Bay Windows - September 23, 2004
Laura Kiritsy, lkiritsy@baywindows.com.

"We're here, we're queer, we're not going anywhere," Rouse jokes as he gives a quick tour, taking care to point out a far-flung room that will soon comfortably house a 15-person phone bank - ground zero for mobilizing the army of MassEquality members and volunteers statewide.

Before making the move, MassEquality squatted in the Winter St. offices of Gay and Lesbian Advocates and Defenders (GLAD). The new, more spacious digs, and their prestigious 11 Beacon St. address, are a testament to the explosive growth over which Rouse has presided since taking the reigns of MassEquality, a coalition of 40-plus local and national organizations leading the charge to preserve marriage rights for same-sex couples in Massachusetts, in January.

Says activist Sue Hyde, who represents the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force (NGLTF) on MassEquality's steering committee, "He took us from a mom-and-pop shop to a powerful, potent, political force, and that is his gift to us."

What was once a loose coalition of organizations that came together only in times of crisis - for instance, working to squash "defense of marriage" bills and a previous incarnation of a state constitutional ban on same-sex marriage - is now a well-funded political movement of thousands of gay and straight people across Massachusetts that has made its mark on state politics. The organization's clout was most recently evident in the Sept. 14 primary elections, where MassEquality played a significant role in helping to elect pro-gay marriage incumbents and political newcomers, while at the same time unseating two anti-gay marriage incumbents. As MassEquality's campaign coordinator, Rouse, a 42-year-old Vermont-based political consultant, is given much of the credit for developing the organizational infrastructure that led to those victories.

Rouse's arrival at MassEquality was prompted by the state Supreme Judicial Court's Goodridge ruling in November 2003. With a court decision granting same-sex couples the right to marry, the stakes around the legislative fight to defeat attempts to ban same-sex marriage "shot off the radar," explains Hyde. As a right-wing backlash snowballed and legislators prepared to debate a new constitutional amendment to undo the ruling, MassEquality steering committee members recognized they needed a full-time leader to recruit staff, organize, develop strategy, create a field operation and raise money, all with the goal of killing the amendment in the Massachusetts Legislature. Having secured grants from the Human Rights Campaign and NGLTF, they set about a national search for a campaign coordinator.

They needed look no further than Vermont. Rouse was already well known in the GLBT community, owing primarily to his political campaign work in the Green Mountain State. Rouse continued his work in Vermont state politics; helping to maintain control the Democratic majority in the Senate. He has also helped the House regain some of the seats it lost in 2000.

His work produced results: The Democrats won five seats on election night, giving them a one-seat majority in the 30-member body and control over both legislative chambers. Those victories would prove crucial when the Vermont Supreme Court in 1999 handed down its Baker decision, which resulted in the Vermont Legislature's creation of the state's civil union law.

"Having the Democrats in control of both chambers, that actually led them to be able to pass civil unions, which was revolutionary and historic at that time," Rouse notes. He returned to Vermont for the 2000 legislative elections, when a significant number of pro-civil union legislators were targeted for defeat. With Rouse working solely on Senate campaigns, the Democrats were able to maintain control of the body, losing only one seat. In the House, Democrats did not have the benefit of Rouse's skills and they lost control of the chamber to Republicans that year.

Soon after, Rouse and partner Scott Sherman made Vermont their home. Rouse continued his work in state politics and, not coincidentally, both the Vermont House and Senate are in the hands of Democrats.

With such a track record, Rouse was a logical choice for MassEquality. When he arrived in Massachusetts at the start of 2004, with the constitutional convention little more than a month away, he immediately set to work harnessing the skills of the state's seasoned GLBT political activists, growing existing field operations and - taking a cue from the Freedom to Marry Coalition of Massachusetts - creating an interactive Web site, securing funds and launching an unprecedented media campaign to counter the right-wing ads calling for a constitutional amendment. In that short span of time, Rouse engineered a movement that drew thousands of supporters to the Statehouse to rally, lobby legislators and hold vigil during the constitutional convention, sending a powerful message to lawmakers about the groundswell of support for same-sex marriage in Massachusetts.

"He is like an orchestra conductor making dozens of organizations operate smoothly in a coordinated fashion to achieve a common goal," says Josh Friedes, advocacy director of Freedom to Marry, a MassEquality member organization.

True, the effort to defeat a constitutional amendment lost by a slim five votes late on March 29 after four days of emotional debate. But Rouse has never conceded defeat, especially given that MassEquality members were operating under the belief that a constitutional amendment would easily pass within ten minutes of the convention's opening gavel. In fact, his feelings after the vote were overwhelmingly positive.

"It was really a great feeling. It was really so weird," Rouse recalls of that night. "I've never had a feeling like that. I can't remember when I had a feeling like that because in one way you're extremely sad, it was a sad feeling. It wasn't a feeling of anger, it was a feeling of sadness and being profoundly sad. And I hadn't felt sad like that in a long time.

"But I felt proud," he quickly adds. "And hopeful because we really built a movement, and we were so close to victory that that was a victory in itself. And we inspired people - gay and straight - and we built something and that was extremely powerful. So that's why we were really profoundly sad; there was silence I remember when the vote came down, and we were all together watching it on TV in the Statehouse, we were all rather quiet. And just very sad, but I felt really good. And that was a weird feeling to feel really sad and really good at the same time."

The momentum to defeat the amendment, which will again be taken up in the next legislative session, is now on the side of same-sex marriage supporters, says Rouse. Just the same, MassEquality is also preparing to fight the amendment at the ballot box should it wind up before voters in 2006, and Rouse, in a corner office with a view of the Statehouse's golden dome, is in it for the long haul.

So where does his passion for political organizing come from? Rouse doesn't have a ready explanation. His family - Rouse is the second of four children - was not political. Neither was it very competitive for that matter, except when it came to games of 500 Rummy. And Rouse confesses that he has always fantasized about becoming a potato farmer.

"You can't explain it," he says of his career. "It was just a calling, it really was just a calling. I really can't say. People find their niche and it just happens, and my niche is politics for whatever reason, I'm really excited about political change and political campaigns specifically as a way to create change."

His earliest political act gave no indication of the role he'd play in Democratic or GLBT politics: As a fifth grader growing up in Long Island in 1972, he sported a "Nixon's the one" button, and carved the same slogan into his looseleaf binder with pen. "I still remember coloring N-i-x-o-n," he says. "Scary, isn't it? Fifth grade."

Rouse's political talents surfaced when, as a 19-year-old college student, he volunteered for David Rothenberg, who was seeking a seat on the Manhattan City Council back in 1985. "I'd read about him and that he was an openly gay candidate running and I was obviously political but never did anything about it," Rouse explains. "And I was also just coming out as a gay person and I guess it was the convergence of those two things that drove me to go that campaign office in Mid-Town Manhattan, a nervous little 19-year-old, going down to talk to somebody." Rouse wound up talking to campaign manager Dave Fleischer, who would become a mentor to Rouse. Fleisher is now NGLTF's director or organizing and training.

Hooked by the opportunity to make a difference in his community, the competitive nature of political campaigns and the excitement of meeting like-minded folks, in a matter of three months Rouse went from stuffing envelopes to making donor calls to being the campaign's volunteer coordinator. Fleischer cites Rouse's knack for motivating others as the secret to his success. "Marty's an immensely decent person who treats people with kindness and respect and bends over backwards to make people feel good about what they're doing."

Rothenberg's bid to unseat a four-term incumbent failed by a slim margin. But Rouse's decision to get involved with an openly gay candidate's campaign, which took place as the AIDS crisis deepened in the face of extreme apathy from political leaders, particularly New York City Mayor Ed Koch - one of the most challenging periods of gay history - says a great deal about Rouse's character, Fleischer asserts.

"It was a big deal to wage this campaign and it was difficult. He didn't pick an easy coming out project," he says. The common thread running through Rouse's career, Fleischer adds, is "a series of admirable, unconventional and difficult choices to do what's right."

In a sense, that's what led Rouse to MassEquality, where, with full legal equality for same-sex couples on the line, he is likely facing the biggest challenge of his career.

"I felt like I had to come here," he says. "Because this is ground zero and if we lose marriage here, when are we going to get equal marriage rights anywhere in the country? So I felt like I had to do it."

Making his task all the more challenging is the fact that Rouse's 80-hour work weeks keep him away from Sherman, his partner of 14 years, and their 4-year-old son Sasha. Rouse keeps an apartment in Brookline, returning to Vermont only on weekends. "I miss my family to death," he says, turning his computer to display a slide-show of family photos. "I get teary-eyed if I go to a restaurant and see a kid's menu, I get tears in my eyes, it's true. I miss my son terribly."

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