The Good Fight

Love downtown Santa Cruz or hate it, something's always happening. It was six o'clock in the evening; the sky had turned black. Air felt like icewater on the face. On a night like this, smart people should head home from Christmas shopping, or nestle down in a restaurant or club.

And yet pedestrians swirled across the streetscape like leaves in the wind. Shoppers, couples, a crowd of gawky young people gulping pizza from a sidewalk by-the-slice window. Families with children were everywhere, even on the scuzzy end of the street down by the bars and thrift stores and "Meth R Us" scene by the bus station. Careworn travelers humped giant backpacks down the street to God knows where, or huddled in doorways, talking.

And suddenly the other side of the street was crammed with people. They walked an orderly line in the darkness, holding candles in paper cups. Hundreds of them.

What the hell? Fundamentalist Christians come downtown to witness to the sinners? A Take Back the Night march? Anti-war protesters?

I'd know soon enough. They crossed Pacific down by the Salvation Army. The line of twinkling lights turned and marched in my direction.

There were hundreds of them. They were a river. And they were silent. But now I knew what they were marching for:

Bystanders were as quiet as the marchers: a friendly wave here or there; a thumbs-up; a word of encouragement called softly by this person or that.

And the marchers were just folks. That was their most powerful statement, and they didn't have to say a word. Look at us -- we're just folks, like you, and we want to marry. Or we want our sons or daughters or brothers or sisters to marry who they want.

I had to get up the street, but they filled the sidewalk. And the parade went on and on.

So I jumped into the stream of people and marched along with them. Why not? They were good company to be with. And it sometimes makes no sense to stay a bystander. So we walked several blocks together until I peeled off to rendevous with Rhumba at Bad-Ass Coffee.

The right of gays to marry came with the stroke of a pen by Supreme Court justices, through the efforts of a few lawyers. It came too easy, and the gay population and their friends became too complacent. They celebrated; but they didn't stay vigilant, didn't keep working to convince other just how right their cause was.

And the well-funded cultural conservatives waged a campaign of fear and doubt and made enough people nervous enough that Proposition 8 passed, and made same-sex marriage illegal once again.

Still, gays and their supporters should blame no one but themselves. They had let down their guard. They didn't fight hard enough. They said, "It's over."

And now they know it wasn't, and they're out on the street with determination. And this time they will not stop fighting. That silent parade I became part of is not going away. And now the other side, the "sanctity of marriage" conservative Christian crowd, is saying, "It's over. Go home."

But it's not over. It may never be over in our lifetimes. But victory this time will be the sweeter, and more enduring, because it will be hard-fought and hard-won and taken for granted by nobody.

And it will happen. If you had marched in that parade, you'd be sure of it.