E-Mail This Article to a Friend Then there were three Now that she’s the third openly gay legislator on Beacon Hill, Cheryl Rivera is learning that coming out can have some surprising political ramifications BY KRISTEN LOMBARDI
	Who is Cheryl Rivera? MY JOB IS not to tell you about my personal life," says three-term state representative Cheryl Rivera of Springfield. Rivera publicly came out as a lesbian near the end of the February 12 constitutional convention, where several amendments that would have banned same-sex marriage were debated. When asked if she has a partner, Rivera says she recently ended a seven-year relationship. But she quickly changes the subject, adding, "I’d rather not get into it." Later, in a moment of candor, she hints at the complexities of coming out for politicians: "It’s not easy because of society and the hurt inflicted upon gay people," she says. "Everyone has to struggle and sort out where they are and where they want to be." The 40-year-old legislator is no stranger to prejudice — in fact, she grew up in an interracial family, with an Irish Catholic mother and a Puerto Rican father. A lawyer by training, politics also runs in her blood — one of her great-grandfathers served as a state representative, while the other was mayor of Springfield. Since her election to the House in 1999, she’s grown popular among constituents and colleagues. Says State Representative Ellen Story of Amherst, "Cheryl is friendly, good-natured, and energetic. She’s well-loved in her district and among the Western Mass delegation." At home, Rivera has made a name for herself by working hard for her district, according to Tom Vannah, editor of the Springfield alternative weekly the Valley Advocate. "Her big positive is constituent services," he says. Meanwhile, at the State House, she’s gained a reputation as a steady presence who doesn’t grandstand on the issues. To date, her biggest crusade has been her fierce opposition to methadone clinics, which she regards as drug magnets for poor neighborhoods. Rivera’s stellar reputation notwithstanding, she has just joined an exceedingly small minority on the Hill, where the three openly gay legislators constitute less than two percent of the 200-member legislature. And reaction to her sexual orientation remains unpredictable, especially among her constituents. Vannah characterizes Springfield as a socially repressed place, "as you would expect from a city that has a number of healthy strip clubs." Rivera’s district, in particular, comprises primarily conservative Catholics and Latinos. It’s poor, disenfranchised, and, he explains, "united by a sense of their disenfranchisement." Rivera’s mother, Barbara, has been a long-time activist in the Latino community, which has learned to push reform in small steps. Says Vannah, "I’m not surprised that Cheryl has played this guardedly. I think there is fear with Cheryl on how this will play at home." Although he believes the political repercussions aren’t as great as anticipated, he recognizes the "tendency among lawmakers to believe there will be a Texas-style backlash to even talking about gay issues." If Rivera is concerned about how the news plays back home, she doesn’t show it. Most of her constituents, she insists, will find her sexual orientation irrelevant because they have come to "absolutely trust me" over the years. "I’m a good representative," she says, and that isn’t going to change just because she’s made it clear that she’s a lesbian. On the same-sex-marriage front, her district seems evenly split, much like the rest of Massachusetts. Maybe now, she says, "Voters will understand my position better. They may understand what it means to be gay better." Her only concern is how people will perceive her votes against the three proposed constitutional amendments: "I don’t want people to think it’s self-serving, like I voted that way because I stand to benefit. I would have voted this way even if I were straight." — Kristen Lombardi

IT’S ONE OF the most interesting stories to emerge from the legislature’s constitutional convention earlier this month, yet almost no one knows about it: State Representative Cheryl Rivera of Springfield was so caught up in the emotional drama of the State House debate over same-sex marriage that she came out publicly for the first time. Bay Windows broke the news in last week’s edition, but placed the story on page 16 of its news section. (Editor Andrew Rapp explains that the article ran "as a sidebar to our main story on the constitutional convention," which appeared on the front page. "It’s not like we decided to bury the story," he says. "We decided to run it as a sidebar because that was the best way to convey the importance of what Cheryl was saying while keeping focus on the big story of the week.")

Nonetheless, as I reported this story — what the impact of Rivera’s revelation would be on Beacon Hill — I found myself in the unusual position of spreading the news merely by calling around for reaction to it. One legislative aide who has been closely involved in the pro-gay-marriage effort hadn’t even heard about Rivera’s spontaneous coming-out. "No one at the State House has said anything about it," the aide said. I also learned, by speaking to some of Rivera’s colleagues, like State Representatives Ellen Story of Amherst and Cory Atkins of Concord, that the fact that Rivera is a lesbian is old news to many legislators. Meanwhile, when asked what prompted her public coming-out, Rivera herself responded by laughing it off. "It’s so funny you say that. I’ve never been inside [the closet] really," she insists. Yet the fact remains that Rivera had never before disclosed her sexual orientation in a public forum. So she may have been out to some, but she wasn’t out to many. (See "Who Is Cheryl Rivera?", this page.)

All of which points to one of the biggest complications of the civil-rights battle for gay men and lesbians: it’s extremely personal. When women fought in the early 1900s for the right to vote, they did not have to explain that they were women, and then clarify what that meant. Nor did African-Americans during the civil-rights struggles of the 1950s and ’60s. Yet gay men and lesbians not only have to prove that they do, indeed, exist in the face of anti-gay proponents who insist that homosexuality is a myth (see "Right Angle," News and Features, February 20), but they have to explain what it means to be gay. And they do it one by one, face to face, over and over again, throughout their lives. Because the job of coming out is never over. There’s always a new job or a new colleague or a new neighbor or your sister’s new boyfriend to face. And if you’re a politician, there’s always the public.

RIVERA DID NOT intend to come out to the crowd of gay-marriage supporters clogging the hallways outside the House chamber, where legislators were debating the gay-marriage issue. But she couldn’t help herself. Toward the end of the emotionally exhausting 12-hour constitutional convention on February 12, Rivera and several of her colleagues waded into the pro-gay-marriage crowd that had been singing patriotic songs like "God Bless America" for hours. People were clapping, the floor was vibrating, the mood — in the words of one gay activist — "was electric." Activists chanted, "Thank you" to pro-gay-marriage legislators who stepped out into the hallway; some of the legislators were so moved by the scene that they wept.

"The moment was phenomenal," recalls Atkins. "I walked on air for two days. It was so loving, so positive, so everything you were brought up to believe about politics."

For Rivera, the scene was equally inspirational. The crowd’s energy made her feel "proud to be a woman who is able to fall in love with another woman, and that’s a feeling I haven’t gotten publicly too many times in my life." When she walked into the crowd with Atkins, she listened as Atkins introduced herself. Then Atkins turned to Rivera and urged her to do the same. "I thought, ‘I don’t have to get to know these people. They’re gay. They’re my people,’" Rivera recalls. And so she said, "I don’t have to introduce myself, Cory. I’m gay." Bay Windows reporter Laura Kiritsy heard Rivera’s declaration and reported it, which is the only reason we now know that there is a third openly gay legislator on Beacon Hill along with State Representative Liz Malia of Jamaica Plain and State Senator Jarrett Barrios of Cambridge.

So is it a big deal? Yes. "If all the gay legislators in the House and Senate came out, we would win this vote easily. There are tons more than just three," says Arline Isaacson, the co-chair of the Massachusetts Gay and Lesbian Political Caucus (MGLPC), who has lobbied for gay rights on Beacon Hill for more than two decades and who pointedly notes that she isn’t about to start naming names. Which, of course, gets to the heart of why this civil-rights struggle is so difficult. Coming out, even in liberal Massachusetts, is still a difficult and deeply personal event (see "Coming Out in the Public Eye," next page). And the media, fellow politicians, and most activists observe a code of silence when it comes to a politician’s sexual orientation. That was evident in the reporting of this story when at least one legislator and one gay activist contacted Rivera to seek her permission before speaking with me.

The only time this code is broken is when the closeted politician acts in a way that is anti-gay. But then, the story isn’t about the politician’s sexual orientation; rather, it’s about his or her perceived hypocrisy. Which is how Arizona congressman Jim Kolbe came out. He voted in favor of the 1996 Defense of Marriage Act and the Advocate, a national gay newsweekly, promptly outed him. As to whether any closeted pols on Beacon Hill are supporting amending the state constitution to ban gay marriage, no one is saying. If nothing else, people’s sensitivity to the issue merely proves that Rivera’s public coming-out is, indeed, a big deal. Even if, as of this writing, almost no one is talking about it.