I thought I was pretty evolved on Pride, the meaning of it, the tactics of social protest, and the way to bring about meaningful, substantive change.

After all, I’m a child of the ’60’s trained in the Alinksy method of confrontational protest, active in the Anti-Vietnam War, Civil Rights, and Voting Rights demonstrations and labor-organizing campaigns going back more than 50 years. I’ve been tear-gassed, and spat upon, accused of being a Communist, and stared back into faces contorted with hate.

I’ve marched with Al Sharpton over the Brooklyn Bridge to protest the police shooting death of Amadou Diallo, and walked through a grieving, seething crowd in Crown Heights, Brooklyn with Mario Cuomo to attend the funeral of another young black, victim of hate and gun violence, Yusef Hawkins.

I’ve participated in more Pride parades than I can count, and 25 years ago — following Bill Clinton’s terrible Defense of Marriage Act — wrote an article advocating “Marriage for All,” for a string of suburban newspapers with a largely conservative readership.

I think of myself as fairly fearless on issues of human rights, and always ready to right any wrong. But, this year, during an LGBTQ Pride celebration in Sonoma County, CA, I was taught a valuable lesson by a group of students, ages 10 to 18, representing all colors of the Rainbow.

As the students celebrated Pride Month together in the Village Square of the City of Healdsburg — where we have an openly gay, Latino Vice-Mayor — I spotted a cranky old man about 100 paces away, waving the Bible toward them. His beard was grey and scraggly, and he could have passed for some street lunatic. He kept waving the Bible at them, punctuating each thrust of The Book with shouts of “Jesus loves you, Jesus loves you.” The tone of his voice was not conveying love.

Everyone of my protest instincts — honed by years of being harrassed by crackpots — kicked in. My body went on high alert, poised to spring into action if the Bible thumper took one small step toward the students. I was prepared to grab his Bible, and focus his wrath on me, not them.

Just as I was about to pounce, the students— numbering about 12 to 15 — all got up from where they were talking and enjoying the beauty of the occasion, and quietly walked toward the Old Man with the Bible. They didn’t say a word, and, en masse, headed in his direction. I stood ready to back them up.

Suddenly, the Jesus freak started walking away, frightened by the show of force, resolve and unity by this proud group of pre-teen and teenaged humans. I was stunned, and reminded of the quiet, effective demonstrations to integrate lunch counters by students during the 1960’s.

Not a word was uttered; no curses, no shouting. With each stride the students took in solidarity toward the Bible thumper, he took several steps away from them, until he was clear across the Town Square, scooting out of sight, without uttering another word.

I was proud of these kids, who were unafraid to assert their pride of being themselves. Their clear courage and unwavering solidarity, taught me that these kids will be alright, as long as they continue to stand up for themselves, and for humanity.

The eyes. It’s all about the eyes with masks.

It’s all about the eyes.

No smile to dazzle;

No nose to blow —

It’s all about the eyes.

It’s all about the eyes with masks,

No other quick distraction.

What hides beneath is unknown —

The eyes are the attraction.

Look at me! Look at me!

Eyes demand. Don’t glance up at hair.

Does it make you antsy,

To figure out who’s there?

It’s all about the eyes, with masks;

It’s all about the eyes.

So many mouths, so little sense.

I’ll take the stares,

No matter how intense,

Of eloquent, elegant eyes.

My father was an Anti-Fascist,

A child of immigrants

who worshipped free elections,

And not some flaccid erections of impotent potentates,

Who pump themselves up

On the deaths of humans and institutions great,

Unlike themselves.

My father curses you from his grave,

You greasy garbage-pail, depraved

Beyond redemption, not to mention how

Deprived you are of any shards of soul,

You democracy desecrating asshole, Trump.

My father didn’t want to leave three kids

But yet he did, to fight the Fascists and keep

Us safe from hate-filled autocrats, intent

On killing mothers & babies, and tearing them apart.

My wife’s uncle, at 20, had reasons plenty to stay home

And not run off to Rome, to spend his youth fighting Nazis

So uncouth they pissed on Jewish graves, including his own,

Dug deep into Europe’s hills, before The War was won.

And now, you whine, you Fascist-loving garbage pail,

Face so callow and puffy, skin so pale, voice a callous peale,

To tear down the democratic fortress their blood sealed,

Defeating & containing dictators for 75 years–your lifetime–

You chin-thrusting shill for Russian mobsters, you pig squeal.

My father and his fellow GI’s curse you from their graves,

You draft dodging, Gold-Star Family fucking inanity,

Depraved more than the jackals

Who feasted on the entrails of dead soldiers and civilians,

Growing fat, feasting on the flesh of humans,

In the crassness and crapulence of your full inhumanity.

The soldiers of democracy’s fortune, from here and abroad,

Curse you from their graves, you fraud, knowing the courage of their brave

Friends who, of all colors and faiths, came together for a cause,

Not simply for applause, nor profit, but to save the world,

From avaricious, hate-dripping, autocratic, garbage pails like you.

My father was an Anti-Fascist,

As were 300,000 fellow US Vets who perished,

And 700,000 more who bore bullets in their spines & rumps,

Fighting to save Democracy from the soul-less, like Trump.

World Without Hate,  Amein.

My oldest granddaughter turned 12 today.

I’m grateful for her life each day, 

That I can watch her and her sisters smile,

And know, that all the while, so many other

Children of us all are gone.

Like the Ishkontana children,

Ages 9, 5, 4 and 2

Wearing bright new clothes and shoes,

Smiling, while their uncle snapped photos on his phone.

When he stepped out to buy them treats,

 Their Gaza home was bombed into the streets, 

With all the Ishkontana children and their mother,

Dressed in their Ramadan best,

 Scattered, as dust in the wind.

I live to hear my granddaughters laugh, 

And marvel at how well they swim, 

And flip and dive, 

So thankful they are still alive, 

While worlds away, 69 children die,

For being plunged in hate’s way.

Like Ido Avigal, Age 5, A Jew,

Who told his classmates 
“Arabs are not all bad,”

And before he was old enough to work for peace,

Took shrapnel in his stomach.   Deceased.

Like Rafeef Abu Dayer, age 10,

Who drew a bombed out Gaza building she could not unsee,

And, hearing her mother’s call for a garden lunch and tea, 

Put her artwork aside to color later.  Which would never be.

I kiss my granddaughters, Ages 12, almost 10 and 5,

And know that despite fires, and COVID, guns and drought,

They are blessed to be able to go out,

And run and play and shout screams of joy to be alive.  

Not terror, as a child psychologist told the NY Times:

“Of the ones who survive; those pulled out of the rubble,

And lost a limb, or those who will go to school,

And see which friend is missing.”

My oldest granddaughter turned 12 today,

And all I want for her, 

Is, 

For the inhumanity of this world to go away.

I don’t care about Bruce or Caitlyn Jenner’s genitals. I don’t care if they’re male or female, intersex or no sex at all. It’s her biz, not mine.

I do care about the emotional torture people experience when they have questions about their gender identity or sexuality, especially if they are fragile adolescents, struggling to “fit in.”

I care deeply that their uniqueness is validated, not vilified; that they aren’t subjected to genital exams for competing on the sports team of their choice, or aren’t refused medical care for being trans.

All of those evil actions have been and are presently being practiced by Donald Trump and his supporters regarding Transgender troops in the US Military, and by gay/trans bashing bigots in a growing number of States and communities around the country. Caitlyn Jenner — either when she was Bruce, or now, when she is Caitlyn — has not been a profile in courage or a champion for members of the LGBTQ community either before or after her sex change. In fact, to cement her callousness toward other members of the LGBTQ community, and cravenness for getting attention, Caitlyn has hired former disgraced Trump Campaign Manager Brad Parscale — who advanced many of the Trump gay/trans bashing policies — to manage her cynical campaign for Governor of California against incumbent Gavin Newsom.

Maybe it’s time for Diane Sawyer and ABC to do another fawning freak-show interview of Caitlyn— like the original one they did in April, 2015, and the sequel in 2017, to follow Jenner’s jaundiced “journey” to her latest race for ratings, and relevance.

I remember being hopeful that the first Jenner interview with Sawyer on ABC-TV would be a true public service and soothe the insecurities of some kid struggling between suicide and self-acceptance.

I hoped Jenner’s tears were real, not the rehearsed ones of a reality-show retread. I wanted her words to be sincere when she said she wasn’t profiting from the soul-searching announcement. I was almost willing to defer to Diane Sawyer’s journalistic integrity to sniff out sincerity, and not serve as a shill for a new sur-reality show starring Jenner’s genitalia.

But alas, we were all scammed by the wonderkind whose glistening grin once graced a box of Wheaties, and by dear Diane — once a shill for Richard Nixon — and now, the carnival barker of a national emotional con game.

The Hollywood Reporter’s story which ran on the same day of the heavily promoted ABC-TV Jenner/Sawyer interview, detailed that Jenner had already inked an agreement with E! Entertainment TV to do an 8-part “docu-series” about her transgender journey. Somehow, “Loose with the Truth Bruce” — as she was previously known — forgot to mention that tiny detail in his two hour heart-to-heart with dear Diane.

Somehow, Sawyer forgot to bring it up as she exuded compassion while staring into soon-to-be Caitlyn’s crocodile-teary eyes. Maybe Sawyer didn’t know; maybe Jenner’s new reality-show deal — being produced by the same two producers who keep shoveling us “Keeping Up With the Kardashians, wasn’t signed until after the show was taped.

Or maybe, just maybe, the bigger deal for ABC was to air the interview — which was a ratings romp over all other programs in that timeslot — by agreeing not to mention that Bruce and E! had a contract in hand as a condition of Jenner not jumping with his interview to a competing network. Surely, Comcast, the owner of BOTH E! and NBC, had to know it’s Entertainment Network had been negotiating a new deal for yet another reality show featuring a Kardashian castoff. Network deals are not done overnight, and Comcast is the type of tightly run company where every deal is carefully scrutinized by its corporate lawyers. The media-freak show monster has to be fed!

For Jenner, it was like winning a Triathalon again. She had a handsome, new contract in hand with E!; her sex-change would be handled as a “docu-series” — a serious reality show, to distinguish it from the Kardashian freak show, or another freakish reality show, like The Apprentice; AND, Jenner escorted dear Diane into a glamorous clothes closet, where the formerly credible former ABC Nightly News Anchor Sawyer swooned over Jenner’s jumpers and proved to be such a sympathetic salesperson for the latest Reality-TV snakeoil. How could the slippery scheme be dismissed as just another extended series of Kardashian classlessness, if it were so subtly sewn into Diane Sawyer’s sophisticated hemline?

ABC got the botox injection of ratings it mainlines, Comcast/NBC/Universal got two hours of free Superbowl-style hype for an upcoming E! reality series starring Jenner’s genitals, and Jenner got….. an Olympic-sized Gold Cup overflowing with money, Diane Sawyer’s sugary sympathy, and a grateful nation of voyeurs turning our lonely eyes to her, once again — minus the box of Wheaties.

Over the past six years, did this new All-American heroine donate a sizeable portion of her TV proceeds to counseling & healthcare services for transgender youth around the world? To the Trevor Foundation? To GLSEN? To fight anti-gay/trans bigots in the GOP? Did she use her new fame and fortune to fund anti-violence campaigns against the LGBTQ community, or at least to educate fellow Republicans about sex, sexuality, gender and equality? Of course not. It was all about her struggle, not yours.

And don’t hold your breath for Jenner, jonesing to be Governor of 40 million of us based upon years of rich Reality-show experience of huckstering, to do any of that now, or become a transformed champion of millions battling discrimination, in 2021. Nothing in Jenner’s past or present says she will. After all, it’s not about you.

Didn’t we learn anything from four years of the Trump freak show which ushered in hundreds of thousands of unnecessary COVID deaths and normalized hate-speech and violence against the LGBTQ community as well as against Jews, Blacks, Mexicans, Asians and immigrants? Why didn’t Jenner use her media connections, money and voice to campaign against hate, during the years of Trump — whom she endorsed for President in 2016?

Why would 40 million Californians — who torched the daily terrorism of Trump, as well as his flagrant failure to make government work except for himself and his criminal cronies — choose another inexperienced, ego-maniacal, freak-show, demi-celebrity to lead us — especially when she’s being funded, advised and guided by the very same people who brought us Trump?

I have never been a big fan of Gavin Newsom’s, but the sick, cynical joke of Jenner’s candidacy has turned me into one.

If I were a Black Man, I’d be dead.

My anger would have turned to hot, molten lead,

Unable to control my temper,

Some frightened, ugly White man

Would have put a bullet through my head.

I see me, but you see something wild —

You see an animal; to you, all threat & fear;

No father, no mother, no family, no child;

Not human, you don’t want me anywhere near.

So you curse me, or shoot me,

Or kneel on my neck

Until I’m no longer here,

Which, to you, I never was.

If I were a Black Man, I’d have long lost my faith,

In justice or fairness — in all except hate.

I’d have long cursed Jesus,

Tongue-lashed him like Job,

Furious at my own self,

For seeking protection from His Robe.

My anger my refuge,

My fuse growing short,

I’d never again seek solace,

In church or in court.

If I were a Black Man,

I’d surely be dead;

I don’t want your pity,

When all you want’s my head.

I don’t want excuses,

Or blame for your mistakes;

Spare me your prayers

When its my life you want to take.

If I were a Black Man

I doubt I could contain my rage,

Or turn the page,

Or turn as little as a cheek,

To spare myself the “Mississippi God-Damned” pain.

I’d seethe and tear myself apart

Because I’m not as strong & smart

As real Black Men have to be,

In order to just…Be.

But, my skin, though swarthy,

Passes as “white,”

And my age, though full of rage,

Is mistaken for old,

Which makes me more dangerous

With a license to be bold,

Since I am expected to fight off death.

No, I am not a Black Man,

No knee upon my neck,

My voting rights unthreatened,

My protests go unchecked.

Still, I am “the other,”

Imprisoned by your side,

Like all my sisters & brothers,

I rage, and refuse to hide.

Yes, if I were a Black Man,

I’d be dead.

But, I am not.

And my anger

For your pain,

Is boiling hot.Steve Villano

www.socialvisionproductions.com