Victoria S.
Age 13
Central Missouri
I was never “supposed to be” gay, or even questioning, for that matter. There is a very profound rule in my town and the surrounding area. You are basically supposed to go to high school, state or community college, get a job, get married, work, get old, and die.
At the age of only 9, 10 or 11, I knew I was different. Things were going really well for me at the time. I had just been accepted into the gifted program at school, and had a “boyfriend”- you know how elementary school “relationships” go. One thing that hit me, after about a week, I would have to force myself to have feelings for a guy.
No one I knew was having that problem, or at least didn’t say anything about it. Through the rest of 4th and 5th grade, I just thought I hadn’t met someone I truly liked yet- but as it turns out, I was looking in all the wrong places.
What seriously hit home for me was at a sleepover. I was sleeping at my best friend’s house, like I did almost every weekend. She, her younger sister, and I were sitting on the bed, and I, well, felt something that I would later realize was attraction. We would jump around, and when my friend would jokingly get close to me, I was attracted. However, I was very ashamed, although I would just smile to myself every time she got closer to me.
Later that night, in an odd game of spin the bottle, I had my first kiss- with a girl. And I liked it. I liked it more than I would admit to myself. It was then that I knew something was VERY different about me.
I discovered my brother’s secret [that he is gay] when I was very young, and had an interest in gay rights, and gay people in general. I never viewed homosexuality as wrong in anyway. It was simply love- and love is good, or so I tried to believe as I came out as bisexual.
When I initially came out, so many girls identified as “bi” that I wasn’t taken seriously at first, even by some of my friends. Even then, I soon became one of the poster children for the LGBT community in our town. There are four to five openly gay kids and our town, and I’ve already explained the sort of fad that the word “bi” represented at the time, and I know each and every one of them, being really good friends with most of my town’s LGBT citizens.
Even then, though, a growing monster was threatening to tear me apart. I was cutting myself because I was so hurt, and as I even started my first relationship with a girl earlier this year, I felt I was wrong. I had internalized homophobia.
This led me to nearly attempt suicide. I was this close to making an attempt on my life. I absolutely HAD to talk to someone about this.
When I was beginning to think I could turn to one of my old friends, who at one time I almost dated, I sent her a message over Facebook. At the time, I was living with my brother and sister-in-law, and my sister-in-law went through the messages I had sent to my old friend and my friend Sam, who was rumored to be my girlfriend.
They set me down, explaining that it wasn’t right and I shouldn’t be worried about that “stuff” yet. My brother sort of defended me, but they expressed their feelings of my (at that time) bisexuality very clearly. If I wanted to live like that, they said, then I could go back to my parents’ house.
That debate split my family beyond repair, and my first real run-in with homophobia still comes back to me every single moment that I have free-time to think.
Soon after I lost contact with my brother and sister-in-law, I developed an unrequited crush on one of my close friends, and we still talk to this day. I haven’t lost any real friends because of their attitudes toward homosexuality, but for a while, I had lost two siblings. Although I have them back, I know nothing can be the same between them and my parents.
I just try to live day-by-day, dealing with my internalized homophobia as it presents itself, and even though I’m not perfect, I know that God makes no mistakes. I believe that I was made to be different, and will live as God intended me to.
“Why would God make us so different if he wanted us all to be the same?”- SAVED! The movie
“Burst down those closet doors once and for all, and stand up and start to fight!"- Harvey Milk
If you would like to participate in the Gay in the Life Project, email your story to gay.in.the.life@gmail.com, along with your first name or pen name, age, location, and/or any other information that you’d like posted to introduce yourself. All contact information will remain private and confidential.
Showing posts with label same-sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label same-sex. Show all posts
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Gay in the Life of The Out Activist
This inspiring story comes to us from Bridget, in West Virginia. Bridget also calls herself The Out Activist, and uses the following as an introduction to her own blog. You can check it out by typing "The Out Activist" into your Facebook search bar.
I never intended to be an activist. I never intended to be gay. Now following up those statements, I think I should explain who I am and how I ended up here.
My name is Bridget. I am 33 years old, married (I use the term loosely and I will explain later), and have two children. I am a white, middle-class, Republican, Christian American living in the coal mining foothills of southern West Virginia. Oh yeah, and I am gay.
West Virginia is a Democratic state by nature. We have the oldest average age of residents in the US. Older than Florida. We have a population of less than 2 million and one of the lowest crime rates. Almost 75% of our state is covered by forest. That probably has something to do with that crime rate fact. 95% of the population is white. 65% of the residents are Protestant, 77% Christian. West Virginia is considered the southern most northern state and the northern most southern state. See, even my state is confused about its identity. These may seem like trivial facts but until eight years ago the most un-normal or out of line thing I did was vote Republican. Then along came a woman. Isn't that how all the good stories start?
I had lived the first 25 years of my life straight. Never even thought twice about it. I don't have some grand coming out story. I wasn't tortured in high school. My parents didn't disown me as a gay teenager. I had never really even thought about the gay community. There certainly are gay people in West Virginia but we don't seem to be as out here as other states. I met Nova, another straight chick, at work one day. I don't know if you can call it love at first sight but it seemed pretty damn close. Within one month we had gently removed the men from out of lives and were dating each other exclusively. Within two months we lived together. Yes, I know that sounds cliché lesbian but that was almost eight years ago and we are still kicking. During that dating time, we experienced hatred. We had our cars keyed, received hate mail, packages on our door step, threatening phone calls, and I even attribute the loss of a job to it. I unfortunately wasn't taking these experiences as a gay education. See, I considered myself an educated person already. I considered my family and friends to be educated as well. I thought these were just small town redneck moments. I didn't realize the prevalence of the hate. I didn't even realize I was about to get a real life education.
In 2004, I came across a website looking for couples to have a holy union ceremony as part of a gay pride event. Nova and I had been together two years. It seemed like it would be a nice display of love to one another. It was about to become a display of love to the country. I think the lack of legal marriage is cheapening the idea of commitment ceremonies. They are everywhere now. That wasn't the case in 2004. This pride event wanted to make a statement. They wanted a couple to show off and parade around. Several couples had stepped up but as the event drew near, fear kicked in, couples dropped out. Last man standing, we ended up becoming the defending voice of gay marriage at that event.
I don't consider protestors romantic. I wanted to hear piano music as I walked down the aisle. I heard banging. I wanted my family standing there for me. I had police officers trying to keep the doors from swinging open at the hands of protestors. I wanted friends taking my picture. I had news cameras. I wanted friends throwing rice. I had hundreds, maybe a thousand welcoming me as an angry mob with signs and shouts. That's the day I met Fred Phelps. If you don't know the name Google it.
In my small town this would have made national news. We weren't in West Virginia. This wasn't a small town. I didn't realize why this was news. People wanted to interview us. We weren't famous. I didn't think we were important. People have weddings every day. Why do I need to go on TV to explain this? I stood in front of the tv cameras. Don't let the emotions over run this. This is not personal. This people spewing hatred do not know me. I am a Christian. They are holding that same Bible I read. Those words aren't in it. Control the anger. Control the tears. I had read the Constitution. I am not breaking any grand law of the land standing here holding the hand of someone I love. Then come the questions. The interviewer wants to provoke me. It makes good ratings. They want a shouting match. What do I do? I defend the protestors. I defend their right to freedom of speech. The whole time I was looking past the camera, through the glass doors that silenced the roar, and right into the face of Fred Phelps. I went on to explain that I was using my freedom of speech and I thought that they should be able to as well. I watched myself on TV that night from our hotel room. Apparently, I was not the only one. The next day strangers came up to me on the street. They thanked me. I showed a rational point of view. I did later come to find out that it wasn't always the case in our community. I discovered that I had a voice. I had a voice and it could have power.
The problem with having a voice is that others can hear it. Excited by what I thought was my 15 minutes of fame, I searched our names on the internet when we returned home. I found us. I even found us on anti-gay websites. When your words are public it gives people the ability to play with them. Words can be twisted. I see it everyday as a gay Christian. The words that I use to love someone are used to hate me. Can I let twisted words be my legacy? Do I really let it end there? There are gay activists out there. There isn't a need for me. Small town kid or some old white guy in a $1000 suit? I am not the face of gay America, or am I?
Life goes on. The moment in the spot light fades. "Real life" kicks in. Normal married life. Well that requires paperwork. Little things kept popping up. Things don't seem this hard for straight couples. Extra effort and phone calls for insurance. Funny looks from the landlord. Tax time is a pain in the ass. Then bigger things starting happening. One of the boys got hurt at a playground. He was bleeding badly. I could see the hospital. Seemed like an easy choice. Stop for a second and take these emotions in. I stood in the E.R. holding a bleeding child who was just denied care because I wasn't his "real" mom. Raising a kid, changing diapers, kissing boo boos, midnight feedings, birthday parties, Christmas morning, and tucking him in a night does not make you a real mom. A piece of paper does. A crack addict, who abandons their kid has more rights than I did. Now I have to make a phone call to the real mom. I broke him but I can't fix him. "Real" mom is a hour away at work. My head was spinning. Maybe it was the room. I was shaking. Bleeding child in one hand. Cell phone in the other. Tears running down my cheek. How can I comfort a crying child? I could not comfort myself. I did feel a sense of relief when I knocked on the triage nurse's window, handed her my cell phone and explained that it was for her. I don't remember the words that were said. I heard them. Hell, I heard them through the glass window, I just don't remember. I do remember that the door opened and they fixed the boo boo. I also remember that I had just been shown my place in the world. I was just the other gay parent. That is equal to being a roommate.
I don't want to say that it is unfortunate but I also cannot say that I am grateful. This is my path in life. I was reminded more than once that I am just a roommate. My wife isn't in the best of health. When you are sick, when you are scared you need your family by your side. Family. Seems like an easy concept but that was another day that I was shown just how powerful a piece of paper can be. A piece of paper that I didn't have. Family only in the room. Roommates are not family. Next of kin? Mother. A mother several states away. A mother that she didn't speak to. A mother that didn't know her medical history. A mother who wouldn't even waste a drive to see her daughter even if it might be the last time. I saw the wrong side of closed hospital doors too many times. I cried alone in hospital hallways too many times.
I am smart. I am educated (those are two different things). Why didn't I know about the problems that faced a gay couple? I shared my experiences with my friends and family. They are also educated, smart people. They happen to be straight. They didn't believe what problems I faced. A lot of people, myself included at that time, thought that gay activist were fighting for special rights. I don't believe that the gay community needs special rights. What I realized was that we were fighting for equal rights. I didn't know this was a fight that I needed to be in. Neither did my friends. You can't fix a problem if you don't even know that it is there. Now I want people to know there is a problem. I want to be part of that solution. I want my friends and family to be part of that solution. I want complete strangers to be a part of that solution.
For years now I have been posting stuff on Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, whatever blog of the day about gay rights. I just want people to know. I call my congressman. I call my President. Hell, I've tried to call the presidents of other countries too. I send emails. I forward stories. I now have those oh so important pieces of paper. I have a bunch of them. Hospital doors are no longer closed in my face. I want to help others with those same steps. It loses its sincerity when you see a post that I just received an email from the President and the next post is that I leveled up on Farmville. I never had the time to devote to a page just for LGBT stuff. God fixed that for me. I recently was hurt. It was bad enough that my body wasn't able to work. That didn't do much for my mind. Sitting at home with a TV remote, a dog, and a bottle of pain pills didn't occupy the hours between doctor appointments. So here I am. I can't promise that once the doctors fix whatever bone I broke or muscle I tore that I will be able to post 20 times a day. But I do promise that I will not stop fighting. I will not stop being that rational voice. I found my voice. I will use it to speak up for those who can't speak up for themselves. I just ask that you take that journey with me.
-Bridget
Thanks Bridget! If anyone else would like to participate in the Gay in the Life Project, email your story to gay.in.the.life@gmail.com, along with your first name or pen name, age, location, and/or any other information that you’d like posted to introduce yourself. All contact information will remain private and confidential.
I never intended to be an activist. I never intended to be gay. Now following up those statements, I think I should explain who I am and how I ended up here.
My name is Bridget. I am 33 years old, married (I use the term loosely and I will explain later), and have two children. I am a white, middle-class, Republican, Christian American living in the coal mining foothills of southern West Virginia. Oh yeah, and I am gay.
West Virginia is a Democratic state by nature. We have the oldest average age of residents in the US. Older than Florida. We have a population of less than 2 million and one of the lowest crime rates. Almost 75% of our state is covered by forest. That probably has something to do with that crime rate fact. 95% of the population is white. 65% of the residents are Protestant, 77% Christian. West Virginia is considered the southern most northern state and the northern most southern state. See, even my state is confused about its identity. These may seem like trivial facts but until eight years ago the most un-normal or out of line thing I did was vote Republican. Then along came a woman. Isn't that how all the good stories start?
I had lived the first 25 years of my life straight. Never even thought twice about it. I don't have some grand coming out story. I wasn't tortured in high school. My parents didn't disown me as a gay teenager. I had never really even thought about the gay community. There certainly are gay people in West Virginia but we don't seem to be as out here as other states. I met Nova, another straight chick, at work one day. I don't know if you can call it love at first sight but it seemed pretty damn close. Within one month we had gently removed the men from out of lives and were dating each other exclusively. Within two months we lived together. Yes, I know that sounds cliché lesbian but that was almost eight years ago and we are still kicking. During that dating time, we experienced hatred. We had our cars keyed, received hate mail, packages on our door step, threatening phone calls, and I even attribute the loss of a job to it. I unfortunately wasn't taking these experiences as a gay education. See, I considered myself an educated person already. I considered my family and friends to be educated as well. I thought these were just small town redneck moments. I didn't realize the prevalence of the hate. I didn't even realize I was about to get a real life education.
In 2004, I came across a website looking for couples to have a holy union ceremony as part of a gay pride event. Nova and I had been together two years. It seemed like it would be a nice display of love to one another. It was about to become a display of love to the country. I think the lack of legal marriage is cheapening the idea of commitment ceremonies. They are everywhere now. That wasn't the case in 2004. This pride event wanted to make a statement. They wanted a couple to show off and parade around. Several couples had stepped up but as the event drew near, fear kicked in, couples dropped out. Last man standing, we ended up becoming the defending voice of gay marriage at that event.
I don't consider protestors romantic. I wanted to hear piano music as I walked down the aisle. I heard banging. I wanted my family standing there for me. I had police officers trying to keep the doors from swinging open at the hands of protestors. I wanted friends taking my picture. I had news cameras. I wanted friends throwing rice. I had hundreds, maybe a thousand welcoming me as an angry mob with signs and shouts. That's the day I met Fred Phelps. If you don't know the name Google it.
In my small town this would have made national news. We weren't in West Virginia. This wasn't a small town. I didn't realize why this was news. People wanted to interview us. We weren't famous. I didn't think we were important. People have weddings every day. Why do I need to go on TV to explain this? I stood in front of the tv cameras. Don't let the emotions over run this. This is not personal. This people spewing hatred do not know me. I am a Christian. They are holding that same Bible I read. Those words aren't in it. Control the anger. Control the tears. I had read the Constitution. I am not breaking any grand law of the land standing here holding the hand of someone I love. Then come the questions. The interviewer wants to provoke me. It makes good ratings. They want a shouting match. What do I do? I defend the protestors. I defend their right to freedom of speech. The whole time I was looking past the camera, through the glass doors that silenced the roar, and right into the face of Fred Phelps. I went on to explain that I was using my freedom of speech and I thought that they should be able to as well. I watched myself on TV that night from our hotel room. Apparently, I was not the only one. The next day strangers came up to me on the street. They thanked me. I showed a rational point of view. I did later come to find out that it wasn't always the case in our community. I discovered that I had a voice. I had a voice and it could have power.
The problem with having a voice is that others can hear it. Excited by what I thought was my 15 minutes of fame, I searched our names on the internet when we returned home. I found us. I even found us on anti-gay websites. When your words are public it gives people the ability to play with them. Words can be twisted. I see it everyday as a gay Christian. The words that I use to love someone are used to hate me. Can I let twisted words be my legacy? Do I really let it end there? There are gay activists out there. There isn't a need for me. Small town kid or some old white guy in a $1000 suit? I am not the face of gay America, or am I?
Life goes on. The moment in the spot light fades. "Real life" kicks in. Normal married life. Well that requires paperwork. Little things kept popping up. Things don't seem this hard for straight couples. Extra effort and phone calls for insurance. Funny looks from the landlord. Tax time is a pain in the ass. Then bigger things starting happening. One of the boys got hurt at a playground. He was bleeding badly. I could see the hospital. Seemed like an easy choice. Stop for a second and take these emotions in. I stood in the E.R. holding a bleeding child who was just denied care because I wasn't his "real" mom. Raising a kid, changing diapers, kissing boo boos, midnight feedings, birthday parties, Christmas morning, and tucking him in a night does not make you a real mom. A piece of paper does. A crack addict, who abandons their kid has more rights than I did. Now I have to make a phone call to the real mom. I broke him but I can't fix him. "Real" mom is a hour away at work. My head was spinning. Maybe it was the room. I was shaking. Bleeding child in one hand. Cell phone in the other. Tears running down my cheek. How can I comfort a crying child? I could not comfort myself. I did feel a sense of relief when I knocked on the triage nurse's window, handed her my cell phone and explained that it was for her. I don't remember the words that were said. I heard them. Hell, I heard them through the glass window, I just don't remember. I do remember that the door opened and they fixed the boo boo. I also remember that I had just been shown my place in the world. I was just the other gay parent. That is equal to being a roommate.
I don't want to say that it is unfortunate but I also cannot say that I am grateful. This is my path in life. I was reminded more than once that I am just a roommate. My wife isn't in the best of health. When you are sick, when you are scared you need your family by your side. Family. Seems like an easy concept but that was another day that I was shown just how powerful a piece of paper can be. A piece of paper that I didn't have. Family only in the room. Roommates are not family. Next of kin? Mother. A mother several states away. A mother that she didn't speak to. A mother that didn't know her medical history. A mother who wouldn't even waste a drive to see her daughter even if it might be the last time. I saw the wrong side of closed hospital doors too many times. I cried alone in hospital hallways too many times.
I am smart. I am educated (those are two different things). Why didn't I know about the problems that faced a gay couple? I shared my experiences with my friends and family. They are also educated, smart people. They happen to be straight. They didn't believe what problems I faced. A lot of people, myself included at that time, thought that gay activist were fighting for special rights. I don't believe that the gay community needs special rights. What I realized was that we were fighting for equal rights. I didn't know this was a fight that I needed to be in. Neither did my friends. You can't fix a problem if you don't even know that it is there. Now I want people to know there is a problem. I want to be part of that solution. I want my friends and family to be part of that solution. I want complete strangers to be a part of that solution.
For years now I have been posting stuff on Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, whatever blog of the day about gay rights. I just want people to know. I call my congressman. I call my President. Hell, I've tried to call the presidents of other countries too. I send emails. I forward stories. I now have those oh so important pieces of paper. I have a bunch of them. Hospital doors are no longer closed in my face. I want to help others with those same steps. It loses its sincerity when you see a post that I just received an email from the President and the next post is that I leveled up on Farmville. I never had the time to devote to a page just for LGBT stuff. God fixed that for me. I recently was hurt. It was bad enough that my body wasn't able to work. That didn't do much for my mind. Sitting at home with a TV remote, a dog, and a bottle of pain pills didn't occupy the hours between doctor appointments. So here I am. I can't promise that once the doctors fix whatever bone I broke or muscle I tore that I will be able to post 20 times a day. But I do promise that I will not stop fighting. I will not stop being that rational voice. I found my voice. I will use it to speak up for those who can't speak up for themselves. I just ask that you take that journey with me.
-Bridget
Thanks Bridget! If anyone else would like to participate in the Gay in the Life Project, email your story to gay.in.the.life@gmail.com, along with your first name or pen name, age, location, and/or any other information that you’d like posted to introduce yourself. All contact information will remain private and confidential.
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