An avid golfer and successful businesswoman, B. Koebke decided to join a country club to have a place to enjoy the sport and entertain clients.
'When you go out on the golf course with someone, you really get to know their heart and soul,' explains B., short for her German given name, 'Birgit.'
B., who shoots in the high 70s from the men's tees and has had a handicap as low as 2, chose Bernardo Heights County Club in San Diego, about 15 minutes from her home by the beach. With majestic views of lush foothills and palm trees along its 18-hole course, Bernardo Heights epitomizes wealth, success, luxury and exclusivity.
Membership, which involves purchasing a share of the club, cost B. $18,000 in 1987. Monthly dues run her another $445.
What B. didn't know when she bought into the club was that she'd become so angry and frustrated over second-class treatment that she'd be drawn into one of the nation's longest-running civil-rights battles:
As a partnered lesbian demanding the same privileges as any married member, B. is following in the spike-shoed footsteps of golfers who've fought country club barriers erected to marginalize them because they're Jewish, African-American or female.
Many 'clubs' do enough business with the general public to be covered by anti-discrimination laws. Currently, California and 11 other states have attempted to protect gay people from discrimination based on sexual orientation in such public places as restaurants, hotels and apartments. Bernardo Heights insists its rules are neither unfair nor illegal.
In the past, anti-gay discrimination in public accommodations attracted little attention. That's beginning to change, as gay people fight back. Most recently, in a March 4 decision that could lead to a breakthrough in the battle to ensure gay workers equal treatment in health benefit plans, a California lesbian couple won an early legal round in their lawsuit against doctors who turned one of the women away for artificial insemination.
B. hit the links for years without much thought about her club's restrictions. Then, a decade ago, she fell in love and started bringing her partner, Kendall French, to play golf and socialize.
B. quickly discovered her membership is less valuable than married members': Their spouses, children and even grandchildren can play unlimited rounds for free. But B. may bring Kendall, her state-recognized domestic partner, only as a paid 'guest,' and only six times a year. And, unlike married members, B. is forbidden to will her membership to her partner.
B. tried to persuade the club to extend married privileges to members with a 'significant other.' For years, the club rebuffed her, describing itself as 'family oriented' and suggesting that Kendall apply to join—for $18,000.
'They don't want our kind. That's what it boiled down to,' says B., who is suing with Kendall. 'All we wanted to do was play golf together.'
The couple's case, now before the California appeals court, spotlights the reality that even wealth doesn't protect gay people from unequal treatment. B. and Kendall lost their first round: A judge agreed with the club that its conduct was OK because it treated B. no differently than other unmarried members.
Lambda Legal Defense and Education Fund argues the club should be forced to treat B. and Kendall the same as a married couple, because California outlaws marital status or sexual orientation discrimination.
Gay people are caught in an unfair Catch-22 because U.S. same-sex couples are not yet allowed to marry but are told we don't qualify for all sorts of benefits because we aren't married.
'The courts haven't confronted (that Catch-22) much yet,' notes Lambda attorney Jon Davidson.
Gay people have always been dues-paying members of American society. We should be treated equally—whether we're driving a truck or a golf ball.
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