I stumbled across quite the juicy tidbit the other day. Well, juicy if you like your gossip 200 years old.
A “Today in History“ item on 365Gay.com noted that a very young United States almost installed a king. Somewhere in my head a bell rang. I dearly hope this indicated an unearthed memory and not tinnitus.
I may've once known about this plan for a potentate, but it came as a total surprise to me that the potential monarch, Prince Heinrich of Prussia, was gay.
Just imagine if the father of our country had been 1) royalty, and 2) not the least interested in the mothers of our country. High school history class would've been a mite more colorful.
After the Revolutionary War, the new nation operated under the Articles of Confederation, a wildly inadequate framework of government. Alexander Hamilton, George Washington's chief aide during the war, believed America needed a king. Unable to see into the future when America would have a lot of kings, ranging from King Kong to The King of Rock 'n' Roll, Hamilton and his compatriots wrote to Prince Henry of Prussia in 1786 and offered him the job.
The prince dithered, and the next year Americans decided to scrap the Articles of Confederation for the U.S. Constitution. King out, president in.
It's hard to say what sort of King of the United States the Prussian would've made. Prince Henry had a talent for the military, leading Prussian troops so successfully during the Seven Years' War, according to Wikipedia, that he never lost a battle. Apparently he was also famous for butting heads with his brother, King Frederick II of Prussia, better known as Frederick the Great.
And I don't know if he was famous for it, but it seems to be a foregone conclusion that Prince Henry was gay. We almost had a queen for a king.
The authors of the book “Outing“ maintain Prince Henry was “exclusively homosexual.“ That's in contrast to his bisexual brother. I guess Frederick the Great could also be called Frederick the Flexible.
In “Who's Who in Gay & Lesbian History,“ Prince Henry is “a gay blade,“ the perfect term for an eighteenth century homosexual military man.
The prince was married, which we know has never been a guarantee of heterosexuality. The “couple“ produced no children, so if Prince Henry had become king of this country, there would've been a battle royal over his successor. We could've wound up with the Marquis of Moldavia.
Actually, I don't find it very hard to imagine a past leader of this country being gay. What I find hard to imagine is that leader being a monarch, which seems downright unpalatable to little old republican (small “r“) me.
Of course, to some the idea that gays had anything to do with our national beginnings is unpalatable. Which is why what I read about a few Founding Fathers while researching Prince Henry would make such folks impressively nauseous.
Alexander Hamilton, Washington's wartime aide and temporary pen pal of Prince Henry, is today hailed as one of the most important Founding Fathers, having co-authored the Federalist Papers and served as the first treasury secretary.
But oh my, “Who's Who in Gay & Lesbian History“ suggests he had loving relationships with men, and that Washington was an unhappy fella when Hamilton married. “Outing“ notes that Hamilton is suspected “at the very least of having exploited the Commander in Chief's infatuation with him.“
Now, let me clear my conscience by saying I get very nervous about ascribing gayness to historical figures. But if these books are correct, we had ourselves some Founding Fairies.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Gay Husbands, Scribbling Wives
It's her turn.
Dina Matos McGreevey, estranged wife of James “I am a gay American“ McGreevey, is committing her guts to print. Her memoir, called “Silent Partner,“ is due out in May. I expect Oprah has already penciled her in.
And why not? “The Oprah Winfrey Show“ was a major stop last fall on James McGreevey's promotional tour for his memoir, “The Confession,“ his account of his closeted life and the gay sex scandal that toppled him as New Jersey's governor. What's publicity for the goose is publicity for the gander.
Are we seeing the start of a trend? As prominent men are outed in various ways, will their wives pour out their pain on the page? Writing is said to be cathartic. Anyone who's discovered in front of a worldwide audience that her marriage is a sham could use a little catharsis, if not a little morphine.
The publisher of the Garden State's former first lady is Hyperion Books, a division of The Walt Disney Company. Clearly Disney is no longer strictly in the business of fairy-tale endings.
In a statement, Hyperion Executive Editor Brenda Copeland said, “Like many people, I was impressed with Mrs. McGreevey's grace and fortitude under what were clearly some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable. As I watched the coverage and read Jim McGreevey's speech, I found myself wondering what Mrs. McGreevey was going through—before, during, and after this experience. That's the story I've always wanted to know, and that's the story she has told in 'Silent Partner.'“
Meaning if you want the intimate details, people, pre-order now!
For her part, Matos McGreevey explained, “I've had a lot of requests for interviews and appearances, but thought it best for my daughter and myself to stay out of the public maelstrom. But two years have passed and still I am the subject of much speculation as to the nature of my relationship with my husband. Enough is enough.“
Meaning I'm sick of the media conjecture, now here's my side of the story, and ditto on that intimate details business!
Matos McGreevey will certainly vent in her memoir. The question is how much bile will she aim at her husband for lying and cheating, how much at the media for being relentless, and how much at herself for not detecting the truth.
I don't think money heals wounds, but it can buy some snazzy bandages. Matos McGreevey might well have herself a best seller. After all, her husband did. Personal pain can generate ample profit.
Another woman to have been famously dragged out of her husband's closet lately is Gayle Haggard, spouse of Ted, the meth-using, callboy-buying, gay rights-fighting evangelical pastor from Colorado. Perhaps she'll write a book about discovering her husband's terrible truths and the experience of being in the media glare. She could call it “A Christian Deer in the Headlights.“
Char Barnes, wife of another noted Colorado evangelical pastor who has admitted to gay sex, could then call her own memoir “More Colorado Roadkill.“
While the McGreeveys are sensibly divorcing, the Haggards are trying to preserve their marriage, so I wouldn't be surprised if Gayle actually does pen a book designed to inspire women to fight for their marriage. Later, when Ted falls off the spiritual wagon, she'll have to write the mother of all revisions.
Mike Jones, the then-prostitute with whom Haggard dallied, is really writing a book, which he says will come out in June. With Matos McGreevey's memoir due out the same time, I see a joint book tour. They can both tell Oprah how one person's lie creates a ripple effect, making those around him seasick.
Dina Matos McGreevey, estranged wife of James “I am a gay American“ McGreevey, is committing her guts to print. Her memoir, called “Silent Partner,“ is due out in May. I expect Oprah has already penciled her in.
And why not? “The Oprah Winfrey Show“ was a major stop last fall on James McGreevey's promotional tour for his memoir, “The Confession,“ his account of his closeted life and the gay sex scandal that toppled him as New Jersey's governor. What's publicity for the goose is publicity for the gander.
Are we seeing the start of a trend? As prominent men are outed in various ways, will their wives pour out their pain on the page? Writing is said to be cathartic. Anyone who's discovered in front of a worldwide audience that her marriage is a sham could use a little catharsis, if not a little morphine.
The publisher of the Garden State's former first lady is Hyperion Books, a division of The Walt Disney Company. Clearly Disney is no longer strictly in the business of fairy-tale endings.
In a statement, Hyperion Executive Editor Brenda Copeland said, “Like many people, I was impressed with Mrs. McGreevey's grace and fortitude under what were clearly some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable. As I watched the coverage and read Jim McGreevey's speech, I found myself wondering what Mrs. McGreevey was going through—before, during, and after this experience. That's the story I've always wanted to know, and that's the story she has told in 'Silent Partner.'“
Meaning if you want the intimate details, people, pre-order now!
For her part, Matos McGreevey explained, “I've had a lot of requests for interviews and appearances, but thought it best for my daughter and myself to stay out of the public maelstrom. But two years have passed and still I am the subject of much speculation as to the nature of my relationship with my husband. Enough is enough.“
Meaning I'm sick of the media conjecture, now here's my side of the story, and ditto on that intimate details business!
Matos McGreevey will certainly vent in her memoir. The question is how much bile will she aim at her husband for lying and cheating, how much at the media for being relentless, and how much at herself for not detecting the truth.
I don't think money heals wounds, but it can buy some snazzy bandages. Matos McGreevey might well have herself a best seller. After all, her husband did. Personal pain can generate ample profit.
Another woman to have been famously dragged out of her husband's closet lately is Gayle Haggard, spouse of Ted, the meth-using, callboy-buying, gay rights-fighting evangelical pastor from Colorado. Perhaps she'll write a book about discovering her husband's terrible truths and the experience of being in the media glare. She could call it “A Christian Deer in the Headlights.“
Char Barnes, wife of another noted Colorado evangelical pastor who has admitted to gay sex, could then call her own memoir “More Colorado Roadkill.“
While the McGreeveys are sensibly divorcing, the Haggards are trying to preserve their marriage, so I wouldn't be surprised if Gayle actually does pen a book designed to inspire women to fight for their marriage. Later, when Ted falls off the spiritual wagon, she'll have to write the mother of all revisions.
Mike Jones, the then-prostitute with whom Haggard dallied, is really writing a book, which he says will come out in June. With Matos McGreevey's memoir due out the same time, I see a joint book tour. They can both tell Oprah how one person's lie creates a ripple effect, making those around him seasick.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Civil Union Term Squirm
Ever since Vermont rolled out civil unions, I've fretted over terminology. What do you call people who have entered into a civil union?
Now it seems that question is receiving broader exposure. An Associated Press story raised it in light of New Jersey's new civil union law. I'm sure a few straight people who never thought about the matter before reading the story responded, “I know what you get when two fruits join. A smoothie!“
With Vermont, New Jersey and Connecticut offering civil unions, and more states surely to follow, it's high time to nail down the lingo.
I suppose “civilly united“ is accurate. It's just dull. Some people have suggested that if you enter a civil union you're getting “civilized“ or “unionized.“ I like those. Or maybe each member of a civil union should be called a “civilian.“ And the appropriate attire for the event should be “civvies.“
Then again, to join in a civil union could mean you're a “unionist.“ If you're British, you're a “Union Jack.“ Or if you're both pursuing your education, you're a “student union.“
Since we're talking about a civil union and not marriage, if your relationship deteriorates, divorce isn't an option. No, if the state of your union is uncivil, then you need to dissolve your civil union. I believe this process will come to be known as “civil war.“
Or if you discover that in your union there is no strength, then your friends might also tell you it's time for a “union suit.“
The legislative debate in New Jersey focused on language. Lawmakers batted around terms like “spousal partnerships“ and “equal benefits“ before going with civil unions. I'd have been up nights, straining to extract catchy phrases from those clunkers.
Not that I'm so pleased with civil unions, which I believe marginalize us. New Jersey could've decided on the real deal, marriage, and didn't. But civil unions are a mighty step in the right direction, and will be with us for a good while, so it's appropriate for me to wring the heck out of them.
Which brings me to the next question. What do you call the person with whom you've been united in civilhood?
Jersey girl Veronica Hoff told the AP how she refers to her significant thingee. She doesn't use “spouse“ because she and Forest Kairos aren't married, and “partner“ is vague. At home they are each other's “cupcake,“ with “cup“ being an acronym for “civil union partner.“
“It's a cute nickname,“ said Hoff. “But if I introduce her to somebody else as my cupcake, it doesn't have a sense of dignity to it.“
True. I find “jelly donut“ infinitely more dignified.
The phrase “civil union partner“ is an awful mouthful, and as romantic as jock itch. “Legal companion?“ “Partner before the law?“ “Comrade in arms?“
Some couples will go with “wife“ and “husband“ and “spouse,“ because they view their civil union as a marriage, or because their choices are so limited. What else is there, besides “partner?“ You could use “mate,“ but that makes me think of sailors or wildlife. By getting a civil union, you've graduated from “girlfriend“ or “boyfriend,“ and “lover“ or “sweetie“ lack legal gravity.
“Consort?“ “Better half?“ “Meal ticket?“
It's a problem. But it's a good problem to have. A far cry from the day when the only safe term to use was “friend.“
Over ten years ago I met a lesbian who proceeded to introduce me to her “spouse.“ That struck me then, before gay marriage was on the radar, as an impressive, forceful declaration. Today, that word might still be all she needs—or she might be backing it up by waving a legal document under noses every chance she gets.
Now it seems that question is receiving broader exposure. An Associated Press story raised it in light of New Jersey's new civil union law. I'm sure a few straight people who never thought about the matter before reading the story responded, “I know what you get when two fruits join. A smoothie!“
With Vermont, New Jersey and Connecticut offering civil unions, and more states surely to follow, it's high time to nail down the lingo.
I suppose “civilly united“ is accurate. It's just dull. Some people have suggested that if you enter a civil union you're getting “civilized“ or “unionized.“ I like those. Or maybe each member of a civil union should be called a “civilian.“ And the appropriate attire for the event should be “civvies.“
Then again, to join in a civil union could mean you're a “unionist.“ If you're British, you're a “Union Jack.“ Or if you're both pursuing your education, you're a “student union.“
Since we're talking about a civil union and not marriage, if your relationship deteriorates, divorce isn't an option. No, if the state of your union is uncivil, then you need to dissolve your civil union. I believe this process will come to be known as “civil war.“
Or if you discover that in your union there is no strength, then your friends might also tell you it's time for a “union suit.“
The legislative debate in New Jersey focused on language. Lawmakers batted around terms like “spousal partnerships“ and “equal benefits“ before going with civil unions. I'd have been up nights, straining to extract catchy phrases from those clunkers.
Not that I'm so pleased with civil unions, which I believe marginalize us. New Jersey could've decided on the real deal, marriage, and didn't. But civil unions are a mighty step in the right direction, and will be with us for a good while, so it's appropriate for me to wring the heck out of them.
Which brings me to the next question. What do you call the person with whom you've been united in civilhood?
Jersey girl Veronica Hoff told the AP how she refers to her significant thingee. She doesn't use “spouse“ because she and Forest Kairos aren't married, and “partner“ is vague. At home they are each other's “cupcake,“ with “cup“ being an acronym for “civil union partner.“
“It's a cute nickname,“ said Hoff. “But if I introduce her to somebody else as my cupcake, it doesn't have a sense of dignity to it.“
True. I find “jelly donut“ infinitely more dignified.
The phrase “civil union partner“ is an awful mouthful, and as romantic as jock itch. “Legal companion?“ “Partner before the law?“ “Comrade in arms?“
Some couples will go with “wife“ and “husband“ and “spouse,“ because they view their civil union as a marriage, or because their choices are so limited. What else is there, besides “partner?“ You could use “mate,“ but that makes me think of sailors or wildlife. By getting a civil union, you've graduated from “girlfriend“ or “boyfriend,“ and “lover“ or “sweetie“ lack legal gravity.
“Consort?“ “Better half?“ “Meal ticket?“
It's a problem. But it's a good problem to have. A far cry from the day when the only safe term to use was “friend.“
Over ten years ago I met a lesbian who proceeded to introduce me to her “spouse.“ That struck me then, before gay marriage was on the radar, as an impressive, forceful declaration. Today, that word might still be all she needs—or she might be backing it up by waving a legal document under noses every chance she gets.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Clearly Queerly Here
It's just an average Thursday in America. A day chock-full of celebrity homos.
I got the message today, as I went about my usual business, that it's simply impossible for any American not in a coma to deny the existence of LGBT people. In our media- and celebrity-driven culture, out gays are now front and center. Depending on your point of view, they're either an appropriate reminder that gays are everywhere, or a terrifying reminder that gays are everywhere.
Around 9:00 this morning I turned on my computer, and the first tidbit I beheld on my homepage was the news that the verbal sparring between openly gay Rosie O'Donnell and openly ridiculous Donald Trump had expanded to include Barbara Walters.
I can't tell you whether Barbara and Rosie charbroiled Donald on their show "The View," or Donald fricasseed the gals for a reporter. I didn't read the story. Yup, I shirked my duty as a know-it-all. Call it a weakness, but I can take only small doses of celebrity spatting.
My point here is Rosie is an out lesbian. Whether she's an enjoyable entertainer or a loose cannon doesn't matter. She is gay, and no longer cares who knows it. Millions watch her on TV, and millions more read about her in print or on their computers. She's an omnipresent reminder that, in America's daily life, openly queer is here.
Later in the morning, I dragged my carcass to the gym. One truth applicable to such places nationwide is that during the month of January hordes of resolution-makers crowd them in a frenzy of fitness. So I go to my gym when it's quieter, in the late morning.
Another truth is that fitness centers stick televisions in front of treadmills and similar machines that take you nowhere, so going in the morning means viewing morning TV. That means you either watch some egotist of a judge berate missing links, or you watch Ellen.
Everyone, gay or straight, knows Ellen DeGeneres' story of coming out in Time magazine and on her sit-com, the subsequent tanking of her show and relationship, and her rebirth in Hollywood as a daytime talk show queen. After all that drama and publicity, even if Ellen should never again utter the word “Lebanese,“ nobody could forget that she is a lesbian.
I don't know if that thought scares her, but it thrills me. There she is on the tube, entertaining people from Billings to Boca Raton, a fixture on the middlebrow American scene. A female homophobe might vow to turn her off on principle—but then she sees Ellen's guest is that hunky guy from "Lost." Well, maybe this once . . .
"Lost"'s Matthew Fox was on when I began my sweaty jaunt to nowhere, and when I ended it Ellen had started to chat up a new guest, a woman by the name of Martina Navratilova. I'm sure I'm not the only person in America who noticed an out lesbian was interviewing an out lesbian. Never mind the Emmy—this was grounds for a Sapphy.
Later at home, as I ate lunch and flipped channels to find my kind of TV—a cartoon—I stopped dead at the sight of a man in a dress. Then I remembered that the soap "All My Children" had announced a transgender storyline. In the bit I saw, it became clear that the transgender character had angered the resident lesbian. This is so not your mother's soap opera.
By 1:00 in the afternoon I'd stumbled across a batch of real and fictional LGBT people occupying America's time. Boy, these days folks can hate us, but ignoring us requires one heck of an effort.
I got the message today, as I went about my usual business, that it's simply impossible for any American not in a coma to deny the existence of LGBT people. In our media- and celebrity-driven culture, out gays are now front and center. Depending on your point of view, they're either an appropriate reminder that gays are everywhere, or a terrifying reminder that gays are everywhere.
Around 9:00 this morning I turned on my computer, and the first tidbit I beheld on my homepage was the news that the verbal sparring between openly gay Rosie O'Donnell and openly ridiculous Donald Trump had expanded to include Barbara Walters.
I can't tell you whether Barbara and Rosie charbroiled Donald on their show "The View," or Donald fricasseed the gals for a reporter. I didn't read the story. Yup, I shirked my duty as a know-it-all. Call it a weakness, but I can take only small doses of celebrity spatting.
My point here is Rosie is an out lesbian. Whether she's an enjoyable entertainer or a loose cannon doesn't matter. She is gay, and no longer cares who knows it. Millions watch her on TV, and millions more read about her in print or on their computers. She's an omnipresent reminder that, in America's daily life, openly queer is here.
Later in the morning, I dragged my carcass to the gym. One truth applicable to such places nationwide is that during the month of January hordes of resolution-makers crowd them in a frenzy of fitness. So I go to my gym when it's quieter, in the late morning.
Another truth is that fitness centers stick televisions in front of treadmills and similar machines that take you nowhere, so going in the morning means viewing morning TV. That means you either watch some egotist of a judge berate missing links, or you watch Ellen.
Everyone, gay or straight, knows Ellen DeGeneres' story of coming out in Time magazine and on her sit-com, the subsequent tanking of her show and relationship, and her rebirth in Hollywood as a daytime talk show queen. After all that drama and publicity, even if Ellen should never again utter the word “Lebanese,“ nobody could forget that she is a lesbian.
I don't know if that thought scares her, but it thrills me. There she is on the tube, entertaining people from Billings to Boca Raton, a fixture on the middlebrow American scene. A female homophobe might vow to turn her off on principle—but then she sees Ellen's guest is that hunky guy from "Lost." Well, maybe this once . . .
"Lost"'s Matthew Fox was on when I began my sweaty jaunt to nowhere, and when I ended it Ellen had started to chat up a new guest, a woman by the name of Martina Navratilova. I'm sure I'm not the only person in America who noticed an out lesbian was interviewing an out lesbian. Never mind the Emmy—this was grounds for a Sapphy.
Later at home, as I ate lunch and flipped channels to find my kind of TV—a cartoon—I stopped dead at the sight of a man in a dress. Then I remembered that the soap "All My Children" had announced a transgender storyline. In the bit I saw, it became clear that the transgender character had angered the resident lesbian. This is so not your mother's soap opera.
By 1:00 in the afternoon I'd stumbled across a batch of real and fictional LGBT people occupying America's time. Boy, these days folks can hate us, but ignoring us requires one heck of an effort.
Monday, January 1, 2007
A Blast from the Past
The death of former President Gerald Ford has resurrected the name of Oliver “Billy“ Sipple. He's the fellow credited with saving Ford from an assassination attempt. I'm not sure I ever knew Sipple was gay, or that his heroism was his undoing. In fact, you could fill the San Andreas Fault with what I didn't know about him.
No longer. I've studied up on the guy who made it possible for President Ford to reach the stately age of 93.
In one month in 1975, Ford must've felt like a human bull's eye. On Sept. 5, Lynette “Squeaky“ Fromme, a member of the oh-so dysfunctional Charles Manson family, flubbed an attempt to fire at him in Sacramento.
On the 22nd, Ford exited the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, and waved to the crowd of about 3,000 people gathered to see him. Two shots rang out. The first barely missed him. The second angled five feet wide, not because Sara Jane Moore was a lousy shot, but because Billy Sipple had lunged at her as she pulled the trigger.
President Ford, the month of September, the state of California and possessed women did not mix.
Neither, as it turned out, did Sipple and the press. Dying for tidbits about the new national hero, reporters dug. Sipple, according to Wikipedia, wanted no mention of his orientation, as neither his mother nor his employer knew the truth.
Openly gay San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk blabbed. He called Sipple a “gay hero,“ and said his actions “will help break the stereotype of homosexuals.“ Gay lib groups urged the local press to acknowledge Sipple as a gay champion.
I can practically see the bell-bottomed, shaggy-haired clash between what Sipple needed and the community needed. Not exactly a concept stuck in time, is it?
Two days after Sipple deflected Moore's shot, The San Francisco Chronicle ran a piece saying one reason the White House hadn't yet thanked Sipple was he was gay. His mother reacted to the outing by cutting off contact with her boy. His relations with his relations never healed.
Sipple was shocked by the outing, noted 365Gay.com, and stated, “My sexual orientation has nothing at all to do with saving the President's life, just as the color of my eyes or my race has nothing to do with what happened in front of the St. Francis Hotel.“
He took the time-honored American route of suing The Chronicle and other newspapers for invading his privacy. The legal process took the time-honored American route of dragging on until 1984, when he lost for good.
Born in Detroit, Sipple had served as a Marine in Vietnam, where he was wounded. He was then in and out of VA hospitals, apparently suffering both physically and psychologically. After his excruciating brush with celebrity, his physical and mental health plummeted, and he cozied up with booze. He was found dead in his apartment in 1989 at the age of 47. Police said he'd been dead for two weeks.
For him, Sipple's 15 minutes of fame were 16 minutes too many. It seems that military service and probably the closet roughed him up; being a hero finished him off.
His quick action that day aided Ford and the nation, and likely helped the gay reputation, too. But I'll bet Sipple many times wished he'd heeded the words of a famously cheesy song of the day: “Billy, don't be a hero.“
Only 30 people attended his funeral. Now, at least, we can celebrate that Billy Sipple, like Mark Bingham, showed that heroism is a color gay people can wear.
No longer. I've studied up on the guy who made it possible for President Ford to reach the stately age of 93.
In one month in 1975, Ford must've felt like a human bull's eye. On Sept. 5, Lynette “Squeaky“ Fromme, a member of the oh-so dysfunctional Charles Manson family, flubbed an attempt to fire at him in Sacramento.
On the 22nd, Ford exited the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, and waved to the crowd of about 3,000 people gathered to see him. Two shots rang out. The first barely missed him. The second angled five feet wide, not because Sara Jane Moore was a lousy shot, but because Billy Sipple had lunged at her as she pulled the trigger.
President Ford, the month of September, the state of California and possessed women did not mix.
Neither, as it turned out, did Sipple and the press. Dying for tidbits about the new national hero, reporters dug. Sipple, according to Wikipedia, wanted no mention of his orientation, as neither his mother nor his employer knew the truth.
Openly gay San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk blabbed. He called Sipple a “gay hero,“ and said his actions “will help break the stereotype of homosexuals.“ Gay lib groups urged the local press to acknowledge Sipple as a gay champion.
I can practically see the bell-bottomed, shaggy-haired clash between what Sipple needed and the community needed. Not exactly a concept stuck in time, is it?
Two days after Sipple deflected Moore's shot, The San Francisco Chronicle ran a piece saying one reason the White House hadn't yet thanked Sipple was he was gay. His mother reacted to the outing by cutting off contact with her boy. His relations with his relations never healed.
Sipple was shocked by the outing, noted 365Gay.com, and stated, “My sexual orientation has nothing at all to do with saving the President's life, just as the color of my eyes or my race has nothing to do with what happened in front of the St. Francis Hotel.“
He took the time-honored American route of suing The Chronicle and other newspapers for invading his privacy. The legal process took the time-honored American route of dragging on until 1984, when he lost for good.
Born in Detroit, Sipple had served as a Marine in Vietnam, where he was wounded. He was then in and out of VA hospitals, apparently suffering both physically and psychologically. After his excruciating brush with celebrity, his physical and mental health plummeted, and he cozied up with booze. He was found dead in his apartment in 1989 at the age of 47. Police said he'd been dead for two weeks.
For him, Sipple's 15 minutes of fame were 16 minutes too many. It seems that military service and probably the closet roughed him up; being a hero finished him off.
His quick action that day aided Ford and the nation, and likely helped the gay reputation, too. But I'll bet Sipple many times wished he'd heeded the words of a famously cheesy song of the day: “Billy, don't be a hero.“
Only 30 people attended his funeral. Now, at least, we can celebrate that Billy Sipple, like Mark Bingham, showed that heroism is a color gay people can wear.
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