Tag Archives: Human Dignity

Are You a Friend of Dorothy’s?

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“The truth is, no one of us can be free until everybody is free.”
—Maya Angelou (1928–2014). American poet, author, and civil rights activist whose writings explored identity, dignity, freedom, and the shared humanity of all people.

“Write. Just write.”

That’s what I always tell aspiring writers.

“Write as if this will be your last line and your life depends on it. Or maybe your life after death depends on your last line.”

They stare. They roll their eyes. They purse their lips. They start. They write.

And after they’ve written several pages, I interrupt, knowing the gasps that will follow:

“Ignore the first page or two. Writers often discover their real starting point at the top of page two or three.”

“Ignore it? Throw it away?”

“Yeah, usually. Think of those pages as a warm-up exercise. Think of those pages as a way of finding the starting point.”

Ironically, it’s almost always true, even for seasoned writers. Maybe especially for seasoned writers.

I wish it were true for me. This time. This post.

But it’s not.

There’s no way—there’s just no way—that I’m going to start this post with the line I’d have to start it with if I applied my own advice:

“Are you a friend of Dorothy’s?”

Here’s why I wouldn’t.

I’m betting you’d ask:

“Who’s Dorothy?”

That’s what I asked myself yesterday when I stumbled accidentally upon the question. After I found the answer, I kept wishing I had known about it in the 1950s when I was growing up, wondering how on earth I’d ever recognize someone else like me. Queer.

Let’s face it. The eye contact thing—the looking back to see if he was looking back to see—was a hard if not impossible way to identify a kindred soul. How could I be sure? And I wasn’t about to come out and ask:

“Are you, you know—like me.”

But if I had known about Dorothy, I would have let it slip casually into the conversation:

“And are you a friend of Dorothy’s?”

“Yes” would have moved the conversation far, far away from small talk.

But I didn’t know then that the question was a coded phrase used by the LGBTQ+ community—particularly gay men—throughout the mid-20th century to discreetly identify one another.

Safe. Veiled. No risk. No exposure. No hostility. No legal trouble.

I’m surprised that it took me seventy-eight years to learn about the question and its answer. But I’m not surprised that I did so during Pride Month.

I had been paying close attention to the June headlines.

Some were celebratory. Governor Hochul proclaimed June 2026 LGBTQ+ Pride Month in New York. Orange County recognized Pride Month for the first time. Richmond listed eleven events to check out this June.

Others were not. Indiana’s governor declared Pride Month “Nuclear Family Month.” Republican governors across the country rebranded it with conservative alternatives. Tennessee followed Indiana’s lead. In Pinellas, Pride met “Faith and Family” pushback.

Then came a headline closer to home. It hit hard. Someone I knew shamed their former employer on FB for celebrating Pride Month and used a classic but outlandish propaganda technique: mix a few kernels of truth with a few outdated statistics, several disputed claims, some outright falsehoods, and then present everything under the banner:

“No Pride in Gay Life: THE FACTS.”

It only took me a minute or so to read the FB post. But it took me far longer to process my emotions. Anger. Sadness. Disappointment. Exhaustion. Surprise that it came from—someone I knew.

It took me even longer as I questioned what exactly we’re celebrating in June. Being gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or queer? Hard-won advances that allow millions of people to live more openly than they could a generation ago? Battles that remain to be fought?

They’re not the same things. One is identity: human beings with shared blood pulsing in our veins and with shared hopes living in our hearts. The second is history: yesterday. The third is hope: today and tomorrow.

Suddenly, I realized that when we celebrate Pride Month, June ends and LGBTQ+ people remain marginalized.

Suddenly, I realized that when we celebrate Black History Month, February ends and Black Americans remain marginalized.

Suddenly, I realized that when we celebrate Women’s History Month, March ends and women remain marginalized.

Suddenly, I realized that when we celebrate Native American History Month, November ends and Native Americans remain marginalized.

Suddenly, I realized that we’ve gotten very good at celebrating people we’re still marginalizing.

We can do better.

We can be better.

We must.

I hope I live to see the day when Pride Month never ends.

I hope I live to see the day when Black History month never ends.

I hope I live to see the day when Women’s History Month never ends.

I hope I live to see the day when Native American Month never ends.

I hope I live to see the day when special months never end because we no longer need a special time to remind us that we are special humans every moment of every day of every month—all the time.

A day when dignity is not reserved for June or February or March or November.

A day when respect does not depend upon race, religion, gender, orientation, age, birthplace, wealth, education, politics, or any of the countless labels we use to divide ourselves into tribes.

A day when we stop asking who belongs and start assuming that everyone does.

Come fast the day when we see the person before we see the category.

Come fast the day when our differences invite our curiosity rather than our suspicion.

Come fast the day when no child grows up wondering whether there is anyone else in the world like them.

Come fast the day when we won’t need to ask, “Are you a friend of Dorothy’s?”

A Heads Up about Headlines

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“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
— Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862). American essayist, naturalist, and philosopher whose Walden remains one of literature’s most enduring calls to deliberate, examined living.

I linger long, and I look hard at most things. I used to call it a “close reading” of a text. These days I see it more as a close reading of life. Lately, I’m lingering longer and looking harder, especially at headlines.

The other day, I was startled by the proliferation of headlines announcing Pope Leo XIV’s first encyclical:

● “Pope Leo XIV’s New Warning: He Now Calls for ‘Disarming Artificial Intelligence'”

● “Pope Leo Issues Biblical Warning about the Rise of AI”

● “Pope Leo’s Unsettling Vision of the AI Future”

● “Pope Leo Warns of AI Fueling Warfare”

● “Pope Leo Quotes Gandalf as He Issues Dire Warning about Rise of AI”

I could quote more, but those headlines send out their message clearly.

I was shocked and disappointed to see His Holiness taking a seemingly negative position about an advancement that holds such high hope for helping humanity in ways beyond our ability to help ourselves.

I couldn’t help but wonder what impact the encyclical would have on the world’s 1.4 billion baptized members of the Catholic Church, especially considering the controversial nature of AI.

I paused, hesitant to accept the headlines in front of me. After all, I’m aware that many headlines are generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence. They’re crafted for speed, clicks, and emotional impact. But I also know that a human being still approved those words, still chose the emphasis, and still decided what readers would see first. AI may help write the headline, but humans shape the message.

Also, the Pope’s view of AI—suggested by the headlines—seemed too skewed across a variety of sources.

I kept looking. I landed on different ones with different perspectives:

● “AI Must Serve Humanity”

● “Pope Leo Calls for Ethical Limits on AI”

● “Pope Leo’s ‘Magnifica humanitas’: AI Must Serve Humanity Not Concentrate Power”

I liked these headlines better.

But liking has nothing to do with finding truth.

I knew exactly what I had to do. Go to the source. Read the encyclical for myself.

I did. I read Magnifica humanitas—all of it, roughly 42,000 words.

I could tell you that the overall thrust of the encyclical is that humanity must not surrender its moral, spiritual, political, or relational responsibilities to systems of power—whether technological, economic, or ideological—but must remain deeply committed to human dignity, truth, community, and the common good.

I could tell you that the Pope is ultimately asking not whether technology is advancing, but whether humanity itself is advancing along with it.

I could tell you what I consider to be the encyclical’s top five points:

1. Human dignity must remain at the center of society.

2. Truth matters and must be pursued carefully.

3. Solidarity and the common good require shared responsibility.

4. Technology is powerful but must be guided ethically and politically.

5. Human flourishing depends upon relationships, care, and community.

But since I’m not going to tell you any of those things, I’m not about to tell you that although he didn’t mention Gandalf by name, he quotes one of his famous lines:

“It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.”

The Pope even cites Beethoven’s Ninth as an example of art preserving and expressing humanity’s longing for unity, dignity, and transcendence.

But you didn’t hear it from me. And there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’m going to tell you that the Pope’s recurring question is not whether AI will shape the future—it clearly will—but whether human beings will remain wise, engaged, compassionate, and morally awake enough to shape it in return. Again and again, the encyclical insists that we must not surrender our responsibilities to systems of efficiency, profit, control, or technological inevitability. Human beings must remain active participants in deciding how these tools are designed, governed, regulated, and used.

And since I’m not telling you those things, I won’t tell you that the encyclical is far less a rejection of technology than a call for moral vigilance and human stewardship. The Pope repeatedly acknowledges the remarkable promise of technological innovation, including AI, while warning that power without ethical formation can easily become dehumanizing. The central challenge, as His Holiness sees it, is not merely building smarter systems, but ensuring that humanity itself continues to grow in wisdom, justice, truthfulness, compassion, and care for one another while using them.

In case you’re wondering why I’m not going to tell you any of those things, it’s simple. If you really want to know what the Pope has to say about AI, ignore the headlines. Ignore them all. Instead, go to the encyclical itself and read it. Give it a close reading. Find truth.

Once you’ve done that, sit back and reflect on all the other headlines grabbing your attention. Forget whether you like the headlines. Instead, focus on finding truth.

Maybe that’s the larger lesson here.

If we truly want to understand what someone believes—whether it’s a pope, a politician, a journalist, a neighbor, or even someone we love—we cannot depend entirely upon summaries, snippets, reactions, headlines, algorithms, or the emotional momentum of the crowd. We have to slow down. We have to return to the source. We have to read more carefully than modern life—and perhaps especially modern technology—often encourages us to read.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that close reading is not simply something we practice in English classes. It may be one of the most important skills we have left in an age increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence, instant information, and manufactured urgency.

A close reading of the news.
A close reading of what people actually say.
A close reading of our assumptions.
A close reading of the stories we tell ourselves.
A close reading of our own hearts.

Maybe that’s one way we resist becoming careless in a world moving faster than human reflection was ever meant to move.

Maybe that’s the only way we remain fully human.