-aged man approached me. He was a little angry. “I was offended by you forcing me to take responsibility for Jesse Helms”—as if the Republican Party isn’t responsible for Jesse Helms.

  Another man took me aside during a break to let me know that the gay-bashing within the Republican Party wasn’t “for real,” it was only to “get out the vote, and motivate the front lines.” Well, then—I guess that makes it okay. I’m happy to be vilified and scapegoated and denied my civil rights, so long as it motivates people to go to the polls! Disenfranchisement is a small price to pay to increase voter turnout. I’m sure Asian Americans feel the same way I do, so let’s resurrect the Yellow Peril, shall we? It’s for the best.

  There was a table off to one side with bad store-bought doughnuts, worse coffee, and a bowl for “honor system” donations to cover the expense of providing delicious Hostess products. The room was ugly and cramped and hard to move through without brushing past my fellow delegates.

  Unfortunately, when it came time to vote, my fellow precinct delegates did not elect me a delegate to the state convention. I made the first cut—there were four rounds of voting—but failed in the second. But in a consolation round, I was elected an alternate delegate: I can go to the state convention, but I won’t be allowed to speak, unless quite a few of the elected delegates fail to show.

  With the delegate selection out of the way, it was resolution time! One resolution, which called on the party not to have prayers before beginning business “since not all Republicans are Christians” failed. Another calling for single-sex academies passed. Then the caucus chair recited my resolution. He had a hard time with my handwriting, and I admit that my resolution was not very elegantly written, but I wrote it on the fly:Be it resolved that we, the Republicans of the 43rd District, call on the Republican Party, its candidates, and officials, to chart a pro-family course that does not resort to scapegoating gay and lesbian Americans. Further, that we recognize the fundamental human rights of gay and lesbian individuals; the respect for the rights of the individual at the foundation of Republican values demands no less of us.

  As Republican residents of the 43rd District of Washington State, we recognize our special responsibility to defend the rights of our gay and lesbian friends and neighbors. We reject elements on the fringe of our party who would exploit fear and hatred of gay and lesbian citizens for short-term political gain.

  After this was read and duly seconded, I was allowed to speak for five minutes. I quoted from District Chair Smith’s letter, the part about the 43rd not being a home for gay-bashers and hate-mongers, and then threw my lavender gauntlet: Was Smith, I asked, telling me the truth? Did hate-mongers and gay-bashers “exist” in the 43rd District Republican Party, or didn’t they? Was the 43rd District Republican Party homophobic, or Were 43rd District Republicans willing to “recognize the fundamental rights of Gay and Lesbian individuals,” or not? I was curious, I said, and wanted to see the issue put to a vote.

  Well, that got people going: one woman wanted to know why she should support gay people, since gay people didn’t support her when her home was burned down by arsonists. The arsonists weren’t gay or anything, but where were gay people when she needed them? Another pointed out that some had broken the windows of Republican Party headquarters—so who’s oppressing whom? And another person reacted violently to being labeled “homophobic”: “Just because you’re opposed to gay rights does not mean you’re homophobic.”

  Funny how nobody likes to be called homophobic, especially homophobes.

  During the Civil Rights Movement, I’m sure people opposed to integration, the Fourteenth Amendment, and racially mixed marriages resented being labeled “racist,” but that’s what they were. And that’s what opponents of gay and lesbian civil-rights legislation, marriage rights, adoption rights, and the rest of it are: homophobes, whether they have the courage to admit it or not.

  Debate ended, the time came to vote, and my resolution passed. It was a voice vote, so I can’t tell you exactly how the room shook out, but it sounded like roughly 60 percent in favor and about 40 percent opposed. You could’ve knocked me over with a Craswell video.

  Oddly enough, no other pro-queer resolutions were introduced, even though this was the 43rd District caucus, and the 43rd District is a hot-bed of “Log Cabin Club” gay Republican activism. Yet I saw no other out gay person that morning—I was all alone—and there were, so far as I could tell, no other gay men in the room. So much for all that “changing the Party from the inside” rhetoric gay Republicans are always throwing around.

  If being a “Gay Republican” is about working within the party to change it, then where were the 43rd’s Gay Republicans when it came time to vote on and speak in favor of a pro-gay-rights initiative? Or, hey: maybe being a “Gay Republican” isn’t about changing the Grand Old Party at all, from the inside or the outside. Maybe it’s about what we’ve always suspected it’s about: self-hatred. Instead of drinking or drugging or
fucking themselves to death, like other gay men dying of their internalized homophobia, Gay Republicans have opted to vote themselves to death.

  Since I’m just an alternate delegate, I can’t speak at the State Convention, so maybe I’ll go in drag—the right outfit speaks volumes. In the meantime, there’s the County Convention May 11. I’m a full-fledged delegate at that one, and I will have the opportunity to address the floor and introduce resolutions like the one the 43rd District Republican Party passed last Saturday. Wish me luck: I have the sneaking feeling I’ll be on my own again.

  PART THREE

  A few weeks later the big day arrived, the King County Republican Convention. My first major party function. Hats, speeches, amendments. I bounded out of bed at 7:00 a.m.—ugh—and ran to meet my new friend Steve at the QFC on Broadway. Steve attended his precinct caucuses way back in March with the intention of getting himself elected a delegate to the county and state Republican conventions. Like me he joined the party out of a sincere desire to move the GOP to the center. Kindred spirits, we decided to attend the county convention together.

  The doors opened at 7:30 a.m. After the crowd settled down, a preacher read an alarming opening invocation, which pretty much set the tone for what was to come. Please forgive our leaders for endorsing perversion, and God deliver us from spineless compromise. Then we bellowed the pledge of allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.

  I slipped up to the merchandise tables on the second floor, where I bought myself a red, white, and blue Craswell for Governor hat. It must have been fate. On the way back down from the merchandise tables, I ran smack-dab into Ellen Craswell herself.

  I said hello, and, looking very serious in my little red, white, and blue hat, asked, “What are we going to do about the homosexual problem, Ms. Craswell? What is the final solution to all this homosexual nonsense?”

  “So long as they stay inside,” Ellen Craswell confided in me. “But when they organize and demand special rights, we must oppose them. We can’t give special rights to something that is an abomination in the eyes of God.”

  Now, Ellen didn’t seem interested in elaborating on just what it is we are supposed to stay inside of—the closet, our apartments, the priesthood—so I said good-bye, promising to vote for her in the primary. You see, the better Ellen does in the primary, the better the Democratic candidate for governor will do in the fall.

  I made it back to the convention floor just in time for the opening of debate on the party platform. The King County Republican platform is a document drawn up by committee that lays out what the King County Republican party stands for. And here’s the beautiful part.

  Delegates are allowed to propose amendments. Once an amendment is proposed the amendment’s sponsor is allowed to speak, followed by a few people in favor, a few opposed . . . after that, the sponsor gets another minute or so to address the floor. I was a delegate. I had amendments. And so, I would get to address the delegation. Over and over again. And, as amendments are time-consuming, determined delegates can grind the convention to a halt.

  The first section we were to vote on was the Preamble, in which we acknowledged God to be our Creator and the family as the foundation of our culture. We embraced free markets, recognized that tax and regulatory burdens are a threat to our freedoms, yadda yadda yadda.

  Before we could vote on the Preamble, and it hadn’t occured to me to amend the Preamble, a delegate proposed that a line be addded, stating that the party was open to all who accept its basic principles, regardless of race, religion, sex, or national origin. After debate the first resolution of the day passed by a distressingly narrow margin.

  Race, creed, sex, national origin . . . something was missing. Steve approached the microphone and proposed that the just-passed amendment also be amended to include the words sexual orientation. Well, Steve’s amendment was soundly defeated, by a voice vote that, though untabulated, sounded to me like 1,589 to 11.

  Then the Liberty section was up for a vote. I dashed to a microphone, wearing my Ellen Craswell hat, and proposed this amendment:As respect for the rights of the individual are the bedrock of Republican values, the King County Republican party hereby recognizes the fundamental human rights of gay and lesbian citizens. We reject elements on the fringe of the Republican party that would exploit fear and hatred of gay and lesbian American citizens for short-term political gain.

  Through the shouting I pointed out that we King County Republicans can’t have it both ways. We can’t say in one breath that we oppose discrimination and with our next breath support discrimination against gay and lesbian American citizens. So let’s vote on it. Do we, the Republicans of King County, recognize the fundamental rights of gay and lesbian American citizens, or do we not?

  We do not.

  After some heated debate, and the names I was called—pervert, sodomite, Democrat—my amendment was voted down. After my amendment failed, a woman in a Craswell hat approached me. “Why are you wearing that hat?” she briskly inquired.

  “Because I’m for Craswell.”

  “You know where she stands on gay things, don’t you?”

  Having recently had a conversation with Ellen herself, I most certainly did. “But I’m not”—I smilingly informed my new friend and fellow Craswell supporter—“a single-issue voter.”

  Try to imagine now that you are a homophobic Republican jerkoff, which might be a triple redundancy, at your county convention. You came for the speeches, an anti-Clinton T-shirt for your collection, and a hot dog. This is what you do for fun, whoohoo, but these three guys keep introducing pro-gay-rights amendments, moving to have anti-gay amendments struck, and generally messing with your afternoon. You didn’t come to the convention to defend your party’s homophobia, and you certainly didn’t come expecting to listen to gay men giving speeches all day long. Who are these guys? And why is that one wearing a Craswell hat? OK, you’re this person, what do you do? You get mad. Very, very mad.

  One delegate decided to get even. In what can only be described as a David Lynch moment, a palsied delegate staggered up to the microphone and proposed a change in the rules. No further discussion of homosexuality allowed. His resolution needed a two-thirds majority to pass, because it was a rules change, not a simple amendment. And pass it did, to hoots and hollers and cheers.

  But we had yet to vote on the education section, which contained a plank about homosexuality. When we got to education, all hell broke loose. Robert’s Rules of Order fetishists leapt to their feet insisting that the anti-gay plank in the legislation would have to be struck. If we can’t discuss homosexuality, we can’t vote on it, for voting is a discussion. Uhoh, we were talking about homosexuality again. People were booing, shouting, oh the humanity.

  The chair, bringing the room to order, calmly ruled that the no-further-discussion resolution applied only to pro-gay discussion. We could discuss homosexuality if we wanted, he said, but only if we weren’t saying anything nice about it.

  And the convention limped to a close, most of the day having been wasted debating gay rights, gay marriage, what makes people gay, and my hat.

  WHAT I LEARNED

  Here’s what I learned about Republicans that weekend. They don’t like homos very much. They certainly don’t like having to talk about us, and they certainly like listening to us even less. But they do like beating up on us in their platforms. So, King County Republicans, I’ll make you a deal. Leave us out of your platform in ’98, the next convention cycle, and I’ll stay away from your convention. But, if we’re in the platform, I intend to return.

  POWER STEER

  Michael Pollan

  Garden City, Kansas, missed out on the suburban building boom of the postwar years. What it got instead were sprawling subdivisions of cattle. These feedlots—the nation’s first—began rising on the high plains of western Kansas in the ’50s, and by now developments catering to cows are far more common here than developments catering to people.

  You’ll be s
peeding down one of Finney County’s ramrod roads when the empty, dun-colored prairie suddenly turns black and geometric, an urban grid of steel-fenced rectangles as far as the eye can see—which in Kansas is really far. I say “suddenly,” but in fact a swiftly intensifying odor (an aroma whose Proustian echoes are more bus-station-men’s-room than cow-in-the-country) heralds the approach of a feedlot for more than a mile. Then it’s upon you: Poky Feeders, population thirty-seven thousand. Cattle pens stretch to the horizon, each one home to 150 animals standing dully or lying around in a grayish mud that it eventually dawns on you isn’t mud at all. The pens line a network of unpaved roads that loop around vast waste lagoons on their way to the feedlot’s beating heart: a chugging, silvery feed mill that soars like an industrial cathedral over this teeming metropolis of meat.

  I traveled to Poky early in January with the slightly improbable notion of visiting one particular resident: a young black steer that I’d met in the fall on a ranch in Vale, South Dakota. The steer, in fact, belonged to me. I’d purchased him as an eight-month-old calf from the Blair brothers, Ed and Rich, for $598. I was paying Poky Feeders $1.60 a day for his room, board and meds and hoped to sell him at a profit after he was fattened.

  My interest in the steer was not strictly financial, however, or even gustatory, though I plan to retrieve some steaks from the Kansas packing plant where No. 534, as he is known, has an appointment with the stunner in June. No, my primary interest in this animal was educational. I wanted to find out how a modern, industrial steak is produced in America these days, from insemination to slaughter.

  Eating meat, something I have always enjoyed doing, has become problematic in recent years. Though beef consumption spiked upward during the flush ’90s, the longer-term trend is down, and many people will tell you they no longer eat the stuff. Inevitably they’ll bring up mad cow disease (and the accompanying revelation that industrial agriculture has transformed these ruminants into carnivores—indeed, into cannibals). They might mention their concerns about E. coli contamination or antibiotics in the feed. Then there are the many environmental problems, like groundwater pollution, associated with “concentrated animal feeding operations.” (The word “farm” no longer applies.) And of course there are questions of animal welfare. How are we treating the animals we eat while they’re alive, and then how humanely are we “dispatching” them, to borrow an industry euphemism?