Authors: Fay Jacobs
Time Fries! (7 page)
I apologize in advance, because this column is not going to be the least bit funny.
It's about shock, sadness, some understandable complacency, perhaps a premature victory lap and the specter of a man riding around with a white sheet on his head.
The phone rang several hours ago and a man asked for me by name.
“I'm Fay Jacobs,” I said.
He asked if I was the one who wrote the letter to the editor using the term “traditional family values” being code for anti-gay. It was the letter about the Mayor, he said.
I knew exactly what letter it was. It was one in which I expressed disappointment that in the
Washington Blade
, Rehoboth's Mayor Cooper was quoted as wanting to keep “establishments from spoiling Rehoboth's status and tradition as a family-oriented vacation destination.” I don't even think the Mayor meant it as anti-gay. I think it was meant to express his concern about loud music and noisy bars. But I did want to make the point that “family-oriented” is often used as code for anti-gay and we should be past having the Mayor use the coded phrase, however inadvertently, when discussing Rehoboth Beach.
I told the caller that I wrote that letter, and he began explaining, rather quietly, that I was an enemy of the United States for pushing the homosexual agenda, demeaning the tradition of one man and one woman and how dare I demean family values.
“You are a disgusting person who, along with all the homosexuals in town, ruined Rehoboth Beach. I am going to do everything within my power to protect my children from the likes of you and those disgusting homosexuals in Rehoboth, even the ones who think that they have won their rights and
convinced some politicians to put forth the dangerous homosexual agenda.”
I was so stunned I couldn't even hang up. I quietly asked him his name and, of course, he refused to give it to me, and continued with his scary, quiet conversation that so frightened me I almost threw up.
I asked if he lived here and he intimated that he did. He just kept talking and I don't remember much of what else he said, because I was numb.
I asked him why, since I was proud to share my views in a public forum like a “Letters to the Editor” column, he did not answer my letter with his own views, attributed to him, in the newspaper. He told me he just wanted to talk to me personally so I would understand that this will not be tolerated. I told him that calling anonymously was cowardice.
I also told him I felt very sad that his gay neighbors frightened him so badly that he had to seek me out on the phone to call me names anonymously and denigrate me and so many, many other Rehoboth residents as well.
He protested that he wasn't frightened and I shouldn't think that gay people in Rehoboth have gotten away with anythingâthat there are people out there that won't let this town be destroyed by sick homosexuals and that we should all seek therapy and try to change. You are an enemy of the United States, he repeated, and you will not win, he was very, very quietly threatening. I said I was sad that he didn't value and learn from the diversity around him, and hung up.
We couldn't get a *69 number as he was a “private caller.” Of course he was.
I called CAMP Rehoboth's Executive Director Steve Elkins and told him what had happened. He was horribly upset as well, counseling that if the man called again, it might be considered stalking, and the police might be able to trace the call. Steve told me that in all the years he has been a public figure with CAMP, he has never had a phone call like that. Anonymous letters, yes, but not a call.
I'd never received anything like this either, even with my more than 20 years as an openly gay writer and gay rights advocate.
So I called the police and reported the incident. The State Trooper I spoke with was very saddened to hear the story and sympathetic, but of course, we both knew there was nothing to be done. The anonymous call itself was not any kind of a crime. Further calls might be considered harassment or stalking and the officer gave me a case number should I hear from the man again. He figured I would not.
Needless to say, the incident set me and Bonnie on edge and ruined the night. But it told me a few important things: First, like Klansmen riding around in their hoods, there are people here who have to hide while spreading their vicious hatred.
Second, some of us, myself included, might be a little too complacent about our freedoms here. It reminded me why CAMP Rehoboth was formed in the first place and why it is so important for CAMP to continue sensitivity training programs, outreach to the greater community, and efforts to make friends and stop bullying, hate-speech, hate crimes and plain old bigotry. Dances and art shows are nice, but CAMP Rehoboth is so much more than the fun stuff.
And finally, this incident, rather than make me cower and hide, makes me more determined than ever to be out, proud and working for equality. There are so many gay people, along with our straight but not narrow allies, who live here, embrace Rehoboth's diversity, and know we are all better for it.
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I was out last night and several people asked me how my publishing company was doing.
“Great!” I said. Then I thought about it. So I decided to write this column as a window into the world of small publishing.
This summer, A&M Books, landed two finalist spots for the ForeWord Reviews' Book of the Year Awards, and my book,
For Frying Out Loud
won in the humor category. I'm thrilled. Not only is the award from a field of thousands of independently published books, but it was in a mainstream, and not just LGBT, category. I love that.
While I'm amazed and honored that the only two books tiny A&M published this year have both been recognized, visions of sugar plum fairies and enormous book sales are not exactly dancing in my head.
It's like my mother's stock answer when, as she was arguing with me, I raised what I deemed to be a valid negotiating point.
“One thing has nothing to do with the other,” she'd say. And after all these years, it seems Mom was right. One thing really has nothing to do with the other.
As A&M Books' publisher I run a teeny tiny independent publishing house (and, as you know, it really is my house). The garage is the Rehoboth book depository, my spouse is fulfillment manager, and my Schnauzers are security.
And, as many readers also know, A&M Books has quite a history. The original owners were Anyda Marchant and Muriel Crawford (hence, A&M). Anyda wrote early lesbian fiction under the name Sarah Aldridge and the women, along with another couple, started Naiad Press in 1973. It became the largest lesbian/feminist publishing house in the world.
In 1995 Anyda and Muriel left Naiad (which is since defunct) to form A&M Books. When these two brilliant and fun women passed away in 2005 (Anyda at 95, Muriel at 93) they left me A&M Books.
All fourteen Sarah Aldridge novels were still in print and still selling, and my first book
As I Lay Fryingâa Rehoboth Beach Memoir
, was heading toward a second printing. A&M was on a roll.
However, the bank account I inherited had about $11 in it. Apparently, one thing had nothing to do with the other.
It's six years later and we got word last spring that our two 2010 books won their respective categories for Delaware Press Association Books of the Year. The winners were my latest book and
The Carousel
, a wonderful contemporary novel by Stefani Deoul.
The Carousel
also just won an IPPY (another independent publishers award) Bronze Medal for LGBT fiction. Fabulous!
In contrast, the A&M bank account is shamefully over-drawn. Once again, one thing has nothing to do with the other. Well, in this case, it might have. I overdrew the account with the check for the Awards ceremony.
Bank fees aside, I'm having a great ride. My first book is in its third printing, having sold about 6,000 copies. Books two and three are doing well. But there are staggering costs of small, small publishing.
No matter the freight, I don't mind shipping books to independent bookstores. I'm happy they are surviving. But Amazon is another story. It's bad enough to pay a couple of bucks each to print the books, but add priority rate postage and Amazon's diabolical habit of ordering one book each for four different warehouses, and it's appalling. Oh, I forgot the $1.14 for the padded envelope. I'm lucky I'm not writing from a padded cell. Amazon stats up, net worth down. One thing has nothing, etc.
So here I sit, two cars turning into rust buckets on the driveway and a garage stacked with towering pallets of books. I'm drowning in sell sheets, backorders, and bubble wrap. My
den is my distribution center, with books four feet high and purchase orders, packing tape, and the ubiquitous bubble wrap filling every available crevasse. In the clutter I can easily lose a Schnauzer. Those Clean House reality show people would take one look and burst into tears.
So, all these awards and good reviews are a great reward. I love that Facebook, blogs, and web pages are lit up with colleagues from other, bigger independent publishers congratulating me along with their own nominated authors.
Equally lit up are the little flashing parenthesis around the numbers on my online bank statement, noting the A&M Books account deficit. Yes, yes, it seems that one thing may have something to do with the other after all.
So how's the book biz coming? I'm having a blast and sometimes all this fun costs more money than the press makes. But what the hell. It's like the classic circus sanitation worker who follows the elephants with a shovel. “Why do you do this dirty work,” he's asked. You know the answer: “What? And give up show biz?”
For me, it's “What, and give up the book biz?” I'm committed to keep shoveling.
Looky here. I just got a purchase order from Amazon for a whopping seven books to be sent to four separate warehouse destinations. I'm going to have a martini now. One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other.