The final score on Prop 8 last November was: 7,001,084 aye, 6,401,082 nay. That's 600,000 votes short of the brass ring. 48%. And getting from 48 to 50 will be a bitch. Ask any policy wonk.
Truth to tell, 48% may be the high water mark. 48 may be as good as it's ever going to get. Let's crunch some numbers. In the last election, the whites split about 50-50, maybe 48-52 against Prop 8. It was among the Hispanics and the Afro-Americans where you had the big pro-Prop 8 percentages. Strange how homosexuals think of Latinos and Afro-Americans as their natural allies. As brothers and sisters in a common bond of oppression. Just another one of their fairy tales, I guess.
Looking to the immediate future, looking to kick off the post-Prop 8 season on something of a high note (and to get everyone's eye on the prize, I guess), California homosexual activists have some special events planned. One is called "Meet in the Middle" and it consists of a rally/demonstration/happening/whatever in Fresno, of all places.
Why Fresno? First of all, Fresno is in the Central Valley, at the geographical center of California. Middle, get it? Secondly, the Central Valley is California's "Bible Belt" and Fresno is the buckle.
Speaking of Bibles... Homosexual advocacy groups went to great lengths to blame the Mormons for Prop 8's success. And it's easy to blame the Mormons, easy to make them the bogeyman. Easy because Mormons don't hit back.
Fact is, the Mormons are a small cult with minimal clout. How minimal? They don't even control Salt Lake City anymore. The last SLC Mayor, Rocky Anderson, was about as gay-friendly as you can get. Nevertheless, California gays persisted in hammering home the fiction that it was Mormon gold and Mormon lies that turned the tide.
When in fact, the truth all along was Latino and Afro-American voters were the ones who did the damage. That's the truth, but truth is never the object when you've been kicked to the curb and you're looking for people to blame. So in the aftermath of Prop 8, you saw these massive angry gay photo-ops at the Mormon tabernacle in Westwood Village, but nary a peep of protest outside any of the Afro-American churches in South LA or outside any of the Pentecostal iglesias in the barrio.
But happily, the chickens are about to come home to roost. Because there's one other thing I forgot to mention about Fresno. It has a big, big Latino population.
Stay tuned. Should be interesting.
Note: regarding the "bite my pillow" bit. Watch this:
The Miyakes aren't our right-now neighbors. They were our neighbors when I was born, sixty-five years ago. By "our," I mean the Andersens.
So before I talk about the Miyakes (pronounced Mee-YAH-key), I better say something about the Andersens.
The Andersens were Danish farmers in California's Central Valley. Vineyards. Family farms. Grapes of Wrath. Where I grew up, there were a lot of Danes. A huge amount of Danes. A whole gaggle of Danes. And---trust me, this is going somewhere---in our family, there was always the story of Papa. Papa, Hans Peter Andersen, was my grandfather. He died at age 92. Blind for half his life. Came to America at age 17. Ellis Island, then on to Wisconsin, North Dakota and California. Now bear in mind Papa was an orphan. And orphan back then was a euphemism for having been born out of wedlock. And that was true of Papa. But Papa was a very special orphan. In fact, he was about as special as you can get and still be an orphan. For the family oral history has it that Papa's father was none other than the great Hans Christian himself. The mother, a lady of the Portuguese persuasion. Probably a groupie.
Hans Christian Andersen was, in his day, famous for his novels and travelogues and fairy tales. And he certainly did travel to Portugal and write wittily of his stay there. Alas, nothing about making the two-backed beastie with the fair Teresa......or was it Carmen......Rossetta maybe? Ah well. As the Johnny Cash song has it, I'll Never Forget What's Her Name.
So that's where Papa came from.
He named his first-born after the great writer, even though the great writer wasn't "great" enough to acknowledge him.
And that is how my my dad came to be called Hans Christian Andersen. Except, my dad was Hans Christian Andersen the farmer.
Which brings us to the Miyakes. They lived the next vineyard over on the corner of Cherry and Adams. It was a big family.
There was old Mister Miyake.
There was his wife, Umeyo, and their boys, Shigeto, Masato, Tsumoru, Kiyomi and Tadao. There was a daughter named Kimiko.
1941 happened and they were sent to a camp in Arkansas. There wasn't much time to get ready to leave. It was "Hans, will you take care of our place?" and "Of course I will."
I was born in the Miyake house. Here I am in my crib.
The Miyakes were in Arkansas from 1942 to 1945. The camp there was set out in numbered blocks. The Miyakes lived in Block 26. The Miyake boys joined the army. Here's the Block 26 list of volunteers:
In 1945, Mom and Dad got a letter from Kimiko. Mom saved it. Here it is...
As I grew up, the Miyakes were always nice to me. And they always told me what a fine man Hans Christian Andersen was. I didn't understand then what they meant. But I do now.
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