From Chuck Small

Chuck Small
Deputy News Editor, The News & Observer, Raleigh, NC

The music throbbed. Hundreds of men and women packed the ballroom of the Washington Hilton. We were in town for the 1993 March on Washington for gay, lesbian and bisexual civil rights. Having conquered our fears, ratcheted up our courage and braved the sunburn (for those of us too naïve to have brought sunblock), we communed the way we knew best. We danced.

That is, many of us danced. I was too awestruck, maybe still too afraid, to put myself out there on the floor. It was one thing to stand up for what I believed in, another to make a fool of myself by showing my lack of rhythm.

I scanned the sea of faces and saw one person I knew, someone else standing off to the side. But Roy Aarons had a big old grin on his face as he surveyed the crowd. He took it all in — the laughter, the loudness, the immenseness — before he turned and walked on.

For a few years, that’s the image I had of Roy: a man who left the dancing to others. But now, as I think about the pioneering editor who died this week at age 70, I realize that’s not quite right. He lived his life pulling all of us into the dance and encouraging us to find our own groove.

In 1989, Roy, then executive editor of the Oakland Tribune, agreed to coordinate a survey of gay and lesbian journalists for the American Society of Newspaper Editors. As he presented the results of that survey in April 1990 at the ASNE national convention, Roy came out, becoming the first journalist at his level to publicly say he was gay.

He took a lot of risks in doing so. In a business where many hold as the highest standard the ability to disconnect from the world, Roy made the most intimate connection. He wanted the industry to see that the obligations of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender journalists to be accurate, honest and fair did not mean living lives that were hermetically sealed, sanitized for society’s protection.

It was a bracing message to take in. I was a 26-year-old copy editor in Indiana when I responded to the ASNE survey. It quoted me, anonymously, as I revealed my truth: “While I have come out to my managing editor and one of my superiors is gay, I would not feel comfortable having to come in every day and battling the attitudes of many small-minded colleagues.”

By the summer of 1992, I would come out to those same folks, telling them I was headed to San Francisco to attend the convention of the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association. I didn’t know then that it would become an annual event; all I knew was that a few hundred people like me were gathering to discuss our role in the industry, and I had to be there.

As NLGJA founder, Roy pulled thousands of people into this dance of work and life. At least as important, he made sure no one was a wallflower — he encouraged us to talk with our heterosexual colleagues and dedicate ourselves to work through issues. As I began to do so, I realized my colleagues were not the only ones who were small-minded. My fears and reluctance had made me so, too.

In a little more than a decade, NLGJA became an organization of 1,200 members. Roy and I worked together on its educators committee and its national board of directors. He coordinated a panel discussion on journalism education at the 2001 convention, which I co-chaired in Dallas. He continually prodded, suggesting leadership roles and asking me to consider them. This was his way: He would not force you out on the floor but simply extend his hand.

In that way, he reached out to the world. Many of us found the invitation too irresistible to reject.

I used to think Roy’s flow of e-mail and periodic phone calls were routine networking. But I can see now how he was constantly calling folks to be part of the gathering, to hear the beat. As the author of the book “Prayers for Bobby,” he shared the pain of a gay teen who killed himself and the courage of a mother who wondered how life could have been different. As an educator at the University of Southern California, he encouraged communications schools to think beyond race
and sex in their explorations of diversity.

At NLGJA’s 10th anniversary convention in San Francisco, I finally saw Roy dance. This time, he was in the spotlight, surrounded by hundreds of men and women — gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and heterosexual.

As Roy turns and walks on, he has left a industry and society less afraid to step out.