From the Mar 11 – Mar 17, 2004 issue

News

The Advocate

Righting Seattle and Writing About Seattle

by Amy Jenniges

By Sunday evening, in the dairy aisle at Whole Foods, my girlfriend Sonia was pushing the cart and giving me a frosty look of utter annoyance. Earlier, back home, I hadn't helped write the grocery list (I'd been too busy cutting up poster board), and now I was fidgeting with my cell phone. Sonia had done all the shopping, because once we'd gotten to the store, I'd spent most of the time outside making calls and leaving voice mails about bullhorns. At that very moment, I couldn't find our car keys.

I wasn't thinking about the keys, though. I was too concerned that my phone wasn't getting reception by the eggs and yogurt. "What's the matter?" I asked Sonia, while fiddling with cell phone buttons. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Before she could answer, I was racing to the reception-friendly produce aisle to sneak another call. I was supposed to meet a TV reporter to talk about tomorrow's protest, and I still wasn't sure where to find that bullhorn. Without it, the protest would be a disaster.

It's no wonder Sonia was annoyed. Usually, I'm only vaguely irritating, as I obsess about obscure city ordinances, land-use code, and community newsletters for the stories I pen as the neighborhood reporter. However, I'd been on my phone all weekend, both reporting on and organizing this protest.

How'd I end up in this dubious role? It started when the story I was following--gay marriage--became an obsession, and I collared Sonia to go with me to the county building to ask for a marriage license. The county clerks turned us down, of course. (There's a Defense of Marriage Act in Washington.) But, worse, they said we were the first gay couple to apply for a license there in the wake of all the gay civil disobedience in San Francisco. The first?! People in Chicago and New York City--two cities where same-sex marriages are banned--were demanding marriage licenses by the dozen, but Seattle, apparently, had been silent.

I was disappointed both as a reporter and as someone in a serious same-sex relationship. After watching a huge national story rage coast to coast, I was mad nothing was happening locally. I was also mad at Seattle's political leaders. Liberal county executive Ron Sims, for example, said he supported gay marriage, but he wasn't doing much to help, even though he had authority to issue licenses. And local gay leaders were taking a go-slow approach.

I was clearly feeling impatient when I waded into the world of advocacy journalism and published a challenge asking someone--anyone--to launch a fricking protest.

A guy named Brian Peters took it up. He'd seen the blurb while getting his morning coffee. He'd never organized a march before, so he called me asking for advice and I wound up helping. It was weird organizing a march that I knew I'd be covering as a reporter. But I'd put the challenge out there. And as my colleagues can attest--based on my meticulous e-mail filtering system and color-coded files--I'm pretty good at organizing. I couldn't leave Brian hanging.

Shedding my inhibitions about organizing a newsworthy event, I segued into overdrive. Brian and I already had each other on speed dial as we nailed down details: He talked to the police about the route. I tracked down the neon poster board and brainstormed media sound bites to feed to other reporters. Sunday night--after the meltdown at Whole Foods--Brian and I did a TV interview.

Right before the protest, we were hearing good news. Mayor Greg Nickels announced an order recognizing gay marriage, and rumors about a lawsuit challenging the state's anti-gay-marriage law were rampant.

Brian and I got to Capitol Hill's Espresso Vivace early Monday and were greeted by early-bird protesters fueling up on coffee. Brian figured out how to work the bullhorn. (I'd finally found one, decorated with Burning Man stickers, by combing through my newsroom Rolodex under "A," for activists and artists.)

At kickoff time, I put down my protest signs and pulled out my reporter's notebook, prompting a puzzled look from my former Seattle University journalism prof who had just joined our crowd, now numbering 300. By the time we got downtown and 35 couples had righteously asked for licenses, I knew my former prof wasn't disappointed that I had shelved the objective journalism principles he'd taught me a few years back. The point of journalism is to make the world a better place, and Brian and I seemed to be doing our part.

amy@thestranger.com