It’s early afternoon when the phone company technician arrives to connect the line at the South Berkeley psychotherapy office I’ve just moved into. 

I’m tired. I’ve been seeing clients since early morning and will work into evening. This is the only break I’ve got, and I’m not in a chatty mood.

The technician is African-American. He’s kind and patient — like someone who is used to dealing with people cranky about the company he represents. He apologizes, knowing this is the second day I’ve sat in my office waiting for a tech.

“I’ll be done as fast as I can,” he says. Exiting he adds, “I need to find where the phone line runs in and out of the building.”

I sit on the couch and take out my cell phone to catch up on email and the news. I learn that Massachusetts has just issued a smack down of DOMA — the Federal Defense of Marriage Act, stating that a section violates the equal protection clause of the U.S. Constitution.

I scan queer news sources for spin and speculation about whether the Massachusetts ruling will have any bearing on the pending Prop. 8 trial in San Francisco. My partner and I are in the legal limbo of those who married during the brief window of California queer legality.

I’m still smiling — a little shocked and my mood lifting — when the tech returns.

“What does MFT stand for?” he asks. “It’s written on most of the nameplates in the building.”

“Marriage and Family Therapist,” I tell him.

“Ah, I could have used one of those before my divorce.” he laughs. “So that’s what you do? You talk with people about their problems, help them understand things better?”

“Yeah, on a good day,” I say.

He tells me that the problem with the phone line is at the central office, that they didn’t flip a crucial switch and he needs to call. They put him on hold. I motion to my desk and chair, and he sits mouthing a silent “thanks.”

I’m still reading the news, as he talks with someone from his office. He’s put on hold again. The preschool playground in the next building is bustling with children running, playing and occasionally shrieking.

“That’s a great sound,” he says, nodding toward the window. “I would think it would help people to hear kids playing like that — that it would make them feel better, or help couples not fight so much. Get reminded of what it is all about. I always loved listening to my son when he was that age. He’s in college now.”

Outside the window a child yells, “That’s mine!” Another yells back, “No! Mine!”

“But don’t therapists think that childhood is where things go wrong?” he asks, still on hold.

“Some probably do,” I reply.

“You don’t?”

“Well, I think things can go askew then, of course. But I’m at least as ready to blame poverty, racism, sexism and homophobia for a lost sense of security or entitlement to health, happiness, love and prosperity,” I say. “Or maybe some of us never felt entitled.”

He studies me for a moment, then looks at the bookshelf next to my desk. I can see him reading titles — books about queer depression, liberation psychology, queer sex therapy, queer families and raising multiracial children. He looks around the room taking in the Japanese cranes flying across the wall opposite the desk.

“Are you married?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

He doesn’t ask if I have a husband or a wife. And I don’t offer the information. I’m not sure why I don’t; if it’s because we’re in my office where, although most of my clients know that I am queer, details about my home life are usually not apparent or offered, or if there is some other reason.

His cell phone buzzes. It’s his boss texting him not to come back to Oakland this afternoon. We look at each other warily. We both know what this means. I check the local headlines on my phone.

“The Mehserle verdict is being announced at 4,” I tell him. We stare at each other, gauging, uncertain of what to say. “This won’t be good,” I say. “It’s too early for the verdict to be anything close to justice.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods in agreement. I continue scanning news source and note how many refer to “The Oscar Grant Trial.” I start ranting. Indeed it was Grant on trial — at least as much as Mehserle. Whose life is worth more? Who decides?

I tell the tech that I’m from Los Angeles and that I lived there in 1992 when the rebellion broke out in the wake of the acquittal of the LAPD officers who beat Rodney King. The air had been thick and gritty with smoke and ash and the constant wail of sirens all across the city.

The National Guard was everywhere, including in my multicultural, multiracial and largely working-class neighborhood. Friends had made a banner that said “U.S. Out of Echo Park” and tied it atop their roof. For a few days, the National Guard was stationed on a nearby rooftop monitoring their house, aiming their guns at us every time we entered or exited the house. One of those friends now lives in Fruitvale.

During the months before and after that rebellion, a queer and largely multicultural contingent of us worked with the community-based Coalition Against Police Brutality. There was a lot of dialog about what it means to patrol communities that one is or is not a member of.

The experience articulated over and over by members of the many — often marginalized, African-American, queer, youth, and immigrant —communities was that we were most often harassed or beaten in our own neighborhoods when the police patrolling those neighborhoods came from different communities.

The trial of Johannes Mehserle asks questions about whether Mehserle truly meant to, and believed he was, reaching for his Taser and not his gun. But Grant was already facedown on the ground.

What level of hatred, rage, or fear must have been coursing through Mehserle that would have rendered his Taser an appropriate response?

The tech and I keep talking about difference and fear and who has the power to respond from fear in what kinds of ways. We discuss how in 1992, though the mainstream media mostly showed looting and destruction, what wasn’t as visible was the looting of food. Bottles of water. Diapers and bread. What most media left out was that the people taking food were from many communities.

The tech asks if I’ll go downtown to the Oakland vigils and rallies. I tell him that I can’t, that I have clients until late in the evening — that is, if my activist clients keep their appointments this night. He hasn’t decided if he’ll go.

Finally, central office buzzes in. The problem has been fixed; the tech is done with my phone. We smile at each other, shake hands and exchange business cards.

“It was nice talking with you, Keiko,” he says, starting to laugh. “I guess that’s mostly what happens in here though, isn’t it?”

I laugh, too.

“It was good talking to you, too, Jeffrey.”

“Be safe out there,” he says.

“You too.”

After Jeffrey leaves, I sit down at my desk. There are still a few kids running amok in the playground, calling to each other. I think about what I know from my work: That some things go slowly; that we have to watch each other for cues, wait for openings and be gentle; and that we have to be patient with each other.

I wonder what Jeffrey and I would have gotten to if we’d had another hour. His divorce? My marriage?

And I know also that some things can’t wait.

We will celebrate Massachusetts and wait without complacency for the Prop. 8 ruling. I know that Oakland will brew with tension, grief and fury tonight and that justice will not have been served regardless of the verdict, because the systems that could lead to change and might have prevented Oscar Grant’s murder, are not yet in place.

We can only wait patiently for so long.