Madam Speaker, I am proud to be a gay man in Congress. I stand here as living proof that the long arc of history bends toward LGBTQ equality. I am the first Latino and Black LGBTQ Member of Congress, and I proudly serve as vice chair of…
Madam Speaker, I am proud to be a gay man in Congress. I stand here as living proof that the long arc of history bends toward LGBTQ equality.
I am the first Latino and Black LGBTQ Member of Congress, and I proudly serve as vice chair of the Homeland Security Committee.
Back in the 1950s, President Eisenhower issued an executive order declaring people like me to be a threat to homeland security. Out of his executive order came the ``lavender scare,'' the systematic purge of gay people from the ranks of Federal employment.
So the LGBTQ experience in America is as much about pain as it is about pride. We have seen the lives and livelihoods of untold numbers of people ravaged by homophobia.
I wish to speak about one of those people, Walter Jenkins, who served honorably during the Johnson administration, in a time of national turmoil, only to have his brilliant career cut short by homophobia.
On October 15, 1964, a columnist named William White wrote a tribute to Mr. Jenkins. It was so poignantly and eloquently written that it bears reading on the House floor, and so read it, I will.
The title is, ``A Graveyard Marked Despair.''
A human tragedy of measureless pathos, a tragedy to tear
the heart as few things have ever done in my 50-odd years of
rather urgent living is the story of Walter Jenkins.
It is too early to say what effects there may be from
Jenkins' resignation, as one of the special White House
assistants, in dreadful circumstances involving his arrest on
disorderly conduct charges. Nor does this columnist now
concern himself in the slightest way with this question. When
one sees a friend bury a lost career, common humanity
requires at least a brief wait at a graveside marked despair
before reckoning up who else has gained or lost what.
The present purpose has nothing to do with partisanship or
even with politics in general. It is simply to stand as a
human being with Walter Jenkins, to make one man's testimony
to Walter Jenkins, in an hour for him and his wife and his
six children of a sorrow and horror that has come to few even
in the harsh profession to which he has given his life.
I have just come from the hospital room of Walter Jenkins.
It is a scene that will burn forever in the memory of one
whose own profession as a correspondent has caused him to see
much of human suffering--the death of so many in battle, the
death of hope for so many others.
Walter Jenkins I have known for 20 years. Walter Jenkins I
saluted in print when he became President Johnson's assistant
upon Mr. Johnson's accession to the White House after another
tragedy just short of 12 months ago. I said then of Walter
Jenkins that he was one of the most honorable, most
conscientious, and most truly moral men I ever knew. I repeat
the statement today--every word of it.
For the Walter Jenkins I now see in this time of trouble is
a Walter Jenkins broken at last under the terrible pressures
it has been my sad lot to observe in life. I do not know
precisely what in this shattered state he may have done or
not done. I have not asked him; and I do not intend to ask
him.
But this I do know if I have any human judgment at all:
Here is a man long suffering from combat fatigue as surely as
any man ever suffered in battle; and of that kind of combat
fatigue I have seen plenty, too. At the hospital I told this
to his doctor. The doctor replied softly, ``Yes, you are
right. Except that for this kind of combat fatigue, they give
no medals.''
When President Johnson came to power, in a frightened and
divided Nation, suffering the shock of the assassination of
John F. Kennedy, he put all his enormous heart and energies
into reuniting the Nation and keeping its ancient institution
going on, levelly and unafraid. So did Walter Jenkins to the
last extent of his own talents and his own strength.
It was not easy for any of the Johnson people. They had
their sophisticated sniping detractors--behind their backs
within the Democratic Party as well as in front of them among
their natural and proper Republican opposition. Jenkins
became, next to the
President himself, the chief whipping boy. Totally dedicated,
tolerant and forgiving beyond ready belief, he patiently
worked his 15-hour day, his 7-day week, while the biters
bit--and bit and bit--at him.
As month after month wore on, Jenkins developed a red and
frightening flush that told even a layman of a dangerously
high blood pressure. But, like the President, he never called
for either the medic or the chaplain, as they used to say in
the Army. There was work to be done--and for at least 15
years--long before the White House days--he had worked far
too hard.
Finally, he reached that point of utter physical and
nervous and emotional exhaustion which will at the end, break
any man of any size. So now he is broken. So now they say
this and that of him. But the actions--actual or only
alleged, true or trumped up--of men broken in battle are not
held against them by civilized men.
So, there is, at last, this to say. For 46 years Walter
Jenkins has lived a life of decency, of high public service,
of courage, of honor and devotion. If there has in fact been
a slip, it has not been from the real, the true, Walter
Jenkins. It has been from the shattered man--the man who has
known no rest but now must have rest to regain his true self.
Let he who wishes cast the first stone. But any man who
tries to make capital of this man's tragedy will forever
lessen himself in the eyes of a judgment that is infinitely
more important than a mere political judgment--the judgment
of decent humankind.