There have been numerous blog posts and news stories about how Hope College in Holland, Michigan, disinvited Dustin Lance Black, Academy Award winning screen writer for the film Milk - who is a sweetheart in person as I know personally from meeting him at the National Equality March - from speaking at the college and from screening Milk. It was yet another case of homophobic Christianists seeking to avoid a real world discussion of the fact that (i) gays DO exist and (ii) that religious based discrimination against LGBT Americans is not acceptable under the U.S. Constitution. Ultimately, a theater in Holland did allow a screening of Milk and Dustin describes his experiences at Daily Beast. What he has to say speaks volumes about why it is important for gays to live openly and help kill the stereotypes that our enemies work so hard to create. Here are some highlights:*
The story said I had been banned from screening Milk and was officially not welcome on Hope College’s campus. The dean of students wasn’t shy about it. He called my brand of “advocacy” hurtful to the student body. Without ever meeting me in person, without so much as a phone call, he had publicly declared me and Milk unholy and unwelcome.
*
What had started as a wide-eyed adventure to bring Harvey Milk back to life had taken a darker turn since my Oscar acceptance speech appeared and re-appeared on Oprah, The View, and The O’Reilly Factor. Anti-gay letters, emails, and attacks had begun, and now, here in West Michigan, I had met the same fate as many of my favorite writers: I was banned. Naïveté was gone. My education had begun. Between the apologetic handshakes were glares from unknown locals. The politeness I’d come to admire was lifted up, revealing hidden enmity.
*
But let me be clear: I don’t think the town was homophobic. I think they had simply never discussed gay rights openly before, and here I was, an interloper, threatening to thrust this hot-button issue into their community. As the dean kept talking and students began protesting, calls came from journalists in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. I did my best to stay focused, wrap up production, and in the end, decided to move my editing room out of West Michigan.
But that’s not how the story ends. Two weeks ago, in blizzard conditions, a Delta pilot landed on a snowy runway in Grand Rapids, and I drove the half hour from the airport to Holland, watching SUVs slide into ditches in front of me. With five minutes to spare, I arrived at the Park Theater off Main Street, right across from the steeples of Hope College.
*
Why had I made the journey back? Because when I decided I needed to set things right with the people of Holland who had been so welcoming, I called that same student who had come up to me in the coffee shop months ago, and we decided not to take “no” for an answer.
*
He organized a new group called “Hope Is Ready,” and raised funds from local city leaders who had never taken a stand on gay rights before, but in the face of Hope’s now widely publicized homophobia, decided to put their quiet courtesy aside (most for the first time), and donated time, money, and space to do what Hope wouldn’t: have this conversation.
*
The theater sold out in an hour. We booked a second night at a larger venue and it, too, filled up. As the film wrapped up, Harvey called out from the screen: “You gotta give ‘em HOPE. You gotta give ‘em HOPE.” And for the first time, those words meant something very different to me. They meant, as we fight for equality in California and New York, we can’t forget about those kids out there in small-town America, in the Hollands or Hope Colleges. Their lives are too valuable.
*
When the lights came up, it became clear the audience was almost entirely students and faculty from Hope College. And it wasn’t just gay people who stood up and told their stories at the Q&A afterward; it was minorities of every kind. And the next morning, for the first time, the dean of Hope College called me. As long as there was no one else around to witness it, he wanted to meet.
*
A tall, white-haired man waved to me from under the marquee of another local theater. It had warmed up to 20 degrees. I was shivering; he was braver about the weather. This was the man who had banned my film and lecture, and denounced me to reporters. Now he was responsible for my return. Without him, I likely would have spoken to a handful of students on campus, the event would have gone largely unnoticed, and the long-needed dialogue that had taken place the night before would never have happened. Gay people in Holland had this man to thank.
*
What struck me immediately was his referring to me as “you people.” I asked him to clarify, and he hesitantly said, “gay people.” He claimed it was “my people” who had been attacking him since the news broke, though all of the complaints I’d read in the papers had come from straight people in his own community. But I didn’t argue that. Instead, I asked that he get to know gay and lesbian people individually instead of lumping us together, stereotyping.
It became clear the problem here wasn’t gay people or Hollywood people or people from California. The problem was a fear of “other” people, people from different worlds or with different viewpoints. I was reminded of Harvey Milk who claimed the war against homophobia was a war against fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what is different.
The story said I had been banned from screening Milk and was officially not welcome on Hope College’s campus. The dean of students wasn’t shy about it. He called my brand of “advocacy” hurtful to the student body. Without ever meeting me in person, without so much as a phone call, he had publicly declared me and Milk unholy and unwelcome.
*
What had started as a wide-eyed adventure to bring Harvey Milk back to life had taken a darker turn since my Oscar acceptance speech appeared and re-appeared on Oprah, The View, and The O’Reilly Factor. Anti-gay letters, emails, and attacks had begun, and now, here in West Michigan, I had met the same fate as many of my favorite writers: I was banned. Naïveté was gone. My education had begun. Between the apologetic handshakes were glares from unknown locals. The politeness I’d come to admire was lifted up, revealing hidden enmity.
*
But let me be clear: I don’t think the town was homophobic. I think they had simply never discussed gay rights openly before, and here I was, an interloper, threatening to thrust this hot-button issue into their community. As the dean kept talking and students began protesting, calls came from journalists in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. I did my best to stay focused, wrap up production, and in the end, decided to move my editing room out of West Michigan.
But that’s not how the story ends. Two weeks ago, in blizzard conditions, a Delta pilot landed on a snowy runway in Grand Rapids, and I drove the half hour from the airport to Holland, watching SUVs slide into ditches in front of me. With five minutes to spare, I arrived at the Park Theater off Main Street, right across from the steeples of Hope College.
*
Why had I made the journey back? Because when I decided I needed to set things right with the people of Holland who had been so welcoming, I called that same student who had come up to me in the coffee shop months ago, and we decided not to take “no” for an answer.
*
He organized a new group called “Hope Is Ready,” and raised funds from local city leaders who had never taken a stand on gay rights before, but in the face of Hope’s now widely publicized homophobia, decided to put their quiet courtesy aside (most for the first time), and donated time, money, and space to do what Hope wouldn’t: have this conversation.
*
The theater sold out in an hour. We booked a second night at a larger venue and it, too, filled up. As the film wrapped up, Harvey called out from the screen: “You gotta give ‘em HOPE. You gotta give ‘em HOPE.” And for the first time, those words meant something very different to me. They meant, as we fight for equality in California and New York, we can’t forget about those kids out there in small-town America, in the Hollands or Hope Colleges. Their lives are too valuable.
*
When the lights came up, it became clear the audience was almost entirely students and faculty from Hope College. And it wasn’t just gay people who stood up and told their stories at the Q&A afterward; it was minorities of every kind. And the next morning, for the first time, the dean of Hope College called me. As long as there was no one else around to witness it, he wanted to meet.
*
A tall, white-haired man waved to me from under the marquee of another local theater. It had warmed up to 20 degrees. I was shivering; he was braver about the weather. This was the man who had banned my film and lecture, and denounced me to reporters. Now he was responsible for my return. Without him, I likely would have spoken to a handful of students on campus, the event would have gone largely unnoticed, and the long-needed dialogue that had taken place the night before would never have happened. Gay people in Holland had this man to thank.
*
What struck me immediately was his referring to me as “you people.” I asked him to clarify, and he hesitantly said, “gay people.” He claimed it was “my people” who had been attacking him since the news broke, though all of the complaints I’d read in the papers had come from straight people in his own community. But I didn’t argue that. Instead, I asked that he get to know gay and lesbian people individually instead of lumping us together, stereotyping.
It became clear the problem here wasn’t gay people or Hollywood people or people from California. The problem was a fear of “other” people, people from different worlds or with different viewpoints. I was reminded of Harvey Milk who claimed the war against homophobia was a war against fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what is different.
*
I commend Dustin for not taking "no" for an answer and pushing the envelop so that some real dialogue could take place. I count myself as lucky to have had the opportunity to meet with this amazing young man. I suspect that we will hear much more from and about him in the future.
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