My Speech at Lavender Graduation

At the corner of Castro and Market, facing the grand Castro Theater, flies our flag, high and proud, featuring all colors of the rainbow, vibrant and alive against the blue skies. Just a month and a half ago we lost Gilbert Baker, the artist who created the Rainbow Flag. Baker’s original design was to have eight stripes: pink stood for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for the sun, green for nature, turquoise for magic, blue for harmony and purple for spirit. The pressures and costs of mass production led Baker to drop two colors—pink and turquoise—and the resulting flag is now a recognizable symbol of our community. And when I look at your smiling faces today, even though you are all clad in blue and gold, I see all colors of the rainbow flag. I see an appetite and zest for life, which kept you going for three years in law school; I see a passion for healing through advocating for others; I see the desire to help everyone stand proudly under the sun; I see true commitment to the most natural expression of our selves and the life around us; I see the skill to temper strong emotions with harmonious, nonviolent communication; and I see the indefatigable spirit in our hearts, to seek justice, freedom, and happiness. And there’s probably some sex and magic in there, too.

I also see the pride and joy on the faces of your families and friends—of blood and of choice—who have come here today for you. They stood by you as you trod your rigorous path. Let’s take a moment to thank them.

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From your perspective, the last three years must have felt like a whole lifetime. Three years ago you came here and started learning the mysteries, language, and tools of the law, its Byzantine corridors and sometimes Kafkaesque labyrinths, and mostly its power to change. And before our eyes you transformed from eager students to seasoned jurists, on the verge of stepping onto the threshold of your legal careers. For us, these three years flew by, and even as we already miss you, we cannot wait to hear your voices ringing out in courtrooms, boardrooms, meetings and halls, using these powerful words in this obscure language to bring about change.

In Barry Jenkins’ cinematic masterpiece Moonlight, Chiron, a ten-year-old boy, afraid, bullied, and ostracized in Miami’s Liberty City neighborhood, is taken under the wing of Juan, the neighborhood’s benevolent drug dealer. At Juan and Teresa’s home he finds acceptance, agency, and permission to be himself. In a poignant dinnertime scene, Chiron asks, “what’s a faggot?” Juan responds: “A faggot is… a word used to make gay people feel bad.” Chiron asks: “Am I a faggot?” Juan replies: “No. You’re not a faggot. You can be gay, but you don’t have to let nobody call you a faggot.”

As future lawyers, we know that words are powerful. Chiseled into the legislative fortress, they can facilitate or prohibit personal growth, self-actualization, the flourishing of life and family, a thriving professional path, a secure financial reality. We know that words uttered in litigation can liberate or imprison, open paths or set hurdles. And as future lawyers who are queer, we also know the deafening power of silence, of identities and affections unspoken out of fear of violence, retaliation, or dismissal.

It is especially in these dark times that we strive to find a path for change—times in which the progress we have made is put in peril. It is in times like this that old prejudices, misunderstandings and fear creep out of the woodwork to silence us. And it behooves us, therefore, to think of our rich heritage of speaking up, of persevering, and of fighting back, to find our way forward.

Paul Monette wrote his memoir Borrowed Time after his lover of ten years, Roger Horwitz, died of AIDS. Before Roger’s diagnosis, they took a trip together in Greece. He reminisces:

When I ran in the grassy stadium high on the mountain where the Pythian games were held, their heroes sung by Pindar, I knew I was poised at the exact center of my life. I belonged at last to a brotherhood where body and spirit were one. When a victor of the games returned at in triumph to his home, the city wall was breached to show that a place that possessed such a hero required no further defense. In the pitch of the moment it seemed to me that Roger and I and our secret brothers were heir to all of it. Hopeless romance, I know; [the Greeks] kept slaves, their women were powerless, they sacrificed in blood. But a gay man seeks his history in mythic fragments, random as blocks of stone in the ruins covered in Greek characters, gradually being erased by the summer rain. We have the poems of Sappho because the one rolled linen copy stoppered a wine jug in a cave, and the blanks are the words the acid of the wine had eaten away. Fragments are all you get. You jigsaw the rest with your heart.

Paul Monette relied on this heritage to fight for his people—our people—at one of the darkest times in LGBT history. And here, in San Francisco, our heroes are more than fragments. Our ancestors are fully fleshed out, their portraits beaming at us from the Castro sidewalks. Here we have brave Oscar Wilde, who publicly took on the case of the Love that, at the time, dared not speak its name; Christine Jorgensen, whose pioneering choice to openly live her truest identity inspired thousands; Keith Haring, whose colorful and vibrant art fought ignorance and plague; James Baldwin, whose evocative writings drew our attention to the intersections of sexuality and race; Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, whose open minds and open home gave us a generation of revolutionary art; Jane Addams, the mother of social work who tirelessly labored to improve the lot of people in dire need; Alan Turing, whose intellect and patriotism saved the free world; Tennessee Williams, whose emotionally charged plays allowed so many of us to see ourselves; Bayard Rustin, who fought for civil rights and against greed; Frida Kahlo, whose imaginative and evocative paintings built a bridge between the Americas. And, of course, our city’s hero, Harvey Milk who, like you, stepped up to fight the good fight.

Their voices, their writings, their art, and their deeds mattered. They made a difference. And like them, you will make a difference. They are all so proud of you today.

And as you step into the halls of justice, be the champions of all those who seek love, acceptance, and self-actualization. Speak with integrity, conviction, and skill, as we know you can. And your words will not only open the doors of every closet; they will open the door of wedding halls, adoption agencies, bathroom stalls, health clinics, and political candidate offices. You can, and you will, and thanks to you, justice will prevail. The arc of justice took a few very wrong turns, but if anyone can bend it back toward justice, it is you. We love you and believe in you.