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Scott and Jeanette were born in the city but always wanted to enjoy a more rural life where they could better raise a family. So after marrying in 1977, they moved to Petaluma, a still largely agricultural area 40 miles north of San Francisco surrounded by dairy farms and hayfields. The small town of 48,000 creates a Rockwellian image for itself with a quaint Main Street and an annual "Butter and Egg Day" parade. The politics and social mores there are conservative, and the Cozzas seemed to fit in. Scott and Jeanette both came from strict Italian families and Catholic schools. She was a kindergarten teacher and he was a hospital social worker, a career choice that came after contemplating missionary work and the priesthood.
But as young adults in San Francisco in the 1970s, Scott and Jeanette witnessed tremendous societal change. Jeanette was a cashier at the Castro's Safeway market during the height of the gay renaissance, in the neighborhood that defined it. She remembers giggling with her co-workers as they learned the sexual code assigned to the various-colored bandannas men would hang from their back pockets at the time. "All my customers were gay; they were my friends," Jeanette says. "It didn't scare me. I became more familiar with the gay community than any other ethnic group in the city."
Scott's interaction with gay people was much more personal and intense. When the AIDS crisis hit in the early 1980s, the caseload at San Francisco General Hospital required the straight counselor to do full-time AIDS work. The experience endeared him to his clients and shaped his views as a gay rights advocate. Scott joined PFLAG -- Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays -- and volunteered with his wife and kids at an AIDS food bank. "Our children have never been sheltered," Jeanette says. "How many 5-year-olds from Petaluma have walked in the Gay Pride Parade?"
Indeed, at a young age Anne and Steven were exposed to many gay friends of their parents who were invited into their home. At a youth church camp, Steven's favorite counselor happened to be a gay man who became the boy's role model.
From the ages of 6 to 10, Steven rose through the Scouting ranks from Tiger Cub to Webelo, while his dad took over as den leader. "At first I vaguely knew what the Boy Scouts were, but their program turned out to be pretty cool," Scott says. "It stressed outdoor stuff, taught kids self-esteem, how to get along, and built confidence. Plus I could do things with Steven. We could be buddies."
At 11, Steven would be allowed to become a full-fledged Boy Scout. He couldn't wait. But after a troop meeting at his house, a few months shy of his 11th birthday, a parent approached his dad in the kitchen. "For someone who works with AIDS patients, I'm surprised you're working with the Boy Scouts," the mother told a perplexed Scott. "Didn't you know they ban homosexuals?"
Scott had no idea. He was enraged at the thought, and his first instinct was to pull Steven out. But his son loved Scouting so much. That Steven devoured every word in the Scouting handbook, and relished its projects and rewards, weighed heavily on his parents. Early on, Steven had been diagnosed with a learning disability. Though bright and articulate, he had trouble reading and lagged behind others his age. In school, kids teased Steven. But in the Scouts, Steven was encouraged by his peers to succeed, which helped him to improve at school.
Jeanette insisted Steven stay in the Scouts. Scott knew it was the best thing for his son, yet his conscience bothered him. "I was torn to be part of an organization that discriminates," he says. "I didn't join Scouting to start a national campaign, but we couldn't turn our backs on our gay friends. Or gay kids."
More than anything, Steven wanted someday to be an Eagle Scout. So he eagerly took on each project in the long and involved process. One early hurdle -- merit badge No. 4 -- was a turning point. The exercise in citizenship required that he write a letter to a political figure and address any national issue. It was an intimidating assignment for a 12-year-old, and Steven asked his dad for help. Scott suggested that Steven raise the topic of the gay ban.
At 12, Steven didn't really understand what it meant to be gay and why the Scouts were so averse to gay people serving in their ranks. Scott tried to explain to his son that Scouting was not open to diversity, something everyone should be. "What's diversity?" Steven asked.
Then Scott put it this way: "Your favorite counselor at church camp can never be a Boy Scout."
"Why not?"
"Because there are some people who are a little different from us that the Scouts don't like. Robert is gay, and the Scouts do not let gay people join."
"But Robert would be a great Boy Scout!"
Steven was upset. He wrote his citizenship letter to Senators Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer, asking how they could help him change the Boy Scouts policy. Steven received supportive form letters in response but was disappointed neither politician specifically answered his question.
People who feel ignored, Scott told his son, can better make themselves heard using their right to assembly and protest. A petition drive, for example, would show he was not alone in his views. As motivated to challenge Scout policy as Scott was, he worried Steven wouldn't want to take things to the next level. The adolescent was already becoming less inclined to listen to his father. "He was getting the attitude that if I said it was sunny out, he'd say the opposite," Scott recalls. "It was frustrating as hell, but I understood. When I brought up the petition, I expected him to say, "No way!' like with everything else I ever suggested."
