Learn From It

“Authentic people,” he said. “That's what they are.”

I smiled, nodded. Not out of politeness or decorum or even mild disagreement, but as a cover for a vague jealousy that the doctor across the table from me had just uttered the single finest description of my parents I had ever heard. I was jealous that I wasn't the one—wordsmith that I fancy myself to be at times—who had devised it.

Cafe Puccini in San Francisco's North Beach is a bright place, almost too bright for comfortable conversation. Walls cross into strange corners, at angles that don't make immediate sense. Or later sense, for that matter. A large and vaguely threatening portrait of Giacomo, the Maestro looms on the only wall big enough to accommodate it. Too-happy Max's Diner-style tables and chairs crowd the floor uncomfortably, but they are plentiful.

We arrived there after a visit to Caffé Sport, my single favorite restaurant on Planet Earth—so far—for a meal of garlicky prawn scampi and even more garlicky pesto. Eduardo was there, as always, grousing that it's been too long since he's seen me. He always does that, whether I'm there 3 times a week or 3 times in a year. No matter the frequency, he feels more like family than most of my cousins—or even nephews, at this point.

Doctor H. has never been to San Francisco before; I had never met Doctor H. until this very evening. It was obvious quickly that he is an impressively kind man, generous of spirit. It was also obvious that he was expecting quite a lot from me, that my parents had boasted generously (too generously?) of their middle son. He came into their lives not very long after I had moved away from my parents' home, so he's known them for a very long time.

Like my parents, he's very Catholic. Like my parents, his faith is important to him. Like my parents, he lives his faith instead of merely preaching its conscious and more contentious elements. He asked about the Catholic Church here in San Francisco, and how the Catholic Church fit or didn't fit into such a lively and progressive and decidedly not-necessarily-Christian place like San Francisco.

“Pragmatism,” I answered. “The Church seems to remain unyielding,” I told him. “A while back, the City required that all organizations that did business with the City—such as Catholic Charities and other social services—provide domestic partner benefits for their employees. The Catholics balked, refused. Eventually, though, they decided to offer benefits to each employee plus one 'dependent', and completely sidestepped the issue altogether. The City got compliance, and the Catholics didn't have to recognize that gay people formed real relationships.”

“Same in Boston,” Doctor H. replied.

“The priests here, however...I expect that because of exposure to gay people day in and day out, in social service to people with AIDS, in just plain being alive in San Francisco, I expect that individual priests are less able to speak in broad condemnations of homosexuality, because they see that it's not so easily pigeonholed.

He nodded, and asked about Sam. And he asked about me, about my job at Apple, then about Sam's school again. I asked him how many kids he had, how long he had known my parents. I let him know how highly they spoke of him. He smiled and suddenly looked 20 years younger.

”It's different here in San Francisco,“ I added. ”Different from, you know, out there. When it comes to same-sex marriages, I see gay people who don't give a damn about ever getting married. I see gay couples who worry that they'll be kept apart if one gets sick or hurt. But mostly I see gay people who just expect to be seen as equal to everyone else in this country. Then I see people out there—Right-wingers—who say we're trying to destroy marriage, that we have some sinister agenda, or that we think we're better than the rest of you and we're trying to co-opt society. How the hell does that happen? I mean, where you live [Boston], has same-sex marriage destroyed anything?“

”The Catholic Church will never get to certain points, you know?“

Not an answer, but also none of the awkward discomfort of an impasse. And it was just about time to call it an evening anyhow.

As I walked him to the corner of Columbus and Green and got him a taxi, Moon River was blaring from overworked speakers outside a different coffeehouse and I remembered how he had described my parents and I smiled again.

”'Authentic people',“ I muttered as I kickstarted the Vespa, and I smiled again. This time because it was just true, no matter who said it.