peace narrative
by katey schultz

I remember the rush of the moist Pacific Northwest winds across my forearms.

It was October 1992, and my parents and I were protesting at Pioneer Courthouse Square. That time of year, a tell-tale evergreen dampness settles over the top of Portland like a ghost-blanket. Even at age twelve I knew this meant home, fall; in my city of gray and wet and peace and love, all of this felt juuust right under my bare feet that pitter-pattered across the brick courthouse square.

We were there to protest one of the most famous ballot measures in Oregon’s history: Measure Nine, sponsored by the Oregon Citizen’s Alliance (OCA). If passed, the ballot would have amended the Oregon Constitution, adding the following: “All governments in Oregon may not use their monies or properties to promote, encourage or facilitate homosexuality, pedophilia, sadism or masochism. All levels of government, including public education systems, must assist in setting a standard for Oregon’s youth which recognizes that these behaviors are abnormal, wrong, unnatural and perverse and they are to be discouraged and avoided.”

I remember carrying signs with a red X across Bill Sizemore and Lon Mabon’s faces, the two conservative leaders of the OCA who would continue to fund watered-down versions of Measure Nine for years. Men whose names I still remember and seethe at more than ten years later. I was shorter than the mostly adult crowd and the sign brought relevance to my shouting. Towering high above my head, it made me feel like my message was still out there, reaching all the eyes and cameras that scanned the massive crowd.
I remember holding hands with strangers, lifting our chain-linked bodies in unison all the way around the half moon of the courthouse square as we sang, “We are all one people. We are all one people.” I remember almost crying, and not understanding why, but just knowing that tingling feeling under my skin, that jitteriness in my belly, that excitement over doing something right in the world.

I remember getting home after a day of shouting and speeches and rallies and saying, “Wow Mom, we sure saw some cool hair-dos,” and then dashing down the stairs, 1, 2, 3, counting them in my head, 4, 5, 6, preparing to jump off the last one, 7, 8, 9, skip, skip, 13! Then into my room, straight for the mirror to tie my hair back so I could see what it might look like if I shaved it all off.
I remember closing my eyes for days after the protest and seeing a barrage of colors and faces, extraordinary piercings, women kissing women, men embracing men, leather pants, motorcycles, and yes, yes, yes, plain old simple as can be men and women and who could tell the difference because we were all there for the same cause, believed in the same universe, wanted peace for the same people. There were moms and daughters and dogs and kids and dads and chubby-cheeked toddlers on big man shoulders and oh the rainbow flags were everywhere.

And then, weeks later, I remember watching the evening news with Mom and Dad, chomping on Round Table Pizza (our favorite) and waiting, waiting, waiting until all the votes were cast. “No on 9, No on 9” we chanted in our living room. And finally, the measure was defeated on November 3, 1992 in the general election with 828,290 votes against Measure Nine, to outnumber 638,527 votes in favor.

Fourteen years later and three thousand miles across the country, I find myself settling into Appalachia almost as if it had been my home all along. There are good people here. The mountains are ancient and towering, and what they lack in elevation is made up by the fact that I get to live right at the base of them. This home feels like some eco-spine of my soul.

But the Bible-belt culture is another thing entirely. I cannot tell yet where I may offend. There is no map for me to follow indicating what tradition means what, or where I can shout my liberal Buddhist voice with a crowd of like-minded people. It took some digging around and screwing up to find my niche, but I’m glad I did. Besides, how would an Oregonian ever know that you’re not supposed to dance to bluegrass gospel, that south of Virginia it’s Appalaahchia not Appalaychia, and that sayin’ “bless her heart” is actually more like offerin’ up pity than it is givin’ a compliment.

All of this matters because I recently spent some time with the high school class of 2006. Listening in on their speeches about the nature of love, I was both impressed and proud. These kids have a lot going for them, I thought to myself. Never mind the fact that until visiting this high school, I had never in my entire life heard the Bible quoted in a public school, ever. Never mind the fact that these kids knew more about the Gospels than I know about my own right arm.

What struck me was their candid advice and mature perspectives.
“One beautiful thing about love is that it mends problems almost as soon as they arise,” said one young woman.

“You have to know that in love there will always be forgiveness,” said another.

Still another confessed: “I’m not really sure what true love is. I’ve been around it with my parents, but I’ve never experienced it myself.”
And then the tables turned.

“It is not God’s will to put a man and a man or a woman and a woman together. If you’re a man and you think you love a man, you just don’t and that’s just messed up and you’ve got somethin’ wrong with you,” said one of the male students. I recognized his last name and took mental note not to shop at his daddy’s plumbing store anymore. The class laughed along nervously as he finished his speech. Not a single objection was uttered.
“Marriage is between a man and woman. Always has been, always will be. Don’t even go thinkin’ about women marrying women or men marrying men ‘cause that ain’t right,” said the next. I recognized his last name too. His dad repairs my car.

They went on. And on and on and on. And I melted into my seat and bit my tongue and scribbled one thousand curses in my notebook and thought about Mendy and wondered what she would do. Right there, in the classroom, under fire and under pressure, my brain was seized with emotion and disgust and outrage. I found myself longing for the crowd of No on 9 protesters I stood with so many years ago. But all of this, every single ounce of it, had to be kept inside. I was there to write an article. If I spoke, the story could be ruined. If I debated, I could change the entire tone of the classroom. If I lost my temper, I could forget the whole damn thing.

At the end of the class, the teacher asked if I would offer feedback to the students in front of the entire class. I was pleased to do so and made a point to say something genuine and positive about each speaker. I even complimented the two homophobic male students on aspects of their speeches that were praiseworthy. Then I remembered something Sweet Girl told me a few months ago with a sort of lustful twinkle in her eye, “One in ten,” she had said. “One in ten.” I looked at the two boys firmly and said, with as much patience and calm as I could muster: “You should know that statistically speaking, at least two people in this classroom are gay. When you’re writing a persuasive essay, it’s not in your best interest to alienate your audience. When you do that, you reveal more about your own ignorance than you do about any actual facts that can be backed up.”

Peace comes in all kinds of packages. It can come in the form of a protest. It can come in the form of silence. Speaking in that classroom, for me, peace came in the form of patience. In rugby they always say, “Shit begets shit,” meaning that a bad pass can only lead to a fumble or another bad pass. I feel the same way about life. I could have thrown my shit right back at those boys, could have humiliated them and gotten all worked up and regretted it later, could have enticed them to hold fast to their homophobic views because they had nothing else to cling to. Instead I was able to call on the strength and wisdom of this group, our group, Eve’s group—and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Katey Schultz is a freelance writer and tutor living in Celo, North Carolina. Her current project highlights the salient aspects of adolescence, combining her memoirs with informal research conducted in local schools.
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