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	Coming out in the public eye THERE’S NO DOUBT that the act of coming out as a politician has changed. Nowadays, it’s not nearly as big a deal as it was back in 1975, when Elaine Noble became the first openly gay legislator in the Bay State. "That was the biggest thing to happen ever," recalls Philip Johnston, the chairman of the Massachusetts Democratic Party, who served in the legislature at the time. For many of Noble’s peers, she was the first self-described gay person whom they’d ever met. Which wasn’t exactly positive. "People were not at all used to discussing sexuality," Johnston explains, "let alone homosexuality." Noble, a representative from the Back Bay/Fenway, got a lot of grief from House and Senate members. "There were people who were extremely prejudiced against gay people and thought she was the personification of evil and sin," he says, so much so that some legislators wouldn’t even talk to her. More than a decade later, the topic of gay legislators still seemed taboo. Back in 1987, Arline Isaacson, the co-chair of the Massachusetts Gay and Lesbian Political Caucus, mentioned to a reporter that she knew a number of closeted representatives and senators. Word spread, which prompted a state senator from New Bedford to ban Isaacson from his office because of her transgressions. "He said I should never darken his door again," she recalls, "because I had dared to say there were gay legislators." Today, nearly 30 years after Noble’s coming-out on Beacon Hill, the likelihood that fellow legislators and constituents would shun a lawmaker for revealing his or her sexual orientation seems slim. As Isaacson quips, "The joke on the Hill is ‘Are there any straight legislators left?’" But that’s not to say it’s easy to come out today. Coming out can jeopardize an elected official’s relationship to the electorate. "You cannot predict the reaction of your constituents," says Johnston. "So it takes enormous courage for any politician who is gay or lesbian to come out." Indeed. State Representative Ellen Story of Amherst, who has known that her House colleague Cheryl Rivera is a lesbian for some time, says of Rivera’s coming-out: "I think this was a huge step for Cheryl to take. It was a very brave thing for her to do, and I hope it will help more people have the courage to do the same thing." Former state senator Cheryl Jacques, who publicly came out in 2000 and now heads the national Human Rights Campaign, agrees. "There’s always the fear your district will not support you," she says, although the highest vote for her re-election occurred after she’d come out. "I think Cheryl will experience a similar epiphany. I think she will find that the public is good-hearted and fair, and it will judge her on her merits." — KL

SO WILL RIVERA’S coming-out have any impact on the gay-marriage debate? That, it seems, is an open question. Many State House observers don’t think it will, given the dynamics on display at the constitutional convention thus far. One group of legislators adamantly rejects granting legal recognition of any kind to same-sex relationships, while another group adamantly supports civil-marriage rights to gay and lesbian couples. Somewhere in the middle stands the majority of legislators, who are torn by the issue.

A greater influence over legislators than their openly gay colleagues, observers say, is the mounting pressure from constituents to ban gay marriage and the threat by Governor Mitt Romney, a gay-marriage opponent, to seek Republican challengers to run against Democratic incumbents this election year (see "Race Consciousness," page 20). Still others want to remain in House Speaker Tom Finneran’s good graces and will vote with him on the issue. (Finneran has publicly backed a compromise amendment that would ban gay marriage while allowing for civil unions.) All of which works against gay-marriage supporters. One State House insider believes that too many moderate House and Senate members are taking positions based on fear: "I see legislators so damn scared they’ll lose their jobs or their prestige that they’re willing to do what’s wrong on this issue."

Representative Atkins, too, points to the impassioned speech delivered by Representative Shaun Kelly, a Dalton Republican, on the House floor on February 12, when he invoked Malia’s name in asking his fellow representatives and senators to consider "the gentlewoman from Jamaica Plain." Anyone who heard Kelly’s words or read them in the pages of the dailies would have singled him out as a compelling speaker. During Kelly’s time at the podium, Atkins says, she held Malia, who was so overcome that "she was shaking and crying." Yet even his heartfelt tribute didn’t change too many minds; indeed, only 44 people supported Kelly’s motion to adjourn. Observes Atkins, "I didn’t see how after that speech anyone could have voted against Liz. I didn’t think there was another side to this debate after it, but other legislators did."

Observers question whether Rivera can sway even those legislators who know her best — that is, the ones who make up the Western Mass delegation, which is currently split on the topic. Tom Vannah, the editor of the Valley Advocate, the alternative weekly in Springfield, is skeptical. For one thing, House members such as Christopher Asselin of Springfield and Stephen Buoniconti of West Springfield are voting in line with the Catholic Church, as they have on similar issues in the past. Others, like Tom Petrolati of Ludlow or Gale Candaras of Wilbraham — two of the House’s floor leaders — are standing behind Finneran. "It’s a political reality that Western Mass politicians need to be in good favor with the Boston leadership," Vannah says. "So they’ll care more about their own reputations and inside baseball" than about Rivera.

Even Rivera doubts that her public coming-out will affect her Springfield-area colleagues, all of whom already knew of her homosexuality. Although she’s preparing a House-floor speech for the March 11 constitutional convention and plans to reach out to individual reps, she doesn’t seem optimistic. In her words, "I just don’t have enough to dangle in front of them."

Then again, Rivera may be underestimating the power of "showing up," as Cheryl Jacques puts it. Jacques, who now heads the Human Rights Campaign, a gay-advocacy group in Washington, DC, came out four years ago while serving as Needham’s state senator. Politicians who come out publicly can have an enormous influence on their colleagues — with whom they interact daily. When Jacques came out in 2000, many of her fellow senators had already known. But for some, Jacques says, "it just never crossed their mind that a colleague could be a homosexual." Over the years, she rarely passed up an opportunity to educate her peers about the discrimination gay and lesbian couples must battle. When the legislature considered a similar anti-gay constitutional amendment in July 2002, she says, "I had colleagues approach me and say, ‘I voted against that because of you. I understand what discrimination means now.’"

When legislators reconvene the constitutional convention next month, they’ll have to deal with the fact that they’re going to hurt not two, but three openly gay legislators if they pass an amendment banning same-sex marriage. The fact that Rivera has put yet another personal face on this debate can only help. Now, any legislator tempted to vote for a measure shutting out same-sex couples from civil marriage has to look Rivera, along with Malia and Barrios, in the eye. "They have to deal with the painful reality that it’s their friends’ rights they’re taking away," Isaacson says, rather than some faceless group of people who may fit stereotypes. "It’s always harder to render an injustice to those who you like."

IRONICALLY, THE opposite dynamic may ultimately shift the debate: it may be heterosexual legislators’ actions that have a lasting impact on homosexual legislators. One with unintended consequences. Take Rivera, for instance, who has adopted a very low-key approach to talking about her sexual orientation throughout her career and still does today. She insists that her public coming-out is not a big deal. In fact, she says that she didn’t even come out at all because she was already out. It’s true that people who know Rivera well — from fellow legislators to friends to family members — know that she’s a lesbian. She has never tried to hide her homosexuality from anyone; in fact, she’d been open enough to bring her former partner of seven years on trips she’d taken with other lawmakers. At the same time, however, she has never made her homosexuality plain to constituents and colleagues. For instance, she acknowledges that before February 12, she had never identified herself as a lesbian in front of a crowd. She had never described herself as "openly gay" in campaign literature or stump speeches. Although she hasn’t tried to hide the fact that she is gay — "If someone were to come up to me and ask, I would tell him," she says — she has understated her homosexuality because she doesn’t want to be perceived as merely a lesbian. "I campaign as Cheryl Rivera," she explains, "someone who will represent all constituents."

But throughout the convention, Rivera came to see legislators who oppose same-sex marriage differently. Over the course of those two days, Rivera says, colleagues who had known about her sexual orientation kept approaching her in the House lounge. One legislator who voted for the anti-gay amendment sympathetically remarked, "This must be hard for you." Another said, "Jeez, Cheryl, it’s nothing personal." Still another told her, "You understand, Cheryl, this isn’t about you." At first, Rivera didn’t respond. But the remarks began to grate on her. "I thought, ‘No, I don’t understand,’" she recalls. "They can ask me for support on a budget line item, and I’m good enough for that. Yet I’m not good enough to choose a partner who I love?" When one House member who voted to ban same-sex marriage asked Rivera if she "still loves me," she responded: "Yes, I love you. But why don’t you love me?"

By then, Rivera had had enough. She grew fed up with what she calls "the ignorance" about homosexuality. Hours later, she made her sexual orientation plain to the public — for all the world to see.

Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com