Defining The Terms

A few days ago, in talking (actually, writing) to someone, I mentioned that I'm a transsexual woman.  This person asked me to explain it, and all of the other trans- and gender-related terms he'd heard.

Perhaps coincidentally, I came across this:

From Visual.ly

I Am A Crime With A Fine Of $2500

I am an offense that carries a $2500 fine.

No,  you didn't misread that.  It's true of me, and every other trans person--most of all transgender kids in the state of Kentucky.

How can that be?, you ask.

Well, Bluegrass State senator C.B. Embry Jr has just sponsored a bill that would allow a student to sue his or her school for $2500 if he or she were to encounter someone of the opposite biological sex in the bathroom.

It is intended as a way to enforce another part of the proposed law:  that students must use the bathroom designated for the sex indicated on their birth certificates, not the one by which they identify.

The bill would also allow students to ask for special accomodations such as unisex bathrooms.  But how many kids would actually do such a thing?  Some simply wouldn't know enough to do so; others would feel intimidation, especially if they are in hostile--or, at least, non-supportive--environments. Nothing is more humiliating and embarassing for a kid than feeling singled out, which is usually what happens when a kid gets "special" accomodations for anything.

So, in essence, the bill would criminalize trans kids simply for existing and fine their schools for it.  That is going to promote the safety and welfare of children...how?

One Way To Commemorate This Day

Today, on Martin Luther King Day, I thought it would make sense to share something I learned just recently:  He actually gave his "I Have A Dream" speech--albeit in a slightly different form-- for the first time in Detroit, some two months before the whole world heard him deliver it from Washington.

It's interesting that such a fact has been all but lost to history, especially when one considers how much sense it makes.  After all, he made his speech in Detroit right around the time it became a majority-black city.  Also, King had, by that time, realized that the struggles of the labor movement were part of an overall struggle for justice, and no city has ever been more emblematic of the American labor movement than Detroit.

It's thus fitting that there's a "Tour  de Troit" taking place today. If today's weather in the Motor City is anything like what it normally has at this time of year, I give "props" to whoever rides it.  

The name of the ride is kind of funny.  The name of the city itself means "strait" in French; Francophone settlers who came by way of Quebec named the then-settlement for "le detroit du lac Erie", which separates it from what is now Windsor, Ontario.

(If you are under-age, or of delicate sensibilities, please skip over everything else in this parenthetical element.  The second syllable--"troit"--means "narrow" and is pronounced the way Anglophones pronounce a vulgar term for a part of the female anatomy.  In fact, it's believed that British soldiers in World War I introduced the term in to the English-speaking world.)

Anyway, congratulations to everyone who is riding today. And thank you for everything, Dr. King!

Love Sick--Or Sick Of Lovers?

Sometimes it seems that half of the TV shows and movies in this world are about people falling in love, trying to find love or who can’t decide between would-be lovers. 

I’m thinking about that as I can’t get Bob Dylan’s “Love Sick” out of my head.  A few nights ago, someone played it on the radio.  I hadn’t heard it in a long time. At the time it came out, I actually liked the music better than the lyrics—a feeling I don’t normally have about a Bob Dylan song.  But now the lyrics—or, more precisely the sentiment—resonates more now than it did circa 1997.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’m now about the same age he was when he made that song. More to the point, though, I simply have no desire, right now, to get involved in anything resembling a “love”—or, more precisely, romantic or sexual—relationship.  I don’t even feel that I want anything more than friendship from anybody, and there really aren’t that many people from whom I actually want it.

A few people have suggested that I lack confidence in myself and, by extension, in my ability to attract anyone I’d want, let alone anyone who can give me a nurturing, fulfilling relationship.  That might be part of the answer: I don’t feel very attractive right now and I’m still learning what kind of a woman I am, and am going to, be.  Others, including one priest in my church, have said that I’m afraid to open myself again.  They’re right:  Being sensitive and vulnerable has led me to not merely pain but, at times, outright ruin.

Plus, to be perfectly honest, I don’t miss the intimacy—to the degree that I experienced it—in the relationships I’ve had.  I don’t miss having to listen to two-hour-long monologues from a self-absorbed man-child who’s never lived anywhere but the house in which he was born or raised, or the abuse to which he subjected me whenever I told him what he didn’t want to hear.  I don’t miss the accusations, the slander, the expectations that I will be available for sex or whatever else the other person wants.  For that matter, I don’t really miss sex.  

I have to wonder, though, how much of what I’m feeling actually has to do with the experiences I’ve had in relationships.  I know that many people say their libidos wane when they get to be my age, or they just get tired of a lot of other things in their lives.  I also know that, in the old days, one of the costs of gender-reassignment surgery—apart from money—was the loss of physical sensation in that area.  That has not been a problem for me.  The electricity is working, so to speak.  So is the plumbing, if you will.  But, to extend that metaphor, the bedroom is empty and I don’t feel the same urgency that other people seem to feel about filling it.

Why Do Trans People Need To Be Protected From "The Vagina Monologues"?

It's a cliche, but I'll say it anyway:  Sometimes the smartest people do the stupidest things.

Now, I realize that stupid people get into elite colleges and universities.  But, on the whole, I would suspect that most students in faculty members in prestigious liberal arts colleges like Mount Holyoke are pretty smart people.

I would even include whoever makes the programming decisions for their theatre.  And I would say as much even after, as student spokesperson Erin Murphy announced, it was cancelling plans to host a production of The Vagina Monologues, which had been performed there every year since Eve Ensler wrote it in 1996.

Mount Holyoke, one of the last all-female colleges in the US, began to admit transgender students last year.  Hence the rationale for the misguided decision to cancel the play:  Someone decided that it could offend trans students.

Why?  According to Murphy, "At its core, the show offers an extremely narrow perspective on what it means to be a woman."

All right.  I respect Murphy for trying, as best as she knows how, to show respect for her new classmates.  However, that attempt is seriously misguided.  More specifically, it stems from a very flawed reading of the play.

I've seen several performances of Monologues, though I admit that I haven't seen one in a few years.  Never did I think that the play said, or even implied that being a woman means having a vagina, or vice-versa.  To be sure that neither my memory nor reading is flawed, I did a quick search and found out that Ms. Ensler herself has never advanced such a definition of a woman, and did not write the play with such a definition in mind. 

To me, in the play, the vagina represents a woman's power and vulnerability, her oppression and the ways in which she must be aware of herself and men do not. I saw the play while I was still living as Nick, during my transition and after my surgery. I admit that I identified with it more closely the more I lived as a woman, but even before I started my counseling and therapy, I felt the play resonated with the vagina within me, so to speak.  

And every trans person must be or become aware of the ways we are, have been and can be subject to violence and exploitation, as well as the paths of awareness that open to us, because of our physical (as I now have) or metaphorical vaginas.  That, I believe, is as much a part of a definition of womanhood as anything else I can think of.  

To deny the new trans students at Mount Holyoke--or trans people anywhere--the opportunity to learn those things, or simply experience the power of the play itself, is a disservice.  I don't know Ms. Murphy, but I'll assume that wasn't her intention, or that of the theatre board that voted to cancel this year's showing of The Vagina Monologues.  

In short:  We need it. We don't need to be protected from it. 

Gotta love it!

From:  Color Lines

Driving Us Out

Perhaps Vladimir Putin is trying to prove that he's the world's most hateful head of state.  Or, perhaps, simply one of the most retrograde.

It seems that every week he finds new ways to curtail the rights of gay people--or, at least, comes up with an excuse for doing so.  For example, he signed a law allowing police to arrest gay tourists--or tourists who are believed to be gay--and detain them for fourteen days.  He rationalized that, and other antigay moves, in the name of "defending children."

Now, we know that a gay, lesbian or bisexual is no more likely to molest children than anyone else.  In fact, most of the cases of child molestation or sexual abuse that I've heard of--including my own--were perpetrated by heterosexual men.

All right.  Maybe we can forgive someone who's not a specialist for not being up-to-date on the latest research.  Hey, I can even understand not knowing the difference between a "disorder" or "disease" and an "impairment".  It seems to me that the latter might be a good reason to keep someone from driving.  The other two, not so much.

Such distinctions seem to be lost on Russian Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev.  On 29 December, he signed a bill that prohibits anyone with any condition cited in the World Health Organization's list of personality and behavior disorders from driving.

So, while the law doesn't specifically mention transgender people, it's clear that part of the law's purpose is to keep us from driving in Russia.  Even though I never planned to do any such thing if I should ever visit that country,  the law gives me another reason not to go.

Interestingly, the WHO doesn't list male homosexuality or lesbianism as a disorder.  So, perhaps, Medvedev is playing "good cop" to Putin's "bad cop", or vice versa.  One can claim not to have acted with prejudice against gays or lesbians, while the other can claim not to have done any harm to trans folk.  That's a pretty neat, if perverse, trick.

Although the bill was signed on the 29th of last month, it wasn't released publicly on the Russian government's website until last week.  And, predictably, it didn't get much attention in the US media.

Je Suis Charlie, Nous Sommes Charlie

For today, I am going to forget what I normally write about on this and my other blog--sort of.

In terms of content, this post will not resemble others I've written.  However, It will express concern for everything that makes this blog, and others, possible.  In fact, some of those things even make it possible for me to do the very thing I write about on this blog:  ride a bike.

You see, in some cultures, women aren't allowed to ride bicycles--or go to school, read, write, teach or do much of anything besides bear a man's children and submit to his demands.  In such places, someone like me doesn't have the right to be a woman--let alone a cyclist--at all.

That is the reason why I am writing today to express my solidarity with all of those people who rallied in my home town as well as London, Tokyo, Istanbul, Montreal, Berlin and many other cities around the world--and, of course, in France, most prominently in Paris.

I have lived in the City of LIght.  So have some people I've loved and with whom I've worked.  They've been native-born French people--some of ancient Gallic and Frankish heritage, others born to families who emigrated to France from other places in this world.  They've been Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and people who didn't adhere to any formal religion or philosophy, or who believed in nothing at all beyond this life.  They've been wealthy, poor and, mainly, in-between.  

The thing is, they all knew that their right to be any, all  or none of the things I've mentioned was protected under the laws of their country.  And, while some expressed resentment or condescension toward America--or, more precisely, toward our misconceptions or simple unawareness of our position in the world, they all have expressed respect, admiration and sometimes even wistfulness for the openness of our society and the generous spirit of Americans they've met. 

Demonstrators hold up pencils to express ther support for freedom of expression.

The rallies, like funerals and memorial services, are about grieving those who died in the attacks on the Chrlie Hebdo offices and the kosher supermarket in Paris.  But, just as important, they are a reminded of what we--I, the people I've mentioned, and everyone else--need to do:  to live, as the people we are, free to pursue our dreams, honor or values, to love those we love--and, always, to speak the truth, whether through simple facts, irony, images, humor or in some other way.  We can't let those who murdered seventeen Parisians during the past week take that liberty, that right, away from us.

Je suis Charlie.  Nous sommes Charlie. 

Myerson Agonistes

I’ve just learned of the death of Bess Myerson.  In fact,  members of the media didn’t know about it until a couple of days ago, even though she passed on the 14^th of December.

This is the first time I—or, for that matter, most other people—have heard anything at all about her in at least two decades.  I would venture that most young people—including my students—have never heard of her.

I met her once, briefly, at a ceremony in which Poets In Public Service, in which I worked, received an award for arts in service to the community.  Ms. Myerson was the Commissioner of the Department of Cultural Affairs and the founder and president of PIPS, Myra Klahr, apparently knew her—well enough, anyway, to introduce me.

Myerson was in her 60s and looked even better in person than she did in the photos I saw, which is saying a lot.  Tall and elegant, she was often described as “regal” in her bearing.  I could see why, though I think “imperious”—one word I would use to describe to use Klahr—would have fit equally well.  Ms. Myerson was pleasant enough to me, but I had no illusion that, even if I’d had more contact with her, I would ever know her any better than I did at that moment.

Of course, getting to know Ms. Myerson wasn’t the reason why I was at that ceremony.  Actually, there was no particular reason for me to be there except for the fact that I was one of the poets who worked for PIPS.  Oh, and I think it was the second or third time I wore the one suit I owned at the time.

I don’t actually recall the ceremony or much else about my brief encounter with Bess Myerson.  But I recall what I recall because of what would follow just a few weeks later.  Those events would, in essence, end Myerson’s public life.

Those events can be said to be a result of her involvement with Edward Koch, the mayor at the time of the ceremony.  Yes, she was his DCA Commissioner.  But it seemed, at times, that they had their pinkies hooked around each other.  He half-jokingly referred to her as his “designated date” when she worked on his campaign.  You had to be comatose not to see that she was his “beard”:  Whether or not he was actually gay, he had to suppress the rumors that he was in order to get elected, and re-elected. 

She was perfect for the role:  From the day in 1945 she became the first Jewish woman—and the first New Yorker—to be crowned Miss America, she was loved by about as many people as anybody was in the Big Apple.  Plus, the careers as a concert pianist and as a radio and television personality that followed her pageant win lent glamour to the campaign and mayoralty of Koch who, before his election in 1977, was little-known outside Greenwich Village.

What did she get in return?  Well, she got to continue the career in public service that began in 1969, when newly-reelected Mayor John Lindsay made her the first Commissioner of the Department of Consumer Affairs, an agency he’d just founded.  To her credit, she initiated some of the laws on unit pricing, product safety and deceptive retail practices that people all over the US—and in much of the world—now take for granted.  However, four years later, Abe Beame won Lindsay’s office and she never became a part of his administration.  Koch re-ignited her career in public service, which she tried to use a springboard into electoral politics.   The result was her one and only campaign—a Democratic primary loss to Elizabeth Holtzman, who in turn would narrowly lose a bitterly-fought election for a Senatorial seat won by Alfonse D'Amato.

Even with that loss, Myerson remained in the spotlight, thanks to being the chair of the DCA and her residual popularity, particularly among the pre-Baby Boom generation.  But, as she often complained, no matter what she did, she was always identified first and foremost as Miss America.  Of course, few others who’ve won the crown have managed to trade it for as many other—and as gaudy—hats as she wore.  But, as she said, given the gender politics of her time, she probably would not have accomplished the other things she did had she not won the title, her intelligence and other qualities notwithstanding.

And, it could be said that her title—or, at least, the beauty that won it—led to her undoing:  It led her to make compromises, to make deals, that simply wouldn’t have even been available to other women.  Moreover, for all that she cultivated the image of the sophisticated, urbane, independent New York woman, her rise was buoyed by powerful men, just they led to her fall.

About the latter:  She got involved in an affair with Carl A. “Andy” Capasso, a married man more than two decades her junior.  Even by the murky standards of the Koch administration, Capasso’s ethics were as putrid as what his company built as a contractor for the city:  sewers.  He divorced his wife and, some say, influenced Myerson to do what led to her downfall:  She hired Sukhreet Gabel, the daughter of the judge who reduced Capasso’s alimony payments from $1500 to $500 a week.  

Capasso went to prison and the judge stepped down.  Bess Myerson didn’t suffer such fates, but she was disgraced and seemed to become unhinged.  Not long afterward, she was arrested for shoplifting in Pennsylvania.  She claimed that she “forgot” to pay for the items found in her bag when she “absentmindedly” walked out of the store.

To be fair, she may well have had a mental lapse, as she wasn’t known as the most stable person in the world.  And she died from complications of Alzheimer’s Disease, more than a quarter-century after the shoplifting incident—and the last most people, including me, had heard of her.

It Takes Gendom To Become A Third-Gender Mayor

The election of Madhu Kinnar as the mayor of Raigarh, in the central Indian state of Chattisgarh, is interesting.


As you may know by now, she is the transgender--though not, as some have reported, the first such person elected to public office in India.  Two other trans mayors were elected before Madhu but court rulings removed them on the grounds that their positions were "reserved for women".


That brings me to a greater part of the significance of Madhu's election:  Just nine months ago, India's Supreme Court ruled that transgenders could be legally recognized as a "third gender" or "gender neutral".  Before that, "hijras" were outside the margins of South Asian societies, sometimes regarded as even lowlier than cisgender members of the lowest castes.


As a result, they were subject to extortion and all sorts of violence, even (and, some would say, especially) from the police and public officials.  Also, hijras had few employment opportunities.  So, they often were sex workers or did other kinds of illegal work which, of course, put them in even lower public esteem.  On the other hand, they were often asked to perform at public and sacred ceremonies such as weddings because tradition holds that they are devotees, or even descendants, of the goddess Bahuchara Mata, worshipped by Pavaiyaa or the South Indian goddess Renuka.


While the hijras were never a highly esteemed class, they had somewhat more status than they now have.  Experts often attribute the hijras' loss of what little prestige they had to the influence of Western notions about sex, gender and morality. 


Ironically, the first ripples in what could become a sea-change in the lives of people like Madhu may also be coming from Western influence.  Some argue that "transgender" is a Western concept.  Whatever it is, its current iteration is certainly different from ideas about hijra.  Traditionally, hijra were said to have deformed, or simply different, genitalia.  While that is no longer the (or a) working definition in all hijra communities, some still undergo a ceremonial deformation or removal of the testicles and scrotum. 


The old way of defining hijra is probably the reason why the term has often been translated into Western languages as "eunuch" or "hermaphrodite".  That makes sense when you realize that, until recently, nearly all definitions of gender identity had to do with whatever was or wasn't between a person's legs. (Why do you think they called it "sex"?)  Now, with about eight decades' worth of gender-reassignment ("sex change") surgeries having been performed, and changes in traditional gender role, definitions of "female" and "male" have more to do with psychology (or, sometimes, spiritual terms).  That, of course, is one reason why many trans people choose not to have the surgeries in spite of the fact that the state of male-to-female work has improved markedly, and why people like me see our surgeries as "the icing on the cake" rather than the very thing that defines us as being in the gender in which we live.


But most of us--I include myself--still check the "F" or "M" box.  I did what I did in order to live as a woman, the way I see myself, although I also understand that I came to live by my identity as a woman in a way very different from the way most other women do.  It is for that reason that I fully support anyone who decides to live outside of the "gender binary", as Pauline Park calls it. 


And, it seems that India has made that a legal option.  So, perhaps, the subcontinent has not merely been influenced by current Western notions about gender and sexuality--it has gone beyond them.  It will be very interesting to see how that  affects the lives of trans people, and everyone else, in India--and whether other countries decide to follow its example.  Perhaps mayors of genders we can't even define--or outside of the notion of gender altogether--will be elected.  How would that change politics, and life?

Trans Man Opens Up In Response To Leelah

As you can imagine, Leelah Alcorn's suicide note--which, along with her blog, was deleted by her mother--touched many of us.

It inspired Alex Shearer, a trans man in Iowa to talk about his life with the Des Moines Register:

Transgender Woman Who Fled Georgia Attacked In San Francisco

"I'm very sorry for the nice man who was enjoying his McDouble when I ran in bleeding and screaming for the police."

It's only the fifth of January, but that statement might be the quote of the year for 2015, and a few more years to come.

It wasn't said by some comic-book character in a cheesy movie.  It was said, apparently, without irony or sarcasm. 

In other words, the one who said it is a much, much better person than I am, or probably will be.  At least, she did a much better job of embodying the principles of Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, Mother Teresa or Malala Yousafzai than I ever could.

The person who made that immortal declaration is Samantha Hulsey, a trans woman who grew up in Savannah, Georgia.  You might say she was being a gracious young Southern lady in expressing her sorrow for the man munching on a McDouble.  But I think there's even more than that behind her espousal of compassion in the midst of her own suffering.

She was with her partner, Rae Raucci, when a man harassed them as they were boarding a bus.  "He was saying a lot of hateful things," Hulsey recalled.  When she and Raucci got off the bus, the man ran after them and plunged a steak knife with a 3 1/2" blade into Hulsey's chest.

The bus she and Raucci were boarding was the 49 Muni in the South of Market neighborhood in San Francisco.

Yes, you read that right:  San Francisco.  Hulsey moved there from Savannah where, she hoped, she could live openly as a woman.  In Savannah, , "I was bullied and had things thrown at me," she recalled, "but no one tried to kill me."  She, like many others, lived in the City At The End Of The Rainbow with the believing "that sort of thing shouldn't happen here".

Unfortunately, it can happen anywhere.  Yes, even in San Francisco.  As Otis Redding noted, there are some things about Georgia you can't escape on the dock of the bay.

The Truth She Owes Leelah

On doit des egards aux vivants; on ne doit aux morts que la verite.

Voltaire wrote that to the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe nothing but the truth.

His message, however crudely I've translated it, is one that hasn't reached the family of Leelah Alcorn.

You see, they contacted Tumblr and requested that Leelah's blog--which ended with the suicide note I reproduced in one of my posts last week--be removed.  And those fucking cowards at Tumlr went along with it.

I didn't read the entire blog, but I read parts of it--including some that ranted and railed against her family, particularly her mother, who wouldn't recognize her as the girl she was.  

It's one thing to say that your trans kid is "going through a phase."  It's still another to deny your kid's identity and create a fiction about her suicide.  That is what Mrs. Alcorn did in this note:

"My sweet 16 year old son, Joshua Ryan Alcorn went home to Heaven this morning.  He went out for an early morning walk and was hit by a truck."

You fucking clueless bitch, your daughter Leelah walked in front of truck barreling down the interstate.  She wasn't the victim of some random unfortunate incident; you killed her with your unwillingness to listen to her.  

I mean, if you don't want to acknowledge her as the person she was, why can't you at least admit the truth about her death?  Maybe you can't give her all of the truth you--and we--owe her, but at least it would be a start.

Instead, you've chosen, in essence, to eliminate all traces of the existence of your daughter.

It looks like you were born a few decades too late to pursue your true calling:  You should have been an information or propoganda or some such minister for Hitler or Mao.  After all, they wanted to erase the existence of certain people from history.  

Since you can't follow that line of work--and look at where it left them in history!--why don't you just honor the love you claim to have had for your child with the only thing it, and she, deserve--the truth.

Give Leelah What She Deserves

The funeral for Leelah Alcorn was moved because of threats to disrupt it.

When I heard about that, I thought that perhaps the Westboro Baptist Church folks and others of their ilk were going to show up with signs reading "God Hates Fags!" or other profundities for which they're known.

Nobody is saying who made the threats or what the "disruptions" would be.  In fact, the first article I read about the change in venue said only that the family received threats, but did not specify that they were threats to "disrupt" the funeral.

This all sounds really fishy to me.  It seems that someone in the news media is upset or scared that we're starting to make some gains in our campaign for equality and that there's been an uproar over the way Leelah's mother reacted to her death.  So that someone--perhaps there's more than one--wants to portray us as a menace that we're not.

If threats were indeed made by our allies, I don't support or condone them.  If anything, they only make us look as if we're stooping to the level of the Westboro people and other haters.  Not only is it bad public relations, it is corrosive to the spirit.  We need all the spirit, all the courage, all of the intelligence, all the creativity, all the compassion we can muster; we can't afford to let the haters take any of it from us. 

I'm not saying we shouldn't be angry with Leelah's mother or do everything we can to convince her to bury her with "Leelah" on the tombstone.  I just think that in order to accomplish that--or to achieve any other victories--we simply must not become like the haters from whom people like Leelah's mother take their cues, however blindly.

I say these things, not only because I am a transsexual woman, but because I have begun, within the past year and a half, to follow the dictates of my faith and become active in a church.  One reason I had denied those things to myself for a long time--even after I realized that my gender transition has been a profoundly spiritual experience--was that people used their religion as a basis for hating and even killing us.  But I have learned that there are many people who don't use their religion in that way, and that I have no choice but to become one of them. Perhaps some of the haters will, too.  Perhaps Mrs. Alcorn will understand this.  I want that even more than I want her to recognizer her daughter as her daughter and bury her with the name she chose to reflect her female spirit.
 

R.I.P. Mario Cuomo

"Vote for Cuomo, not the homo!"

Posters bearing that message lined Queens Boulevard in the days leading up to the 1977 primary to determine the Democratic Party's candidate in that year's election for the mayor of New York City.  

Just about anyone who witnessed that campaign will tell you it was one of the ugliest in his or her memory.  I would concur with them:  That message, believe it or not, wasn't even the meanest or nastiest thing one candidate said about another in that race.

But it was almost certainly one of the sleaziest.  Cuomo--Mario, the father of current New York State governor Andrew--always denied that neither he nor any of his staffers had anything to do with creating or posting that message.  I believe him.  So do most other people, even those who were against everything he stood for, or who simply disliked him.  There was no shortage of either of those kinds of people.

Among them was Ed Koch, who won that primary and the election.  Until the day he died nearly two years ago, he insisted that Mario was responsible but later would say that he "forgave" but "didn't forget."

Rumors about Koch's non-heterosexuality followed him throughout his life.  Even in 1977, in the pre-AIDS flowering of the Gay Liberation movement, such an allegation could have derailed his road to Gracie Mansion; any evidence that it was true would have blocked it altogether.  Even in New York City, there were--and still are--homophobes.  

Now, I just happen to be one of those people who believe that Koch was gay but have never cared about it.  I had other reasons for disliking him and his style of governance, none of which had to do with his actual or perceived proclivities or lifestyle.

The irony is, of course, that Mario Cuomo would have been one of the last people to use a charge of homosexuality against Koch, or anyone else.  If anything, Mario was more unabashedly an ally of LGBT people than his son is.  The reason why same-sex marriage and other LGBT-friendly legislation passed under the younger Cuomo's residence in the Governor's Mansion is that the political and social climate has allowed for it.  

Andrew was elected Governor of New York State in 2010, in the middle of Barack Obama's first term as President.  His father, in contrast, earned his first of three gubernatorial election victories in 1982, just when the effects of Ronald Reagan's alliance with Christian fundamentalists--and his profoundly anti-labor (remember: he fired all of the nation's air traffic controllers when they went on strike the previous year) policies--were re-shaping this country's discourse and governance.  Mario's three terms in Albany coincided with the Presidencies of Reagan and George H.W. Bush, as well as the first two years of Bill Clinton's.  While the latter was nominally a Democrat, he won the 1992 Presidential election by co-opting the policies of Reagan and Bush the Elder.  Mario, on the other hand, stuck to his New Deal Democrat ideals--which, he always said, were an outgrowth of his Christian faith.  

In other words, Andrew has been surfing the tide of history that his father had to swim against.  But, to be fair, it must be said that it wasn't his championing of LGBT rights that cost Mario a fourth term as governor in 1994.  Rather, it was another of his core principles--one that, by the way, caused me to vote for him:  his staunch opposition to capital punishment.  Every year that he was Governor, the State legislature introduced a bill to restore the death penalty in the Empire State.  Every year that he was governor, he vetoed it.  One of the first things his successor, Republican George Pataki, did upon assuming office in 1995 was to sign it.

I think that his steadfast commitment to his principles may have been a major reason why he chose not to run for President, even though his party practically begged him to do so in 1988 and 1992.  If that's the case, his instincts were canny:  Clinton, who stood against much of what Mario believed in, won. 

(Actually, many would argue that Clinton won by not standing for anything at all--and with perhaps-inadvertent help from third-party candidate Ross Perot.  I would not dispute such an argument.)

So, in brief, with Mario Cuomo's death yesterday, this state--and nation--lost who may have been the last true liberal and the last true intellectual, as well as one of the few politicians with any real principles, this country has ever had.  And, oh yes, a champion of LGBT rights before it was fashionable.