Mark Richard Zubro

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ANOTHER DEAD REPUBLICAN IS A MYSTERY OF FAMILIAL DESTRUCTION SET IN A WORLD OF VIOLENT INTRIGUE AND DEADLY AMBITION. A RINGING PHONE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT SET TOM MASON AND HIS LVOER, BASEBALL PLAYER, SCOTT CARPENTER, ON THE TRAIL OF A VICIOUS KILLER IN A SUBURBAN ENCLAVE. TOM'S BROTHER-IN-LAW HAS BEEN MURDERED. TOM RUSHES TO BE WITH IS BELOVED SISTER. THE DEAD MAN WAS THE SON OF THE VICIOUS REPUBLICAN CLERK THAT RUNS A COUNTY. THE RULING CABAL WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO DESTROY PEOPLE AND LIVES THAT GET IN THEIR WAY OF ACCUMULATING MORE USELESS WEALTH.

TRUE STORY # 2

Another true story of an actual event.

I've finally been part of an author event that got protested by the right wing. I’ve had twenty-three books published, five short stories, been to numerous conventions, talked on panels, attended author events in books stores, done a million things for publicity, but it wasn’t until Saturday, June 16, that protesters finally showed up.

Took them long enough.

I was at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books at the University of Wisconsin – Waukesha. It is a wonderful campus. All the people I met connected with the event were kind, friendly, and helpful. They were a stunningly well-organized group who ran a wonderful event; an excellent example, for intervals between panels that had entertainment such as a bell choir and a brass ensemble. Just an event filled with pleasant amenities and people.

The theme of the festival was Freedom to Read. Every hour and a half from Friday afternoon until Saturday evening there were numerous literary panels to choose from such as: Writing in Wisconsin: A Wisconsin Writers Association Panel; Finding Your voice; Make Room for Romance; Wisconsin Women of Mystery; Defining (And Loving) Literary Fiction, and many many more. It was a literate person’s buffet of delights.

I was part of two panels. One in the morning, Macho Men of Mystery, had all male panelists with a woman moderator. I think I need more butch lessons to really fit in on that one. The panel consisted of pleasant, intelligent, well-read people, guided by a great moderator into discussing what the real definition of being a macho character in a mystery novel means.

The other panel, in the afternoon, was titled, Outfront: A LBGT Author Panel. The authors were Anne Laughlin, Elizabeth Ridley, C.P. Rowlands, myself, and our moderator Timothy Thering.

We discussed the intricacies of being a lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender writer, the prejudiced we dealt with in terms of being published and getting published. The comments were trenchant, well-thought out, and relevant to the issues at hand.

Then about fifty-five minutes into the panel, someone came into the room and told us there was a group outside protesting against us. I'd never been protested. So right after we were done, I hurried out to see the protesters.

I guess protests aren't what they used to be. There were nine protesters seven of whom seemed to be adults.

The protesters had signs about us that read, “Homosexuality is Sin,” “Be Sure Your Sin Will Find You Out,” “Flee Sexual Immorality,” plus one saying something about us being the epitome of sin.

I’ve been working on that epitome of sin thing, trying my best to get it right. Frankly, being the epitome of sin sounds like kind of a lot of fun. As for fleeing sexual immorality, hell, I’d just like to get someone to go home with me from a bar sometime this century. It’s the other guys who keep fleeing.

The protestors stood on a sidewalk across a parking lot from the building we were in. A few cars rode past on the road behind them. The sun shone down.

One of them had a bullhorn being used to call out I’m not sure what. As with most bullhorns used in the outdoors at rallies and events, I’ve found that if you’re more than about ten feet away, whatever is being said sounds like gibberish. Presumably whatever they were saying was in fact gibberish, but the acoustics of outdoor planet Earth were working against them. I caught not a word.

So a few of us stood and looked at them standing in their feeble line. It was pathetic. We talked about how sad they were. We laughed a little bit too. I guess because of the absurdity of what they were doing. Really? Threatened by a gay and lesbian literary panel? But to some, it is, alas, so.

Then somebody took a picture of them. Then we went back inside. Later I couldn’t find anybody who knew when they left because nobody stayed to watch them.

The problem, however, was this. There were no television cameras, no sound trucks, no reporters so no live reports from remote locations, no helicopters circling overhead, no real cops, no campus cops, no fake cops for that matter. Really a genuine mess. Can't these protesters do anything right?

Worse, I’ve never been able to get anyone to denounce my books and their gay characters and gay themes. Better yet, have someone go on national television and call for them to be banned. Sales would soar. No such luck.

But by golly, I've finally done an event that got protested. A good reporter would have rushed across to interview them, gotten their names, the name of their organization, and then represent their views in an article in some kind of fair and balanced way. I didn’t want to get that near them. I was not about to underestimate the vitriol of the rightwing based on the patheticness of this protest. We have seen illogic used against us. We have seen our politeness and attempts to understand used as weapons against us. They would get no forum from me.

I did and do wonder, what did these people expect to gain? What point was there in their being at that spot on this planet at that moment? Did they feel better about themselves? I guess so. Did they feel they’d made their statement? I presume so. Did they make the world a better place? I don’t think so. Did they contribute to making the world a kinder and gentler place where each of us does the best he or she can in a universe that is ultimately indifferent to our existence? Not so much.

And they passed up a chance to make me rich. Sigh.







TRUE STORY # 1

The following story is true and happened this past winter. The names have been changed.


A Walk to the Store

In interviews with reporters and on panels at mystery conventions, I am occasionally asked if I experienced any discrimination connected with my being an openly gay teacher while having twenty-three gay themed mysteries published. Mostly things were good. Only a couple letters to the superintendent who was very supportive, and lots of positive feedback from my colleagues.

There was one essay from a kid, an eighth grader, who wrote in part the following: “I know he’s gay because I know what his books are about. They’re about gay people. I think my dad is right about what should happen to gay people, a bullet hole in the head.” This student was in my class for a full year. I didn’t read the essay with this comment in it until after the school year was over. I found this more sad than anything else.

So, except for these few blips, I always presumed the overall reaction to my being an openly gay teacher and gay author was reasonably benign.

Then the following occurred in the past few weeks.

I walk to the convenience store down the street every day to get my newspapers and so I can claim I’m getting exercise every day. Yes, even in winter, I just bundle up and then bundle up some more and hope I don’t slip on the ice. Tripped and fell once this year as I got distracted by a beautiful dog who was being taken into the animal grooming place two doors down from the convenience store. Just a klutz, no medical issues.

Once in a blue moon I run into former students. At least they introduce themselves as such, since some of them are now in their twenties, thirties, forties or even early fifties.

Two weeks ago on a Saturday a woman in her thirties who was chatting with one of the clerks at the store turned to me and asked the usual, “Aren’t you?” and I said the usual, “I’m sorry I don’t remember your name. Please tell me.”

I wouldn’t have recognized her in a thousand years. She told me her name, and she has a husband, kids and lives in town. So, we chatted less than five minutes, and I walked back home.

That next day, Sunday, she’s there again. She introduces me to the clerks at the store adding that she always liked me as a teacher and said I was always good to her and her friends. That was good. But the conversation quickly lagged, like one of those moments when you kind of don’t want to be talking to this person, or at least can’t think of anything to say, and are starting to feel uncomfortable. I finished the conversation and walked home.

The next Saturday, she was there again. She’d been chatting with the clerk again, but as I turned to go, she followed me out of the store. The weather was nice that day as it has been.

Over the few days brief conversations we’d talked about other students who were in the same year with her. I usually remember the kids from a particular year, if at all, as most teachers do, by the most rotten kids in the class. Since she was in her thirties the people and events we were talking about happened years and years ago.

The most rotten kid that year was Biff.

The woman, Patricia something, I’ve forgotten her name last name, and since she was married her last name wasn’t the same as when she was a kid, said that her husband had gone to a school in the next district over from mine. Her husband had been best friends with Biff and his cronies.

Then she apologized to me. She told me Biff, but not with her husband, maybe I believed that, came to the parking lot of the apartment house where I lived and flipped my car. She said she was so sorry for that, and she always liked me as a teacher.

I told her that no one had ever flipped my car, if she meant as in turned it over on its roof.

She said she’d always wondered if what they’d bragged about had been true. She then listed the other things they’d done.

These were all too true.

One time, my car had been picked up and moved about three feet from the perpendicular. I drove a high mileage, small compact car so it was possible. Two other times the windshield smashed. Nails in tires. A broken window in the apartment. Sand in the gas tank – I got a locking gas cap in all subsequent cars. The list went on.

At the time, I’d called the police for a few of the incidents, but there was nothing to be done. I had no clue as to the identity of the perpetrators.

It didn’t all happen at once, in fact over about a four year span.

Stupid me. All the little things I dismissed or didn't pay attention to. I asked once at the place where I went to get replacement tires, wasn’t it odd that I was getting nails in my tires so often. Couldn’t someone be sabotaging them? The clerk at the time said no, they must be nails from construction sites. Much as I might fantasize about studly construction workers, I’d never so much as gotten close to a construction site, certainly never driven through one.

The woman at the store reiterated that they used to brag about what they’d done.

This all happened after the books had come out.

Teenage homophobia. A form of intimidation and bullying.

I never put it all together. The incidents all happened too far apart for me to connect them.

I think on some of those interviews and panels I may have said something like, oh I was pretty lucky, there wasn’t much of a problem with homophobia, only a few letters from parents, and then I’d tell the story about the letter. Turns out there was constant homophobia of a violent and dangerous kind, and I missed it.

The woman at the store apologized several more times, repeated that her husband wasn’t involved, named the names of kids I’d long forgotten who’d helped Biff.

So, yes, the bullying of a teacher. And I was too naïve or stupid or arrogant to see it. What a fool.

She was so was so nice and so apologetic.

At least now I know more of the reality. An introduction might be in order - real world, this is Mark. Mark, this is the real world. Try to get along.

I ask myself how I couldn’t have put it together. The basic fact is, I didn’t.

I should have been frightened then. It kind of scares me now. I also find it disheartening and depressing.

All of this also makes me angry. I’m a mystery writer after all, and I’m always looking for a few more corpses for my plots. I think I’ve got plenty, probably enough for several books.

Available in ebook and print format From MLR Press, independent bookstores, and online retailers. This is my tenth book in the Paul Turner police procedural series. In it the gay Chicago detective and father of two sons gets caught in a tangle of intrigue and corruption. A brutal Chicago cop is found murdered at a gay leather festival. Turner, plus his police department partner, Buck Fenwick are assigned the case. Through a rising tide of danger, they need to find the truth among police corruption and cover-ups. Some top cops and A-list leather queens are among those whose lies and fears drive the web of desperation and deceit that Turner and his partner must unravel.

The short story, Duped in Grit, features a new character, Mike King, a gay private eye, appears in the anthology Windy City Queer.