Dear Editor:

I don’t agree with everything Nicole Murray Ramirez says or does, but I do have a profound appreciation and respect for him.

One of the things I appreciate most about Nicole is that he does not let any of us get away with thinking there is one big happy “gay” community in San Diego. The truth of the matter is, we are divided — by choice as well as circumstance — along lines of sex, gender identification, race, nationality, age, disability, and economic class. Nicole’s insistence that we not forget our within-group differences — i.e., that we not allow White, middle-class, able-bodied, youthful (or youth worshipping) gay men and lesbians to stand in for those of us who are “none of the above” — is irksome to some.

So many historic accomplishments — straight or LGBT — have been “Whited-out,” de-womanized, or otherwise “normalized” and neutralized. For instance, many feminists are probably unaware that the National Organization for Women (NOW) was the brainchild of a Black woman (Pauli Murray). Many in the LGBT community are probably unaware that the heroes of the Stonewall riots — which we celebrate as our “revolutionary war” — were Black and Puerto Rican drag queens and bull-daggers.

Nicole knows a lot of our history. The real history — not the sanitized version that erases the human flaws of the dominant culture, de-races the contributions of people of color, and ignores the accomplishments of other marginalized populations. And he’s quick to point out the deliberate erasures, as well as the unconscious oversights.

This can be very annoying to some — especially those who, in Barbara Smith’s words, believe that “racism, sexual oppression and economic exploitation do not qualify [as ‘queer’ issues], despite the fact that the majority of ‘queers’ are people of color, female or working.” Although Nicole would probably bite off his tongue before using the word “queer,” he, like Barbara Smith, is constantly raising the question, “Does the gay and lesbian movement want to create a just society for everyone? Or does it only want to eradicate the last little glitch that makes life difficult for privileged queers?”

Nicole Murray Ramirez raises uncomfortable questions about exclusion. Many of us are so glad to have seats at the table of power that, when we get there, we are silent about abuses against people of color, LGBT people, women, people with disabilities, and the poor. Whether Nicole is seated at the table of power or not, he refuses to be silent about the exclusion of our communities. He’s still radical enough to insist that an “all-White panel” about same-sex marriage at the LGBT Center is wrong. The issue isn’t just about having a discussion of same-sex marriage; marriage equality may not even be the most important issue confronting many in our LGBT communities right now. The issue is who gets to frame the debate, who gets to plan and articulate the strategies, and who gets to speak for “us”? Until inclusion is automatic — and not an afterthought — Nicole, and others like him, will continue to raise these uncomfortable issues.

Nicole’s detractors keep referring to him as a “self-appointed leader.” I find this label quite confusing, since Nicole has, in fact, been elected to every leadership position he has ever held (and he has held far more positions than any of his detractors have). For instance, Nicole was the first San Diegan elected to the National Gay Rights Lobby — the first national gay rights organization in the U.S. In the 1980s, he was elected to the National Executive Board of the Human Rights Campaign. Nicole also holds the distinction of being the only gay activist in the U.S. elected to the national executive boards of all four marches on Washington. Incidentally, to get elected to these national boards, he had to first win a statewide election and then a western states regional election. Not bad for someone accused of being “self-appointed.”

Locally, Nicole was elected as the San Diego representative to Equality California, where he was subsequently elected State Chair. He was elected the first chair of the first mayoral LGBT Advisory Board (under Maureen O’Connor). Within the past year, the mayor and city council unanimously elected Nicole as a city commissioner, and just last week Nicole was elected Chair of the Police Chief’s LGBT Advisory Board. Even the Imperial Court system is elective — and Nicole was elected, and continues to serve, as president of the International Court Council, which represents over sixty-five chapters in the U.S., Canada and Mexico. These are only a sampling of the positions to which Nicole has been elected. Why, then, is there all this talk about Nicole’s being “self-appointed”—when, clearly, he’s being appointed by us, for us?

Let’s not forget that Nicole has also been the driving force behind some of the greatest philanthropic efforts on behalf of people of color, women, and people living with HIV/AIDs in Southern California. Nicole founded the first AIDS Food Bank in San Diego, the first AIDS hospice (Truax House), and the first burial fund for indigent people dying of AIDS (still operational through the Ben Dillingham fund).

Nicole is not a saint. He is not a perfect community activist. He has taken some stances I disagree with. But we need to look at the whole picture — not just the parts that anger or annoy us. I can’t think of anyone active in the community for five years — let alone thirty — who has not made some mistakes or gained some detractors. Can you?

Let’s note the mistakes, but let’s also look at how things stack up over time. Let’s give credit where credit is due. Whether you love him or hate him, credit is due to Nicole. He has been a tremendous force for positive social change in this community for over thirty years.

I, for one, thank him for his perfect — and even his not so perfect — efforts to improve the quality of life for LGBT people across race, gender, sexuality, physical and mental ability, and economic class.

Pat Washington

Dear Editor:

On Wednesday afternoon, February 25, 2004, at 3:40 students in my Critical Thinking and Composition class and were hunched over their computer keyboards working on their writing projects in the English Department computer lab. I sat with one group, my back to the door. The room was abuzz with the tapping of keys, the whispers of students discussing their projects with each other, and the hum of the air-cooling system that keeps the computers from overheating. Suddenly the door burst open and a young man’s voice shouted out ‘Fergal’s a Faggot.’ The door immediately slammed shut. I stood up from the back of the room where I was working, stunned. I looked around at the equally stunned faces of my students. When I caught my breath, I spoke, “Did you sitting near the door hear what that guy said?” The student sitting nearest the door said, “Professor, the guy said, ‘Fergal’s a Faggot.’” I ran to the door to get a look at the person behind the voice. But he was gone. The three pathways that led away from the building were empty. He had disappeared after launching his verbal assault, afraid to have his identity revealed. I instructed the students to continue to work on their projects while I went to the Dean’s office to report the incident. After teaching my next class, on the advice of the English department chairperson, I went over to the campus police office to report the incident.

The campus police were professional and pleasant. When I opened the door to the campus police office a uniformed young woman behind the desk greeted me; three young uniformed men sat in the rear of the office. I told the gathered group that I had an incident to report. A more senior officer came out from a rear office, introduced himself and took down my story. The officer said that this was probably “just an isolated incident.” He rebuked me for not reporting the incident immediately and called this a “cold case” since I had waited just over two hours to come and report it to the police. I felt the sting of victimhood: I had done the wrong thing. I had apparently not behaved appropriately after the incident. He was sorry that there was nothing that they could do at this point but take a report. He told me that I should be vigilant. He said that the young man was “probably doing something stupid” and “wasn’t thinking” at the time.

As I reflect on and try to come to grips with what happened, I realize that there are two distinct ways to look at the incident. On the one hand, someone might reasonably say that the incident is isolated and therefore insignificant, like a teretic outburst. It was upsetting but not part of any greater threat. To think otherwise would be paranoid and overblown. This might be the view taken by someone who might not be aware of hate speech’s power, someone who doesn’t feel the sting of the incident. Someone might say, “What’s all the fuss? It was just a stupid guy being a jerk.” (I’ve already listened to comments to this effect; some people have even joked about the incident). On the other hand, you might say that this was another example of a campus that has a “problem with diversity,” the words of a colleague from the ESL Department when she heard of the incident.

Our class was disrupted, but more importantly, our sense of physical and emotional safety was violated. Some of the students were able to speak about the incident and name their feelings. Some sat in puzzled silence. For those freshly out of High School, the word “faggot” and “fag” are cheap currency on the high school campus. Cheap, that is, when the recipient is secure in the knowledge that he or she doesn’t fit the demographic of “faggot.” When directed at gay and lesbian members of the campus community, the words are a potent reminder of the old order, of who’s in charge and who’s to be kept under foot. From my point of view, the incident was both insignificant and extraordinary. It was insignificant because the young man was either too afraid or too ashamed to stand in front of me and express his hate. Someone in this position of cowardice is insignificant because on some level he knows that he is committing an act of brutish defamation. On the other hand, the young man felt comfortable enough to make his pronouncement on a college campus. He probably thought that his words might fall on ears that share his rage and annoyance at the idea that “faggots” not only occupy a visible place on campus, but are also unashamedly instructing classes, holding positions of authority. He knew that his words would cause hurt. He had planned the performance: he knew who I was (for he used my christian name), where I was (room S-3) and when I would be there (Wednesdays from 3:00-3:50).

The incident was also an excellent opportunity for my students to witness the extraordinary power of words to claim public space. This is a testimony to the power of one word to create havoc and menace, even when the speaker is obscured and invisible. In the class, we were discussing a story (“The Rockpile”) by James Baldwin. The lesson asked students to list the differing points of view of each character in the story. The story chronicles the debilitating effects of hateful language, fear and silence. No doubt many will dismiss this incident at nothing more than a blip on the otherwise pallid screen of campus life. I know for my part that I will not let the incident fall into the chasm of silence that prevents healthy discussion of hate speech on our campus.

I tell this story for my students so that they can better know who I am and what I stand for as an instructor. It is crucial for the health of the campus that we make this a safe place for everyone to work and learn without the threat of verbal or physical attack.

We will not know the motives of the offender, and even he may not be clear about his motives. But this is clear, he knew enough about the politics of language and public space to open the door of a classroom and launch hateful words to denigrate and subvert someone whom he perceived as offensive or a threat. For me the incident shattered any illusion that I work in a safe place. I will be more vigilant. I will be more watchful of who is behind me, of who lurks outside the classroom door and what he may be planning to do. I invite my colleagues and students at Palomar to think seriously about what we can do to create a safer campus, free from fear and hate. I also ask the leaders of the Palomar community to show leadership and speak out about hate speech on campus. Without clear messages from our campus leaders, the incident will retreat to the darker reaches of our consciousness, reinforcing the fear and hurt. As one of my students described the incident succinctly, “Wao, that really creates a hostile environment on this campus.”

Fergal O’Doherty

Professor of English

Palomar College