Bad situation yields hope

The resignation of Jim McGreevey was a mix of the familiar and the sensational. Rumors floated over the Internet for hours, first that he would resign, then that he would acknowledge an affair with a man. The governor's press conference was televised nationally. McGreevey came out in front of lights and cameras and a public whose positions on gay rights are in flux.

At the end, commentators were flummoxed. Producers of cable news shows wondered how to book the editor of The (Bergen County) Record and whether there were any good hotels in Trenton. The event was strange, but the words were familiar. On campus benches and over long distance calls from friends, I had heard the apologies for deception, the tremor in the voice, the relief of finally telling the truth. Even in front of the cameras, aware of the maelstrom that would come, McGreevey sounded relieved.

News stories rarely come packaged into bite size portions for the public, a social lesson here, a resignation there. In an ideal world, Jim McGreevey's story would have been about a governor who happened to be gay, an opportunity for all of us to talk about why people who aren't heterosexual aren't that different from those of us who are. But the story had corruption too, a governor who had appointed a lover to an influential position, whose allies had hired prostitutes to bribe adversaries. The impending debate over whether McGreevey should resign immediately would overshadow New Jerseyans' remarkable reaction when their governor came out of the closet.

I knew that reaction would be something to watch when my mother called as the press conference closed. Raised in Catholic schools, I know she cannot help but find my willingness to live with a gay man or my close friendship with a lesbian unnerving. On the phone though, my mother was worried for the governor, whose emotional turmoil was clear. She was sad for his wife, who stood nobly to his side. She was angry that commentators were already speculating about how the political machine would react. Her governor may have acted inappropriately, but for this moment, my mother was willing to treat him as a person and not a politician. New Jerseyans would demonstrate a remarkable ability to do just that in the weeks to come, as the governor's approval rating rose, and citizens from Atlantic City to Weehawken said it didn't matter that the governor was gay.

Watching the story unfold, it was hard not to feel like the public was in this together. We had been deceived, and perhaps even wronged, by an elected official. But we'd also learned that a gay governor looks an awful lot like a straight one, that a woman might convince herself that her husband was heterosexual not for political gain but because she loved him, and that a gay man can be the father of a daughter pretty and charming enough for campaign posters. Liberals often say that knowing someone who is gay is the first step towards eliminating homophobia. Now, we all knew someone who is gay. Our state took a collective breath, expressed our sympathy for what the governor and his family were going through, and moved on to the process of figuring out who would govern and when.

As New Jerseyans returned to school and work, the McGreevey story faded from the headlines, and the presidential election regained the spotlight. We've heard little about gay rights since then, especially from the men who want to lead our country for the next four years. Despite the controversies raging in the U.S. about same-sex marriage and adoption, about being out in the workplace, about a shifting cultural tide, our leaders have had nothing to say on the matter.

Conversations about sexuality can be controversial, touchy, awkward. New Jerseyans know this. But we also know what can come from discussion. Jim McGreevey gave us twenty years of public service, some good, some bad. His greatest gift, though, may be the realization that we are a more open and more tolerant society than we thought we were. Whether he leaves office in November or is forced out before then, this will be his most lasting legacy. Katherine Reilly is a Wilson School major from Short Hills, N.J. You can send email to her at kcreilly@princeton.edu.