“Live and Let Live”

We can’t seem to get it right.

Aside from the racial divisiveness provoked by America’s disgrace of a president, a recent drama in one of the Medium Facebook groups started the wheels turning about another incendiary topic: Why do we care how someone chooses to identify themselves in regard to gender, or what their sexual preferences are?

What is is about others’ sexuality that we find so riveting? (And please note, as apparently I need to make this known: Throughout this piece, I’m using the word “we” in a figurative sense.)

My view on how humans should interact with one another is admittedly, naïve. We all — or so I’ve always believed — just want to be happy. To be happy and at peace with ourselves in this all-too-short and ridiculous life we lead.

Are you happy? I don’t feel particularly happy. Today, anyway. So why can’t you and I help one another achieve this most basic of human needs? We’re all in this together, wouldn’t you agree? At the end of the day, we want to sit down, enjoy a glass of wine, hug our partners our kids and our pets and feel that we did the best we could and that “tomorrow is another day.” Another chance to chase the rainbow.

Hell, no. We’re not in this together. Because if we were, we wouldn’t give a damn that Ted Peterson now wants to identify as Theodora Peterson. Even better: If we were pulling for one another, like we should, we’d be happy that Theodora finally found out who she is and has the courage to show the world her true self. Maybe we’re jealous when someone else actually knows who they are down to their soul. Most of us fear that particular confrontation.

As to sexual preference, why should we give a fiddler’s fart if Susan Jones chooses to make love with women, instead of men, if a woman’s softness and curves are what appeal to her? What makes this wrong?

(Side note: I’ve just been told that “chooses” is not the correct terminology here by someone who apparently knows it all. “Prefers” is also frowned upon. Mea culpa.)

It’s not wrong. Love is love. And it’s fucking hard enough to find it. So why can’t we just shut the hell up and be happy for Susan?

We are bizarrely prurient in our need to know what goes on in someone else’s bedroom, on top of their kitchen table or in the back seat of their car. If we could become invisible, we’d be crouched outside their window, sweaty palms grasping the sill, as goggle-eyed, we watch every stroke, every fuck, every suck.

We love it. We want to know. We need to know.

I love sex. I love to have it, read about it, talk about it. But I don’t care who’s doing who and why. If two consenting adults get off by peeing on one another, hey, it’s their mess to clean up.

I’m not religious. I never received any religious instruction growing up as my Italian mother and Jewish father didn’t “walk the walk,” themselves. But I’m sufficiently spiritual to believe that if there is or was a Jesus, he or she wouldn’t give a shit about who’s fucking who. Nor would he or she be turned off by the LGBTQ community. In fact, I think Jesus would raise a fist, toss them a couple of fish and a basket of loaves, and shout, “Go for it.”

As stated, I’ve never had any religious training, nor have I read the Bible, but even so, I’ve picked up a couple of things and one of them is the notion that “Jesus is love.” A love with no boundaries.

From politicians to family members to roommates, the topic of sexuality inspires more fiery public debate than the state of our economy. It’s sexy, after all! That’s right: Talking about sex is sexy, my friends.

I felt the heat of that fire firsthand the other day. And I wasn’t happy about it. But, it inspired this story along with the sinking feeling that people aren’t going to change anytime soon. As time marches on, we’ll still be fighting one another and indulging in petty name-calling like kids in a schoolyard.

“Faggot!” “Dyke!” “Switch-Hitter!” “Carpet Muncher!” “Ass Bandit!” “Sodomite” “Deviant” “Pervert”

Here’s a thought: If someone isn’t “straight,” does that mean they’re “crooked?” Is that the implication, that they’ve sort of strayed from the beaten path? Interesting.

So many names for people who, for the most part, merely want to “live and let live.” Do you think we’ll ever figure it out? Realize that one day, we’re all going to be dust, and that to expend the precious time given us on hatred and intolerance is a sacrilege?

There’s a line from a 2003 British film called The Mother that I can’t get out of my head:

“Dear God. Please let us be alive before we die.”

Yes. Please. Any way we can.

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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