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This week’s Huffington Post Gay Voices RaiseAChild.US Let Love Define Family installment features a call to action by RaiseAChild.US co-founder and CEO Rich Valenza
As we are about to close out an amazing year of historic advancements toward equality, this is a great time for our lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) community to do a little reflection and self-assessment. For so many years, LGBT people have had our heads down fighting battles on so many fronts. Over time, our common battles have made us strong and often unified us. Maybe you are of the early generation who took to the streets to protest police brutality. Maybe you were one of the brave individuals to act up at a time when our country was afraid to mention AIDS. Maybe you volunteered for phone banks to ask people in other states to vote for marriage equality. Or maybe you have fought your own personal battle with family members who refuse or don’t yet know how to respect the person that you are. In the face of all of this, we have become accustomed to being on the defensive as we have learned how to fight for our rights, our self-respect, and our dignity. Think about all that we’ve learned and accomplished with our collective strength. So try to imagine, for a moment, the new life that awaits us beyond our equality fight. Together, let’s consider a new direction. Let’s dare to dream about a new role for the LGBT community in American society. In this New Year, let’s begin to imagine all the good we can do. For 2014, I have a bold New Year’s resolution. It is pretty lofty. To be honest, I’ve had this same dream for a few years now. I’ve kept it stored away in my own closet. But only now, in light of all of the recent equality accomplishments, do I feel that I can openly share it with you. My New Year resolution, through the work of RaiseAChild.US, a national nonprofit I co-founded in 2011, is to help chart a new course for the LGBT movement. I dream that our community will begin to clear a brand new path in society in which we LGBT people openly demonstrate our compassion, our strength, our abilities, and our good. After our fight for equality, there are many other issues for us to consider. Whether it is the environment, social issues, or public policy, numerous causes are worthy of our attention. But, among them all, there is one issue that we LGBT people can actually solve. This solution will ultimately benefit both the LGBT community and society as a whole. I ask that our community seriously consider the good we could do by building families of our own through the foster care system. For too many years, the numbers have remained steady: 400,000 children in the U.S. foster care system with over 100,000 of those children available immediately for adoption. In recent decades, there are more state laws to support fostering and adoption by LGBT parents. Today, there are fewer groups and organizations working to prevent LGBT people from becoming foster and adoptive parents, likely because longitudinal research is stacking up to prove them wrong. We LGBT people have a long history of making great parents, building healthy families, and raising well-balanced children. Let love define family. Studies at the Williams Institute, a national think tank at UCLA School of Law, demonstrate that our LGBT community could be the solution to our nation’s foster care crisis. They have reported that two million GLB people are interested in adopting. More than half of all gay men and nearly half of all lesbians have considered building families through adoption. So compare the numbers. Two million people interested in taking the next step to building families who could provide safe, loving, and permanent homes for the 400,000 children in the foster system. The numbers work. We can do this! So I ask you, in this New Year, in this time of reflection and resolution, to please join me in imagining what is ahead and a new purpose for our LGBT community. Let’s finish this equality battle so that we can move on to do other good work. I wish us all a very happy, healthy, and truly inspired New Year. RaiseAChild.US educates and encourages the LGBT community to build families through fostering and adoption to answer the needs of the 400,000 children in our nation's foster care system. RaiseAChild.US works with foster and adoption agencies that have received training in LGBT cultural competence through the Human Right’s Campaign Foundation’s “All Children – All Families” initiative. Since 2011, RaiseAChild.US has run media campaigns to educate prospective parents and the public, and has engaged more than 2,000 prospective parents. For more information, visit www.raiseachild.us. New Mexico Supreme Court Legalizes Same-Sex Marriage; Becomes 17th State To Endorse Marriage Equality! The New Mexico Supreme Court ruled unanimously on Thursday to legalize same-sex marriage, declaring it is unconstitutional to deny a marriage license to gay and lesbian couples.
New Mexico has now become the 17th state in the U.S. to provide marriage equality to same-sex couples. The court’s 31-page ruling states, in part, that: “All rights, protections, and responsibilities that result from the marital relationship shall apply equally to both same-gender and opposite-gender married couples.” The Supreme Court’s ruling, via Freedom to Marry: We conclude that the purpose of New Mexico marriage laws is to bring stability and order to the legal relationship of committed couples by defining their rights and responsibilities as to one another, their children if they choose to raise children together, and their property. Prohibiting same-gender marriages is not substantially related to the governmental interests advanced by the parties opposing same-gender marriage or to the purposes we have identified. Therefore, barring individuals from marrying and depriving them of the rights, protections, and responsibilities of civil marriage solely because of their sexual orientation violates the Equal Protection Clause under Article II, Section 18 of the New Mexico Constitution. We hold that the State of New Mexico is constitutionally required to allow same-gender couples to marry and must extend to them the rights, protections, and responsibilities that derive from civil marriage under New Mexico law. Betrayed and Exposed A guidance counselor outed me to my mother
Anonymous It was a sunny winter afternoon and I was heading to after-school drama club when I heard my phone ring. “Come home, now!” my mom yelled when I picked up. Rushing home quickly, I thought, “Did someone die?” When I got into my building, I bounded up the stairs. The moment my mom opened the door, I realized by the disappointed expression on her face I was in deep trouble. When I entered the living room, I saw my whole family there. I felt like I was at an intervention. I sat down on the couch. There was an awkward silence in the room. “I went to your school today and I talked to your guidance counselor,” my mom said. For a moment, I was relieved that no one in my family was dead. But I could tell by her tone I had done something wrong. “She told me you were gay, and that you had sexual relations with another boy.” I was shocked! I didn’t know how my guidance counselor found out about my sexual encounter. At that moment, I felt as if my world came crashing down onto me. I was afraid that my mom would kick me out the house. All of a sudden, the environment of my living room went from a quiescent, comforting area to a harsh, judgmental arena. “You know, it’s a sin to be gay!” my aunt yelled. “The Bible doesn’t accept homosexuality!” “I don’t want a faggot for a brother! What will people say about me?” my brother screamed. “Society makes people believe that being gay is a new trend. But, it’s not! You will go to hell! I will never have a son as a faggot!” bellowed my mom as she started to cry. Punished for Being Me I ran into the bathroom crying. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve to be treated so cruelly by my family. They made me feel as if I wasn’t a part of the family by calling me names like faggot and sissy. I knew deep inside they still loved me, but they believed that my being gay would belie their Christian codes of conduct. Later that night, my mom took away all of my electronic devices and put me on punishment. I didn’t understand how that would change my mind about being gay. I didn’t choose to be gay. As a young boy, I always had a copious interest in boys. That night, when I went to sleep, I asked God to turn me straight. My mother had always been overprotective but now she was even more so. I don’t want to say she was all up in my business but suddenly she paid more attention to who I spent time with. If I hung out with friends, she would call the parents to make sure that’s what I was really doing. Over the next few months, a friend I thought I could trust told a few people I was gay and soon everyone in my school found out. Other people I thought were friends began to scream gay slurs at me as I walked to class, on my way home, and even on Facebook. No one was there for me. I started cutting my wrist. I didn’t want to live anymore. Was I supposed to conform to the “normal” way of life? Food Fight One day at lunch, a group of boys sat at a table across from me. A chill went down my spine as they kept staring at me. I had a feeling that something big was about to go down. “Hey, pussy!” one of them yelled. I put my headphones on and began to act as if I was texting someone. Out of nowhere, one of them threw sliced apples at me. “Stop it!” I yelled. “What you gonna do about it?” another student yelled. I hesitated. Should I get up and kick his ass or should I move away? I began to pick up my lunch tray and move to another table. Before I could take two steps forward, the same student who called me a pussy threw an apple at my head. I threw my lunch at him and ran towards him. A crowd formed around us and teachers broke through to break up the fight. As the dean escorted the two of us to his office, I held my head down because I was ashamed of what I had become. I had transformed from a reserved, friendly individual to a belligerent, gay kid. The dean then called both of our parents. My mom, who would usually wear a blouse and pants, came into his office wearing sweat pants and sneakers as if she was ready for a fight. “Why was my child in a fight?” my mom yelled as she stared at the other student and his mother. “He and his friends called me a ‘pussy’ and they threw apples at me several times,” I said while I held my head down. “Where was the teachers at while this was going on?” she demanded. “We were around, but your son should’ve come to one of the staff members if there was a problem,” said the dean. “If the staff was around, they should have seen the other students throwing the apples. What type of school are y’all running here? Y’all say that y’all preparing the students for college, but it seems like y’all preparing them to fight and start trouble,” my mom said. “I’m sorry, Miss,” the student said. “It’s a little too late for sorry, but I’m gonna tell you and your parent something: Don’t start no more sh-t with my child!” As my mom and I left the building, she began to talk to me about how dysfunctional parents send their children to school to fight. I loved how my mother was there to stick up for me. It made me realize that she didn’t hate me; she cared about me! Running Away From Home image by YC-Art Dept A week before school ended, my mom asked me if I was interested in moving to Atlanta, Georgia. I was ambivalent. I had lived in New York all my life. However, I didn’t want to continue attending this school. I knew by the bags under her eyes that she worried about our future. She said she wanted to relocate our family to Atlanta because there were a lot of available jobs there and the cost of living was cheap. But I knew the main reason was she wanted me to be safe. No one would know I was gay there. She told me if we stayed in New York she was afraid everyone would tease the family about me being gay and that I would be a victim of a hate crime. As I weighed the pros and cons of moving to Georgia, I favored the pros and I said yes. On July 16, 2010, my mom and I packed our lives into two suitcases and headed to the Port Authority. My brother stayed in the Bronx because he only had one more year of high school and could stay with my aunt. Without any knowledge of where we were going to live, go to school, or where my mom would work, we got on the Greyhound bus and anticipated our future challenges in Atlanta. Settling for a Shelter Once we arrived, we got on a train to Marietta, Georgia because my mom knew there was a shelter there. When we were turned away because there wasn’t any space, I began to worry that we would have to live on the streets. However, my mom was determined to find us somewhere to rest our heads. She had a list of shelters so she made some calls and found us a spot at an emergency shelter called Gateway in downtown Atlanta. While I was getting ready for bed, I looked around and saw children running around and playing. I wondered how they could be having a good time while they lived in a shelter. Three days later, my mom and I were transferred to a temporary shelter that provided a furnished room for us and job training for my mom. She enrolled me in New Schools at Carver School of Health Sciences and Research (Carver HSR). Although we found an apartment, I felt that my life was incomplete. I was lonely. I was too afraid to date anyone at my school because I didn’t want anyone to know I was gay. I knew I couldn’t talk to my mom about how much I wanted a boyfriend. Meanwhile my brother confided in my mom about girls all the time. “Mom, I need to ask you a question,” my brother said once. “What is it?” “It’s about my girlfriend. I’m trying to figure out what I should get her for her birthday.” “You should do something special for her. Every woman wants to feel appreciated.” It makes me so jealous and upset to think about those conversations because I want to be able to talk to her about relationships too and someday introduce her to my boyfriend. She is trying to be my protector, but what I really need is for her to be there to listen to me and give me her advice. I guess my mom began to feel less worried about me because we moved back to the Bronx during the summer before I started my junior year. In all this time, we never once talked about my sexuality although I know it’s preventing us from having a better relationship. I want to tell her that as long as I have her support, I’ll be OK. Society is beginning to accept homosexuality, and there are laws that protect individuals from hate crimes. Since I can’t talk to her about my life and problems, I joined this youth group that allows me to express myself to students who support my decisions. Now I have a group of people who accept me for who I am, and that’s incredibly comforting and makes me feel less alone. But I still need my mother to accept me and be more open-minded, though it’s unlikely that will ever happen because of her religious beliefs. I’m under so much stress right now dealing with college applications that the last thing I want to do is broach the subject. One day, I’ll try to talk to her about it. But I want to wait until I’m financially stable and living on my own. That way, I won’t have to worry about getting kicked out of her house if she still doesn’t accept me. Letter To My Mom If I Could Rewrite the Script Dear Mom, Ever since the day you told me I would go to hell and no one will accept me because I’m gay, I’ve been afraid to talk about my sexuality with anyone, especially you. I know that you love me and worry about my safety but I don’t understand why it’s hard for you to say, “I accept you for who you are.” Here’s how I wish that dreadful day had gone. It was a sunny winter afternoon and I was heading to after-school drama club when I heard my phone ring. “Come home sweetie! It’s getting darker earlier and I don’t want you walking home alone too late.” When I walked in, you were in the kitchen preparing dinner. “How was your day?” you asked. “It was good, even though I wish you had let me go to drama club.” The conversation paused and there was a pleasant mood in the air. “Your guidance counselor called today. She said you had something to tell me.” “I don’t think I have anything to tell you,” I lied. “She told me that you’re gay.” I walked straight to my room. I was shocked. How did my guidance counselor find that out? I was afraid you would throw me out and abandon me. When you came into my room, I felt a cold chill run down my spine. This could be it! This could be the last time I see the inside of my room. You sat down on my bed and put your arms around me. “I’m not here to yell at you. You’re still my son. I want you to know that I’m here for you.” I couldn’t respond because I was so surprised by your reaction. I felt so good to know I wouldn’t have to hide my true feelings anymore. Although some people might harass me for being gay, I knew that you’d be by my side. Imagine how different my life would be if that day had gone like this. I’d be able to introduce my boyfriend to you, cry on your shoulder when I have a broken heart, and be more comfortable with my sexuality. I hope someday we can have that kind of relationship. Gay Man's Poignant Holiday Letter To His Grandfather On Acceptance, Faith And Love By Rick Clemons for YourTango.com Simple living. Simple faith. Simple love. These are the life lessons my grandfather taught me about judgment, acceptance, and unconditional love. Hi Grandpa. It's me Rick. Your eldest grandchild. Yeah, I'm still alive (50 now), raising your beautiful granddaughters (18 and 14), being an entrepreneur running my own business (just like you, even though that word didn't exist when you started farming), and yes, I'm still gay. Of course, why would that have changed? It's a part of my DNA. Even though you may have harbored some uncomfortable feelings about my sexuality, you never made bones about it. That's just not your nature. "To judge lest you be judged" was always one of your life philosophies, and I'm thankful for that. I'm thankful for how you treated me with love, acceptance and kindness. It's now been five years since Mom, the hospice nurse, and I stood by your bed as your last breath quietly escaped from your weathered body. I'd never experienced someone's departure from this human experience until that day. As strange as this may sound, I feel so blessed to have experienced this tender moment of realness, of vulnerability, with one of the greatest teachers in my life — you. I still recall the first time I met you and Grandma. You had taken the Greyhound bus from Rifle, Colorado to St. Helena, California to see us, and what I remember most is your wrinkled face and big hands. The same exact memory, so very vivid, was etched in my mind as I held your left hand, looking into your face, as you departed us and this world. There are times I wished I'd asked more questions, given that you lived through the Great Depression, World Wars I and II, an impressive string of presidents, the crazy '60s, '70s, Y2K, and the dawning of the age of technology. I always found it strange that you and Grandma never had a TV. Of course, that oddity was offset by the devotion you had to listening to Paul Harvey on the radio, every day at 12 pm sharp. I even remember the first time you flew on an airplane; I believe it was to my wedding. You sure loved my wife, and never stopped treating her like a granddaughter, even after we divorced because I was finally man enough to admit I was gay. I know our divorce and my coming out caused you pain, yet, you never once uttered a harsh word or condemning opinion in regards to either event. Why would you? You were, in the truest senses of the words, a man of God and the salt of the earth. I only remember one time, in all your years, that I ever heard you utter a harsh word to anyone, and quite honestly, he deserved it. Your quiet observance of life, the wisdom to learn from everyone and everything around you, not only inspired you to become a patented inventor; it kept you firmly planted in your faith, knowing that God's hand was masterfully at work in every way, in everyday, in everyone's life. You were tested many times by your children, grandchildren, farm, and admit it: even Grandma got you rankled more than a few times. Yet through out all those trials, your non-judgmental compassion, and "let the "Lord take the wheel" mentality never faltered. I know your humble, quiet, unconditional love for me and for everyone else in your life stood as the foundation of your being. You let God do the work that only he can do... judging each of us for the lives we live. You didn't merely say, "It's not my place to judge;" you lived it. Now, let's be honest. I know my coming out and the fact that I'm gay wasn't in alignment with your beliefs. But I've got to say, Grandpa, you're one hell of a guy. Not once, not even that first time I brought George to meet you when we came to Gay Ski Week in Aspen, did you ever turn me away, pull out your bible to preach, or say, "I can't accept you and your lifestyle Rick." You always let people be people because, I believe, even though we never had a discussion about my sexual orientation, you believed everyone has the right to be their authentic self — to the best of their ability. I have adopted that mentality in my own life, and I have you to thank for it. Throughout the years, I also know it bothered you that I smoked and drank alcohol. Not because it was against your faith, but because your own simple, healthy lifestyle was proof positive that there was no reason to numb yourself from life as long as you had faith. Simple living was a cornerstone of your life (and a concept I think Martha Stewart actually stole from you. You did it best). You may have lived simply, but you were not simplistic. We're all thankful you were a wise businessman. Your eldest granddaughter, thanks to you, just started her first of four years of college, secure in the fact that she will graduate without educational debt hanging over her head. She also bought a sensible first car with the money you left her. Another lesson you taught us all about simple living: be practical. Through all of these beautiful memories "Pappy," (both of my girls still call you that) the thing that stands out most to me is that you truly understood what it meant to accept. Accept people as they are, for who they are, and to love them unconditionally. It's no secret to me — Mom has been forthright in sharing how you felt — that you prayed for me and wished I'd chosen a different path for my life. However, I know that had we ever sat down man-to-man, and had conversations about my being gay, we would have done so like we always did; listening and hearing each other — a rare thing between human beings in this day and age. Grandpa, it's once again the holiday season. Can you believe 2013 is winding down and 2014 is just around the corner? In this time of reflection, I felt compelled to write this letter to you, but also for my community and friends and readers. I'm a blogger now (kind of like a freelance writer or reporter), and get published on a national basis regularly. I'm proud of this fact, and wanted to be able to share it with you. And I want to reach someone, somewhere, even if it's just one person who doesn't believe they can ever accept their gay child, grandchild, husband, wife, son, daughter, brother, or sister. I want to show them, by your example, what pure, unconditional love really means. Through all of our face-to-face and weekly phone chats, both of which I miss so deeply, I always experienced your unconditional love, understanding, and wisdom. I know you also got something big from those chats too. It puts a smile on my face thinking about how fascinated you were when I talked about the Internet, computers, designing websites, marketing, and building my own business; all of which were somewhat foreign concepts to you (except the building your own business and marketing). Of course, marketing for you was simply about being neighborly, charging a fair price, and delivering a quality product. It's kind of the same concept today, except we use lots of big ideas and plans so people can make money doing what you did so simply. And as for building a business, you built yours with blood, sweat and tears on a beautiful farm nestled on the banks of the Colorado River. I'm building mine with email, Facebook, Twitter, and online teleconferences. We'll need to have to have a virtual chat soon so I can explain all that stuff to you. I know you'll find it fascinating. Grandpa, more than anything, I want to tell you that I miss you. I miss the lessons I learned each time I heard your gentle voice, or witnessed you deep in thought. I miss the moments of stacking hay, picking apricots, harvesting potatoes, cutting wood for the heater, and riding in your truck listening to the Country & Western radio station that Grandma didn't want you tuning into because "that type of music is sacrilegious." I miss that sweet grin that spread across your face when you asked, "Can I have some ice cream with my pie?" which always really meant, "I want more ice cream than pie." Hope you still have ice cream wherever you are now, and as much as you want. In all honesty, the thing I miss most is the pride that lit up your eyes every time you were with your family. Even though we have no blood ties, since Mom and her brother were adopted, it never stopped you from loving her, or any of us, as if we were your own. I don't know if you know this, but in the gay community, pride is a symbol of strength, acceptance, and unconditional love. For those of us who come out of the closet, pride stands as a badge of honor symbolizing our own ability to tap into our deepest strength, accepting, and unconditionally loving ourselves for who we are — no judgment. Ironically, as I think about where I am in my life, helping people from all walks of life come out and accept themselves for who they are — gay, straight, young, old, male, female, rich, or poor — I can't help but feel you lit the path that led me here. You inspired me, with your examples of quiet determination, to find my true calling, just as you found yours. Thanks to you Grandpa, and the generous funds you blessed me with, I took time to become a professionally certified life coach, which, in it's simplest terms, means that I help people find themselves, their purpose and their passion so they can live happier, healthier, simpler lives. Funny, how even at 50 years old, I still keep the Book Of Life open to the chapter that teaches me how to be non-judgmental, accepting, and to love unconditionally. I know it was you who first shared that chapter with me. It was you who modeled those powerful characteristics daily. It's you, wherever you are, who is still sharing those lessons. Have a happy holiday season Grandpa. I'd send you some of your favorite dried fruits, but something tells me you're being well taken care of because of the fruits of your labor and love here on earth. Thank you for loving me as your gay grandson and for never wavering in your faith in God — a faith that taught you that everyone deserves unconditional love, and to love others as you would like to be. Love,
Your Grandson Rickey 
Rick Clemons is a life changer, motivator, guide, mentor, and inspiring life coach for gay men who are ready to be the man they want to be, not the man they think their supposed to be. He's on a mission; guiding gay men to find their own voice, love deeply, work passionately, and live powerfully without regrets. Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Rights The ACLU has been at the forefront of equal rights for LGBT individuals since the 1950’s focusing on five key issue areas: . Relationships
Our relationships and roles within the local LGBT rights community have progressed alongside the LGBT rights movement itself. We were a notable partner during the 2004 anti-marriage amendment campaign and recently collaborated with other groups working on LGBT rights in Kentucky to form the Fairness Coalition. Without a doubt, the most common question I get is, “How do I come out?”
For closeted people, it’s more than a question – it’s a brain-eating amoeba that chews away at your hope and sanity. (And the only prescription is more cowbell – sorry, couldn’t help it.) In my opinion, there is no right or wrong way to come out. Sure, there are less stressful ways to come out – like telling your best friend in private as opposed to your homophobic mom finding gay porn on the computer – but in the end, your secret is out and you’re forced to deal with it. And so you grow and you learn – two words synonymous with fear. Think about it: How can you grow up emotionally without ever feeling nervous or scared? The way I see it, the more scared you are, the bigger the opportunity to learn. And coming out is TERRIFYING for most of us! But before I tell you how to come out, I should tell you that not everyone deserves to know you’re gay. If homosexuality is illegal in your country or puts you in physical danger, start exploring avenues of escape before revealing yourself. And if you’re reading this, it already means you’re doing your research! Now, when you’re ready to come out, I’ve got a few ways you can do it… The Band-Aid Technique The best way to come out is like ripping off a Band-Aid. It’s going to hurt, but the sooner you get that initial shock and pain over with, the sooner you can deal with it and move on. Many times we struggle to come out because there’s no way to fit it in the conversation. There’s no “open door” so to speak. I always thought I had to somehow divert the topic to something like gay marriage. The truth is, if you’re even considering coming out to this person, you probably already know their opinion of gay people. Instead of waiting for an open door, create your own door. Take a deep breath, spit it out like word vomit and just go with it. The “Worst Case Scenario” Technique Being closeted gives us a lot of time to think of worst-case coming out scenarios. I want you to come up with the absolute worst: getting kicked out of the house, everyone hating you and rejecting you, the life you know ceasing to exist. Now start creating your New Life Plan based around this scenario. Where could you work or live in case you were cut off? What would be your next step? Having a plan of sorts will increase your confidence and make you feel less afraid. Then, when you come out and realize it’s not as bad as you thought, you can relax a little. If it is as bad as you thought, you have a plan. The One-on-One Technique People act differently in a group than when they’re alone. I remember one time, shortly before 8th grade graduation, the school bully and I found ourselves alone by the lockers. This guy had made junior high a living hell for me. But instead of tormenting me, he simply said, “I’m scared of high school. I don’t know what to expect.” It was a moment of total honesty I will never forget. I think everyone is more open and honest when they’re alone – even your mom and dad act differently when they’re not around each other. Get to know your parents as individuals, and they might surprise you. Coming out to more than one person at a time puts you at risk of feeling intimidated or alienated. You don’t want to feel like you’re being backed into a corner. —– The great thing about coming out is that any other challenge you face seems small in comparison. Sam Luigi
I thought coming out would solve everything. My secret was out, the lies could stop, and I could finally move on with my life, the way I wanted. But when the dust settled and the initial excitement of my coming out wore off, I was faced with a reality that I was not prepared for – I now had to be myself. There was no going back to the comfort of my closet, no place to hide anymore. Suddenly, a whole new wave of confusion encompassed me. I had spent years ignoring myself, my thoughts, my desires – and now that I had come out and declared my sexual identity, I was left scrambling to figure out the rest of the puzzle. I used to say, “I’m the same person I’ve always been,” but it recently dawned on me that I never really got to know that person. Being in the closet had deadened my senses, and for a while my mind was on cruise control – there were no intense feelings of anger, sadness or happiness. I just existed, whiling away the time until I summoned up the courage to come out. And when I did, it was like being startled awake while sleepwalking. I was stunned and virtually clueless as to what comprised my inner being. I was – for lack of a better term – emotionally retarded. Who was I before I came out? Am I still that person? Is that the person people like? Confusion turned to anger – anger at myself for not having the answers, for always questioning my choices. I didn’t even know why people liked me, so how was I supposed to like myself? What did my boyfriend see in me that I didn’t? I started taking my insecurities out on the people who meant the most to me. I would push them away, hoping they’d see what a mistake they made in caring about me. It didn’t take long for me to realize this was no way to live. I was wasting time and energy on an equation that had no definite answer; I had to let things be without always asking, “Why?” Step 1: Resign to What You Can’t Control Once I resigned to life and the circumstances surrounding it, I could start sifting through the emotional wreckage and rediscover what made me happy and what I could control. The picture started coming into focus, and even though what I saw was a mess, I knew it was manageable. Step 2: Find What Makes You Happy This sounds obvious, but so often we do things that only make other people happy and what is expected of us. Or we turn to self-destructive habits that simply make us forget we’re unhappy (in my case, binge drinking). I used to think making yourself happy ultimately meant you were being selfish. If I bought something expensive, I felt guilty. If someone did something nice for me, I felt indebted to that person and resented them for it. Quite frankly, being happy seemed like too much work, as it required an exhaustive weighing of pros and cons and always questioning other people’s intentions. This kind of self-interrogation prevented me from wanting to pursue happiness. In actuality, happiness can be as simple as watching your favorite TV show. For instance, I love the show Mystery Science Theater 3000. This told me I have a dry and sarcastic sense of humor, so I started looking for things that compliment this trait. I was finally starting to identify bits and pieces of myself again. Step 3: Stop Comparing Yourself to Others This is something I struggle with on a regular basis. In my mind, I’m impatient, selfish, and ignorant on so many levels. For the longest time, I tried emulating my boyfriend’s kind and quiet demeanor. He doesn’t drink, makes thoughtful observations, and is so modest it hurts. I always thought he was a better person than me, so I wanted to be like him. Let’s just say THAT’S not a healthy way of looking at a relationship. Pretty soon I was picking fights with him, demanding to know why he’d want to be with someone like me. Being with him made me feel so stupid because I was always comparing my faults to his strengths. I knew in order for the relationship to work, I had to stop idolizing him and start appreciating myself. If you’re always comparing yourself to others, you’ll never develop your own strengths. I’ve just recently started exercising all three of these steps on a daily basis and found them to be quite helpful in maintaining my sense of self. And with time, I think they’ll improve my relationships with friends and family. What steps would you add to this list? Bring Fairness to Cynthiana Mission Statement The Fairness Campaign is a broad-based community effort dedicated to equal rights. Its primary goal is comprehensive civil rights legislation prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. The Fairness Campaign accomplishes its goals through public education and advocacy, political activity, community building and reciprocal alliances with others in the social justice community. Vision Statement The Fairness Campaign seeks to dismantle oppression and build an inclusive community where all individuals are valued and empowered to reach their full potential. We are a broad, diverse community of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender people and allies committed to transforming society and building a more just world. http://www.fairness.org/ We are athletes, artists and activists, united to support the Gay Games, “the Games that Change the World”
Since the first Gay Games in 1982, the Federation of Gay Games has promoted equality in and by sport and culture and ensured that the Gay Games, the world’s largest sports and culture festival open to all, take place every four years under the founding principles of Participation, Inclusion, and Personal Best™. Our mission is to promote equality for all, and in particular for lesbian, gay, bi and trans people* throughout the world. Learn more about our mission and purpose here. We believe that the Gay Games and the movement they created and nurture are among the greatest forces for community empowerment and social change. We hope this website will allow you to learn more about the Gay Games and their governing body, the Federation of Gay Games. Our latest news can be found on the blog page below. *Our usage favors “LGBT” for “lesbian, gay, bi and trans”, but we do of course include in our scope of action transgender, transsexual, intersex, queer, questioning people, and of course, an essential constituency for change: straight allies. The Gay Games are the largest sport and culture event in the world open to all. Everyone can be part of the Gay Games, whatever their sexual orientation, gender, race, religion, nationality, ethnic origin, political belief(s), athletic/artistic ability, physical challenge, age, or health status. At the Gay Games, a 60-year-old beginner can compete in the same event as an Olympic champion. The Gay Games are not like the Olympics, reserved for an elite minority: they are for everyone, they are for you. Built upon the principles of Participation, Inclusion, and Personal Best, since 1982 the Gay Games have empowered thousands of LGBT athletes and artists through sport, culture, and fellowship. The Gay Games were conceived in 1980 by Dr. Tom Waddell as a vehicle of change. Since Gay Games I in 1982, the Gay Games have been hosted in seven cities in five countries on three continents. For over a quarter century, the Gay Games have built an international legacy of changing cultural, social and political attitudes towards LGBT people across the globe, at the same time empowering thousands and thousands with the transforming benefits of sports competition. In the early 1980s, LGBT athletes were a hidden and marginalized community within the greater marginalized and beleaguered LGBT community. Being gay and being an athlete was an either-or proposition: be a jock or be a queer. All of that changed when the athletes marched into Kezar Stadium in 1982. “We need to discover more about the process of our sexual liberation and apply it meaningfuIIy to other forms of liberation,” Waddell wrote. “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem, and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy…. We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. We have the opportunity to take the initiative on critical issues that affect the quality of life and we can serve in a way that makes all people the beneficiary.” Waddell wanted to bring gays and lesbians together in an unprecedented effort, and he wanted “to dispel the prevailing attitudes in sport regarding ageism, sexism and racism.” Randall Jenson Executive Director, SocialScope Productions; creator, 50Faggots
I have previously written about some of my experiences surviving violence, and my essay below is adapted from the anthology BOYS, published by Thought Catalog, which showcases the voices, stories and lives of gay, queer, and trans* men from around the world. Click here for more information on the book, which will be available digitally on Oct. 31, and in print soon after that. --- The summer after my sophomore year of college, I met a wonderful woman, a community activist who allowed me the nonjudgmental space to first start to share with her parts of my story about growing up in an abusive home, coming out as gay and being homeless. It was the first real opportunity I was presented with to truly reflect on my journey of emerging out of violence and moving past survival mode. I will always be grateful to her for believing me. Our conversations ended up as the core story of the main stage production of The Home Project by About Face Youth Theatre in 2006. It premiered at Victory Gardens Theatre during the same summer that the Gay Games were hosted in Chicago. The show opened with the following lines, which I'd uttered to my friend during our initial conversation: "It's time to go. I'm leaving St. Louis. I'm leaving these streets, these rusting benches, these allies, this park, my family. St. Louis is always going to be one of those places in my life that I'll only visit if I have to, and I won't stay long. Too much has happened here...." --- I attended my first grade school in historic St. Charles, Mo. It was a private academy, nestled on the edge of the Missouri River, where all the students wore crisp white-and-navy uniforms. The academy had nuns in black habits with stinky-cotton-ball breath, and we even learned that a Catholic saint was buried on our school grounds. During my primary year my homeroom teacher asked all the students to draw a picture of our families for an upcoming parent-teacher night. I remember creating a detailed family portrait as a cassette tape of The Little Mermaid played in the background. In the picture I was the skinny, happy little boy standing between my two parents. I was holding their hands. My smiling Mexican mom, only 5 feet tall, had a bobble head full of dark, curly hair. My tall white dad wore thick glasses and towered over all of us with his 6-foot stature. While my mom also held on to a purse, my dad held on to a brown paper bag with a bottle inside it. Unfortunately, these last two illustrative details made my teachers suspicious about what else might be happening at home. I remember answering a myriad of questions about my dad. I innocently answered that, yes, my dad almost always had a bottle or can in his hand, and yes, my dad would drink from this nightly. Well, my mom was then called into a meeting. I remember how embarrassed she looked. I didn't yet understand that we were a working-class family. We were already considered different by those around us. My parents would tell me that it was a "privilege" to be "accepted" into this prestigious academy. On top of this, my family was multiracial. I quickly learned how to stay silent. Regrettably, I learned from my parents that what others thought about us mattered the most. My mom initially denied my drawings. She explained to teachers that I'd drawn those details for attention, even though I didn't know that drawing a brown bag in my dad's hand was attention-worthy. She learned how to excuse my "acting out" when I started to tell teachers at my school about the arguments I saw at home. Everything culminated in a finale the following year. During lunchtime in the cafeteria, I flung a ketchup packet at my best friend, Adam, and it landed in his hair. I'm not really sure why I did this. Maybe I was trying to appear cool? Maybe I was influenced by my childhood idol and first crush, Kevin Arnold from The Wonder Years, who performed a similar incident to impress Winnie Cooper in the pilot episode of the show? All I know is that I was asked to leave the academy. As I grew older, my mom often reminded me that I was dismissed from this private academy. I was reminded that my actions were a direct source of shame for my family. I internalized a variety of messages from my parents telling me that I was a liar. I learned that no one would believe me when I told adults about what was going on at home. Indeed, I learned very quickly that "what happens in the family should stay in the family." --- By the time I was 9 years old, my parents' marriage was quickly unraveling. My dad would spend his time away on week-long business trips and leave me, my mom and my new baby sister to ourselves. I was forced to switch schools; my second Catholic grade school was in the rural town of Wentzville, Mo. Many of the students were from working-class Irish, German and Italian families. However, almost the entire student body was still white, and many of their parents quickly decided that my mom's tanner skin tone and our family's dysfunction were reason enough to keep their children away from me. Lunchtime was a highlight of the school day. I would often sit alone and not socialize with my peers, finding solace in introversion. As I grew more aware of my father's violence and alcoholism, I coped with these realities by eating through second and third helpings of lunchtime Sloppy Joes and baked potatoes. I quickly became known as a chubby, unathletic, sensitive boy from a bad home. At school we attended mass every Wednesday morning. Every week we had religion classes. We learned about Catholic spirituality, and every so often we touched on human sexuality, but we never discussed gay people, aside from the occasional reminders at church that we should "love the sinner, hate the sin." At home I certainly didn't learn anything positive about what it means to be gay. Still, my romantic crushes blossomed. In the summer of 1993, at 10 years old, I fell in love with the movie Free Willy. Well, more specifically, I fell in love Jesse, the rebellious teenager who is the main character in Free Willy. In the movie Jesse escapes homelessness and the foster-care system. He is even able to find a family (and a whale) that love him back. I was growing up. I had moved on from the middle-school Kevin Arnolds of this world, and it couldn't have been more perfect. That September my baby brother was born. My sister was now 3 years old, and our family was a full house. My dad was still very absent from our home at this point, and when he did return home on weekends, he was most often drunk. If he was in a good mood, he'd playfully wrestle with me and give my sister piggyback rides around our house, ignoring my mom. If he was angry, he'd argue with and yell at my mom. The first time I saw my dad hit my mom, I was standing at the top of our stairs. I stared through the wooden railings as my dad's hand slapped my mom across the face and she fell into our foyer's door. I will never forget those images. I remember my parents' final fight. My dad, in an attempt to further scare my mom, threatened to kill her father. He called my grandpa a "dirty old Spic." My mom yelled something back, but I can't even recall what she said, because the next thing I saw was my dad punching my mom. She screamed and fell to the floor. He then dragged my mom across our living-room carpet by her hair, leaving her face scraped, her legs bruised and her body bloody. At 10 years old I jumped on him with all my might to try and get him off my mom. He hurled me off him and into our living-room wall. At this point in their marriage, we had 911 on speed dial. The police arrived yet again, answering a call about a "domestic dispute." I'm not entirely sure why, but this time they seemed to understand the extent of our abuse. They finally took my dad away, and he never spent another night in our home. After this my dad filed for divorce and was able to have the hearings held in the small, rural, Mayberryesque town where he lived. He had been secretly claiming residence there for the past year. My ethnically ambiguous mom was screwed over in the divorce proceedings and lost most of her assets. A year and a half later we even lost the home that she had purchased with her entire savings. We spent a week living in a Super 8 Hotel, temporarily homeless, since my dad had failed to pay the monthly mortgage dictated by the divorce decree. There was one positive thing that came out of their divorce. During the hearings I was called into the court by the judge to give a short testimony about the violence I had endured at the hands of my dad. Though the judge granted my dad regular visitation rights with my two younger siblings, because of the extent of my abuse, he did not force me to see my dad. After my parents' divorce was finalized, I spent a lot of time helping watch my younger brother and sister. My mom was now a single parent and tried her best to give her three children a private-school education. I became the primary caretaker for my siblings and tried to be a good older brother to them. One Christmas my mom gave my little sister a small amount of shopping money, which she spent on gifts from the flea market behind our church. When I unwrapped my gift, I saw a hideous ceramic cherub staring up at me. My sister asked if I liked it. Of course I said yes, trying my best to be gracious. Still, I thought, "What the hell am I going to do with this?" I quickly put it up on my dresser, and it always stayed there, collecting dust and staying out of the way, far from most of my things. For three years I attended a private, Catholic, all-boys high school where I excelled as debate captain. I was involved in anything that wasn't sports, because I still sucked at sports. I learned to accept that I am gay and push past the initial fears that I was going to hell. I figured that if God made everyone in his own image and likeness, then I must be pretty intentional. I managed to make a few close friends and started to spend weekend nights at different friends' houses. This provided me with an escape, since things were becoming tenser at home all the time. I wish that I could say that things got better at home during my teenage years, but they didn't. Even though my dad was out of the picture, my mom refused to seek family counseling for all of us. She spiraled into depression, anger and rage. She became very physically violent toward my siblings and me. I struggled with how much I could share about my family with my peers, their parents and my teachers. I was still being told not to talk about what happened at home. When my mom would try to slap me during an argument, I would often flinch before her hand hit my face. For every flinch she would add an extra slap. She teased me, reminding me that a real man would "stand and take it." She would insult my femininity, grab my fat and imply that I was really a girl because I had a chubby chest. I received the brunt of the abuse in my teenage years. By the time I came out to her as gay at 16 years old, we were in an all-out war at home. During arguments she would chase me around our small apartment with any object she could find: a cordless telephone, a medal pan, a high-heeled shoe. She would hit me to the door and then start to kick me out. After a while I just gave up on trying to fight back, and when she told me to leave, I simply would. What began as a few hours outside the home turned into a few days, and before long I had missed too many weeks at school as well, so I was kicked out of my high school. During all this I ended up trying yet again to commit suicide and entered into a children's psychiatric unit. After I was released my mom kicked me out again. I was now homeless. --- In the summer of 2001, I was 17 years old and staying in a youth emergency shelter. While there I met a graduate student in social work who was volunteering at the shelter. She showed an interest in me, and one evening she broke the agency's rules and snuck me out, taking me to Growing American Youth, the local lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer group located in the gay-friendly neighborhood of the Central West End. It was my first time being around other LGBTQ youth, and I was terrified. I shared with the youth group leader what was happening to me at home, revealing that I was scared and homeless. The youth leader asked me to share my story with the other youth in the group. Since there were few spaces for LGBTQ youth to go, there were over 60 youth at this meeting. After I told my story the youth leader asked everyone, "How many of you, at some point or another, have been kicked out for being gay?" I remember over half the kids raising their hands. That was over 30 youth! I remember thinking how crazy this was. I couldn't believe that this was happening. I couldn't accept that this was normal. It seemed to be such an institutional issue, such an expected journey for me and my peers simply because we were queer. This was the moment that sparked my passion for activism. After the meeting a few members of the youth group came up to me and told me about places where I could stay. I decided to go with the safest option, one that would allow me to try to finish high school. Legally, I could stay in the shelter for up to two weeks before my mom would be reported to the Division of Family Services. It felt unreal that the staff knew that my mom would kick me out again but couldn't immediately report her. It was only if she failed to pick me up from the shelter that they could do so. Their hands were tied. When my mom was forced to pick me up from the shelter, she angrily informed me that I shouldn't expect to stay in the apartment for long. She told me that I was going to be kicked out again. The next day, when my mom left for work, I went into the small bedroom that my brother, my sister and I shared. I quickly packed up everything I could find. I tore my X-Men posters off the wall, gathered up my clothes and organized a memory box full of childhood stuff. It was the end of summer and right before school was to begin. My brother and sister were out in the living room, watching Gullah Gullah Island and Blue's Clues. I remember calling them into the bedroom and explaining to them that I was leaving. I had to go. When my sister asked why, I shared, "Remember how Mom always kicks me out of the house and calls me a faggot and stuff?" "What's a faggot?" my brother asked innocently. "Well, it's a really bad word," I replied, "but what it means is 'gay.'" My sister followed up asking, "Well, what's 'gay'?" "Well, instead of you liking Tommy in your class, it would mean you like Becky," I explained. "So it's when a boy likes a boy, or when a girl likes a girl. Well, I'm gay." They both looked at me and said, quite simply, "That's OK." We all started hugging and crying. When I was getting ready to leave, my sister looked up at my dresser, pointed and said, "You forgot your angel." I quickly replied, "I know. I know. I just have so much stuff--" "You have to take it," she interrupted. "It will watch over you." I moved around a lot after I left home. I lived with different friends and their families before graduating from my second high school, a public school in St. Louis. I had to repeat my junior year, since I didn't have enough credits from my first high school, but in the spring of 2003, I received a full scholarship to DePaul University. --- After living in Chicago for almost 10 years, I recently moved back to St. Louis, accepting the LGBTQ Youth Advocate position at Safe Connections, a local anti-violence organization. This position is the first paid position in the St. Louis region geared toward helping change the culture and climate surrounding LGBTQ youth in schools, youth-serving spaces and community agencies, and I am honored to be doing this work. It has been over 12 years since I initially packed my bags and left home at 17, and it feels like I've come full circle. Through my activism I've often had the privilege of speaking to a variety of LGBTQ young people over the years. One of the best things I can share with them is the promise that they will be loved. But more importantly, I tell them that the families that we are born into sometimes aren't good families. The best decision of my life was finally leaving home. Even the dreaded unknown was preferable to the years of shame, silencing and violence that I'd endured. To this day I don't talk to my mom, and my dad has long been out of my life. My siblings are now young adults, and I hope we can eventually reconnect, but there is still a lot of healing to do. But no matter where I've lived, I've always taken that angel with me. |