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(Birmingham, Alabama) It's a Bible Belt state, almost certain to toughen
its prohibition of gay marriage next
month. A major candidate for governor has called homosexuality
evil, and a national gay magazine branded Alabama the worst
state for gays and lesbians.
So why does Howard Bayless want to stay?
Well, his roots are here, he says. So are his friends. He's partial to the
congenial neighborhood in Birmingham that he and other gays
helped rescue from decline.
``This is where I've carved out a niche for myself,'' says
Bayless, leader of
Equality Alabama, who has spent most of his 40 years in the state. ``We've
created our community here, and I don't want to leave. I'd rather do the extra
work of making my neighbours realize who and what I am.''
In Mobile, Tuscaloosa and elsewhere, Alabama's gays and
lesbians - like their counterparts throughout the U.S. heartland - are slowly, steadily
gaining more confidence and finding more acceptance.
That doesn't mean relations between gays and other Americans
are settled, for one thing, amendments defining marriage as between one man and
one woman have passed in 19 states and Alabama is poised to become No. 20 by an
overwhelming vote on June 6.
But in the long view, there has been slow, powerful momentum building in the
other direction: the quashing of anti-sodomy laws; the extension of anti-bias
codes to cover gays; the adoption of domestic-partner policies
by countless companies. Recent polls suggest opposition to gay
marriage has peaked, and a proposed amendment to the U.S. Constitution banning
it is expected to fall far short of the required two-thirds support when the
Senate votes on it in early June.
``What Americans see increasingly is there's no negative impact on their own
lives to have gays and lesbians living out in
the open,'' said Joe Solmonese, president of the Human Rights Campaign. ``They
go from an abstract idea to a real person with a real name and a real story.
That makes all the difference.''
Kim McKeand and Cari Searcy experience that phenomenon daily in Mobile, where
they live openly as a lesbian couple raising a son to whom
McKeand gave birth in September.
``We're out to everybody,'' said Searcy, 30. ``We know all the
neighbours.
Everyone else on our street is straight. They say `Hey.' They all wanted to come
over and see the baby.''
The couple loves Mobile _ but might consider leaving if Searcy's application
to become Khaya's adoptive parent is rejected in the courts.
Those courts weren't accommodating to social worker Jill Bates, who lives in
Birmingham with her lesbian partner. She lost custody of her
daughter, now 16, to her ex-husband after a legal battle in which her sexual
orientation was held against her.
Still, there are other signs of acceptance. An openly
lesbian
candidate, Patricia Todd, has a strong chance of winning a seat in Alabama's
legislature this year - that would be a first. Mobile's recent Pride Parade drew
only a handful of protesters. Gay-straight alliances are active
at most universities; in the cities, if not the suburbs and small towns, gay-friendly
churches are proliferating.
As acceptance increases, so do the concerns of those who believe
homosexuality
is sinful and wonder if states like Alabama can resist what some have called the
erosion of traditional values.
Donna Goodwin, a school board employee in the town of Eclectic, disputes the
theory that familiarity with gays leads to support of gay
rights.
``I have a lesbian cousin - I can continue to love her
without approving of the way she leads her life,'' Goodwin said. ``We see each
other three or four times a year. We hug. We find out how each other is doing _
but I don't ask her about her girlfriend.''
Goodwin says most Alabamians, however conservative, strive for civility.
``We believe in hospitality - being kind to people whether you approve of
their lifestyle or not,'' she said. ``But the homosexual
community is trying to force us into accepting something that's immoral. If they
try to do that, we're going to consolidate and do something about it at the
ballot box. We can say, `This far and no farther.' ''
One development that worries her is the increased visibility of
gay
rights causes at Alabama's colleges, including the University of Alabama, which
her son attended.
``The university breaks down the moral values of children,'' she said. ``It's
like an open door to whatever is popular at the time _ a hang-loose,
do-your-own-thing attitude. It's asking for trouble.''
At the campus in Tuscaloosa, political science department chairman David
Lanoue doesn't see the kind of sweeping, pro-gay culture some
may fear. But he does see young Alabamians getting messages they might not get
at their local high schools and churches.
For example, he said, numerous faculty members display rainbow symbols at
their offices, signalling they would provide an empathetic ear to any troubled gay
or lesbian student.
``Young people have a more liberal attitude toward sexual preference than
their elders,'' Lanoue said. ``Through the national media, they've been brought
up on the message that gays and lesbians are
part of our society.''
Patty Rudolph, wife of a doctor in the affluent Birmingham suburb of Mountain
Brook, said her son knew by age 12 that he was gay, told his
family when he was 14, and by 16 choose to go to school in the northeast because
he felt _ despite his family's support _ that Alabama was too inhospitable.
The son is now 18 and returns home periodically, reconnecting with friends
and family.
``He loves to see us, but after a couple of days he says, `I need to get out
of here,' '' Rudolph said. ``There's no overt ugliness. But he has a sense it
isn't as open and welcoming a place as he wants it to be.''
Since her son left, Rudolph has plunged into a new world of activism, doing
what she can to make Alabama a state he would one day want to stay in. She
speaks at forums and heads the Birmingham chapter of a national support group,
Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays.
``By telling my family's story, it has a ripple effect. It humanizes the
issue,'' she said.
Activists say the sternest anti-gay rhetoric comes mainly
from evangelical pastors and politicians. Among them is Republican gubernatorial
candidate Roy Moore, who was ousted as state chief justice after refusing to
remove a Ten Commandments monument he had placed in the judicial building.
Moore has many fans and many critics, including Birmingham city councillor
Valerie Abbott. After the judge wrote in a court ruling that homosexual
conduct is ``abhorrent, immoral, detestable,'' Abbott persuaded the council to
condemn those assertions.
``Our legislature is like no other place on earth _ it's stuck back in the
dark ages,'' she said. ``But Alabama is changing, like the rest of the country
is changing. Like every new idea, it takes a while to absorb.''
Rev. Jim Evans, a Baptist minister in Auburn, received numerous thank-you
notes from gay-rights supporters after he wrote a newspaper
column criticizing the ban-gay-marriage ballot item as an
unnecessary and cynical attempt to frighten voters.
Evans hasn't endorsed gay marriage, and he knows opposition
to it is deep-seated. But he also sees change coming as Alabamians such as
Bayless, Searcy and Rudolph expand the conversation about gays'
place in the state.
``In the South, where we don't talk about unpleasant things, that trend has
forced us to talk about it more,'' Evans said. ``Once you begin to talk about a
prejudice, it begins to die.''
©365Gay.com 2006
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