Break Out the Bible: This Lesbian Wants Her Driver’s Licence

By Contributing Writer, 10-08-05

By Melynda Huskey

Back when I directed WSU's Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Allies Program, I used to get phone calls and emails from prospective students and employees asking, "What's it like to be gay there? Is it safe? Is it okay?" I was often at a loss to reply. It's okay most of the time? If you're careful, you'll probably be safe? It's not as bad as some places?

Today, in the space of two hours, I experienced what I think sums up what it's like to be gay around here, at least as a person moving through public space, negotiating daily life as an out lesbian.

My driver's license expired two weeks ago. I found this out the hard way in the Seattle airport, when I was pulled out of line and subjected to an unpleasant search. So this morning, my partner and I went to the DMV to get our licenses renewed. We live at the same address, and we have a joint checking account and only one checkbook. My clerk clocked us, or maybe she recognized our names on the check. At any rate, she clammed right up. She was as brusque as was compatible with actually speaking to me, and she didn't even wait to hand me my license. Instead, as I waited at the counter, my clerk headed to the back room, and returned with a paperback copy of the Book of Genesis, which she sat at her desk and read to herself in a very pointed way, holding the book up in so that the cover was clearly displayed. It was a pretty edition, with what might have been the Garden of Eden on the cover, or maybe just a nice, feminine floral pattern. Joan's clerk made some cheerful, pleasant small talk, took Joan's picture, handed us both our warm, fresh licenses, and wished us a nice day. My clerk continued to point her Bible at us, ostentatiously reading away.

Whatever. Maybe county employees shouldn't be reading the Bible -- or John Grisham, for that matter -- on my tax dime, and maybe it was just a complete coincidence that she behaved in such a, well, peculiar manner. That's how it is around here: unless it's late and somebody's drunk, or you're talking to one of our local "all gays must die" religious fanatics, most homophobic encounters will be like this one -- hostile and ambiguous.

Right this minute, perhaps someone straight is reading this and thinking, "Well, how do you know she was being homophobic? Aren't you jumping to conclusions? You people are so sensitive. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she's crabby to everyone." And what can I say? I can't see through her poodle perm into her brain. All I've got to go on is what I saw: a scowling county employee who couldn't finish waiting on me without a refreshing dip into Genesis.

An hour later, I was on the phone with a nurse from St. Joseph's Medical Center in Lewiston, getting the pre-surgery instructions for an upcoming procedure for one of our kids. It was the standard conversation: no food, no drink, be here at this time. My nurse was personable and professional. She asked about bedtime routines, my child's interests, and what the hospital staff might do to put him at ease. We talked about the benefits of organic milk, and the opening date for the Moscow Coop. Then she asked, "Does dad live at home?"

"Our family has no dad. We're two moms," I said, as I have said hundreds of times before to teachers, doctors, dentists, nurses, other parents, grocery store clerks, and anybody else who asks.

"Does other mom live at home?" asked my nurse, without missing a beat. After we'd gotten through the questions, she said, "I think, if it's all right with you, I'd like to put a note on the chart to make sure everyone understands that two moms will be with the patient. I think you're our first two-mom family, and I want to make sure that everyone will understand that. It's not to single you out, or so that we'll treat you differently. We just want everyone to get it right. And we will."

So that's the other way it goes: people may not quite know the details, but they've got the principle down pat. Treat every family, every patient, every client, every customer, with respect and care. Don't make a big deal out of it, but don't pretend it doesn't matter. And ask, if you don't know for sure. It's what I love about the Palouse -- at our best, we're not smarmy or servile; we're pleasant and helpful. We keep a reasonable distance, and we're warm and kind across it. We're that boring and underestimated thing, good citizens.

I'm betting that everything will be fine at St. Joe's, and that we won't see a hitch; whatever needs to happen behind the scenes to get ready for us will happen. And, lucky me, I don't have to go back to the DMV for four years. If I'd been thinking, I'd have paid the extra money for an eight year license. [End of article]