Dear Ex-Best Friends

I’ve been thinking a lot about you two lately. I noticed the congratulatory remarks on one of your blog pages about the new baby one of you had, and I’m so glad the challenges he faced during his first few days here on earth are almost done. I think I might be just as excited as you are for him to come home, and am so happy for you and you beautiful, loving, understanding wife.

As for the other one of you, we haven’t talked in a long time, but you and your wife used to read this blog a bit, until you decided I was straying off the gospel path too much. I think you both expected that I would “bear my testimony” every post, spouting the virtues of the church that I loved without ever discussing the darker moments of my life. I hope your young boy is doing well, and that your family is happy and comfortable. I hope this economy hasn’t taken its toll on your jobs, especially with less houses being built and sold (I’d imagine that would affect your work a great deal). I’ve wondered if you have had any other children. I followed your blog religiously until you closed it. I understand your need for privacy, but I’m sad about losing touch.

If you’ll both allow me to reminisce a bit.

Do you remember when I was gay, and we used to walk to junior high school together? Most of the time we would talk about how we were going to take over the school. We planned our lives out like we were always going to be best friends. Most of the time we would talk the entire time, about various subjects, but mostly about intelligence, cybercrime, and espionage. Every now and again the walks home would be in total silence, each of us in our own little worlds. It was always amazing to me how we could be comfortable just thinking together. I think those walks back and forth from school really cemented my self-esteem.

Do you remember when I was gay, and when we went to the store and bought cap guns? These weren’t just any cap guns, but actually looked like glock handguns, and held the caps inside so that they were completely invisible – nothing like those old strip cap guns I used to want as a child. The only problem was that when we bought ours they were bright blue with florescent orange tips, so we went to a hobby shop and purchased black enamel paint. I’m still amazed at how real they looked when we were done.

Do you remember when I was gay and I found my dad’s condoms, and how when I told you guys you each wanted one to “try on.” I snuck you each one by taking apart your guns and hiding one in the stock. I was so afraid that maybe my parents had them counted and wondered what might happen if they realized a few were missing. I figured I’d blame my older sister, but that never was necessary. If they noticed at all they never said anything.

Do you remember when I was gay and we started our own group called ISA? International Spy Agency, was what I think those letters stood for. We had a complete organizational structure, and on nights we would spend at each other’s houses we would go out on secret spying missions by sneaking out of the house and running around the neighborhood at 3am with our glock cap guns in tow. We were even going to go to the state and present a plan as to how having ISA members in schools would help stop crimes and save the state thousands of dollars in prosecuting costs when juveniles were selling drugs or doing other illegal activities on school grounds. We even were successful once, catching three girls smoking weed. All we did was tell a teacher, but it sure made us feel strong and special.

Do you remember when I was gay and one of you moved out of the city, and then back, and how the other one and I convinced you that we had actually gotten state approval for ISA, and we had a headquarters behind Winder Dairy? We actually played it up so well you followed us all the way up the street, all dressed in camouflage. When we finally reached the Winder Dairy gate a car drove by and asked us what we were doing. I was pretty freaked out that they were going to call the cops over our prank – we had to have looked pretty suspicious.

Do you remember when I was gay and we built the second level to the clubhouse? That was ISA’s secret base and we kept saving our money to be able to afford an alarm on the second level door so that we could keep one of your sister’s out. She was pretty funny, always wanting to know what we were up to.

Do you remember when I was gay and we started our own boy band? We would sing around an old Packard Bell computer to N’Sync, Backstreet Boys, and our favorite group – Five. That didn’t last too long though, because our voices started to change and none of us could sing very well.

Do you remember when I was gay and we used to get the whole neighborhood to play night games with us at the church across the street from one of your houses? There was one time we put on all our camo and hid by laying down right in the middle of the grass. No one ever found us hiding in plain sight, but I remember one time when, after lying face down in the grass for over an hour, my allergies went crazy and my throat closed up and I had trouble breathing.

Do you remember when I was gay, and I told you about how I literally thought your friendship had saved my life? I was having a hard time with my mom, and with being gay (although you didn’t know that part), and was seriously considering suicide. This was perhaps the only time, and the only day where I actually was thinking about going through with it. But instead, you called me up, and invited me down to your house to rollerblade – perhaps our favorite pastime when we weren’t spying on people. After roller blading we spent the night at the other one’s house, and you planned with me how I could run away from home. Those plans were stupid and never materialized, but I really appreciated the fact that you were both so concerned for me.

Do you remember when I was gay and we set up the tent in the backyard and slept outside? Maybe I shouldn’t say any more about that night.

Do you remember a few years later when I was gay, and you told me that it was too hard being friends with me because I couldn’t go out with you on the weeknights? You mentioned that my mom was too strict, and because of that you started to push me out of your circle. That hurt my feelings quite a bit, because I had no control over when my family let me out of the house. But that didn’t last very long. After just a few months each of you came back to me, and we formed individual friendships stronger than our threesome ever was.

Do you remember I was gay and you both had a falling out over the same girl? One of you ended up marrying her. I was one of the groomsmen in your wedding. You didn’t have enough money to rent a tux for me, but I told you not to worry about it, that I would foot the bill, because your day needed to be special. It really was a beautiful wedding.

Do you remember when I was gay and I was at the other wedding too? I drove your sister to the store so we could get things to decorate your car, and talked to your step-dad the whole reception about his job up on the base so that he would stay out of your hair. He even accused me of being in love with your sister because we had spent so much time together that day, and he claimed that I was looking at her like I desired her. That was an awkward conversation, particularly because it wasn’t true, but I definitely felt a renewed friendship with your sister that day, and didn’t have a problem taking heat from your step-dad over it. I knew if he was belittling me he wouldn’t have the chance to belittle you.

Do you remember when I was gay and I came to visit one of you in Colorado. We went skiing and ended up in a huge blizzard that was the worst blizzard Colorado had seen in decades. We were really afraid we were going to end up stranded, and had planned to drive back together to SLC. We made it thanks to your company truck, but only ended up skiing one time down the hill, and had to drive the skis all the way back to Salt Lake because the place we rented them in Colorado closed.

Do you remember when I was gay and I finally told you both? The one I expected to have the hardest time with it had a wife that was kind and understanding. She helped you understand what I was going through, and I was surprised when you hugged me the first time you saw me after that. I was grateful that even though you knew, you weren’t afraid of me. The other one didn’t take the news so well at all, and it even got worse when I found my partner and started making a life with him.

I suppose my point is that although we have all grown in different directions, I have to admit a part of me is surprised that it was the gay issue that drove us apart and made you both see me as an enemy to your families, especially because during all those years, I was gay. It didn’t matter then, because you didn’t know. I’m disappointed that knowing changed your opinion of me so.

Do you remember when I was gay, and out, and you told me that you were afraid for your family because of me? I think that is the last time we spoke. It isn’t because I’m angry or sad or that I don’t want to talk. It isn’t that I don’t miss our friendship. It’s because I’m respecting your wishes. The one thing I refuse to be blamed for is splitting up your family. So if I stand back and watch you both from a distance only, if your families fall apart you can’t blame that on me. If they do, I’ll be here ready to be your friend and help you pick up the pieces. If they don’t I’ll celebrate with you all of your successes.

And I won’t expect anything in return, not even your friendship…

…because I have had plenty of friends who have stood by me, who have adopted me into their families, and who have let our friendship be more powerful than lies, misinformation, and fear.

Mommy Dearest

My siblings and I always had a running joke about how when we were growing up my mom was the quintessential Mommy Dearest (if you haven't seen the movie, you should have your gay card revoked). My mom and I have sort of had an up and down relationship throughout the years. The first real downturn was when I was in my first year of high school and was trying to assert some level of independence. She didn’t like that very much. There was a time where she was very adamant about controlling what clothes I wore, which friends I got close to, how I cut my hair, and what activities I got involved with. She was the type of mother that would make me re-clean an entire bathroom because there was one hair left on the bathtub, would never let me out of the house on a school night, and gave me a ridiculously early curfew because she “couldn’t sleep if [I] was out of the house.”

I still remember the first time one of my best friends gave me a pair of baggy pants so that I would stop being made fun of for my inability to dress in style (and as a young gay boy, I certainly knew what the style was, which just made the fact that I wasn’t allowed to dress accordingly even more frustrating). I would sneak the jenas into my book bag and change once I got to school. Then, one day, they just disappeared. I’m still not sure exactly how my mom found them, but I have no doubt she did. She never said anything. I never said anything. I even searched for them in the garbage can to no avail. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she went as far as eating them to keep them away from me, with some liver and fava beans followed by a nice (non-alcoholic?) Chianti.

Then, when I was in college I bought a boot knife. It had about a four and a half inch blade, and was perfectly balanced. I brought it home to show my dad, and we had a bit of fun the next few hours as he taught me how to throw it without cutting my hands (I’ll talk about how this was one of the few bonding experiences I’ve had with my dad later. This post is about my mom). Just as I was getting the hang of it my mom came out into the yard, and asked what we were doing. As soon as she saw the knife she said something along the lines of “That knife looks like it was designed to kill people? Why would you have something like that?”

Having the dry sense of humor I do, I said something along the lines of “Well, I was going to get a gun, but then I decided it wasn’t personal enough. If I’m going to kill someone, I want them to be close enough so I can see the light go out of their eyes.”

Dad laughed. Mom didn’t find it too amusing. The knife disappeared. How she magically whisked it away from my college dorm room in Ogden (yes, it was within the legal acceptable limit of the dorm rooms) to Salt Lake is beyond me. Sometimes I wonder if she didn’t borrow my dad’s priesthood authority and command it to come to her. Accio knife! (By the way, I got it back a few years ago, not because she gave it back, but because I found where she hid it).

Of course, I’m telling you the amusing stories and leaving out some of the darker ones. Hopefully you’ll think after reading up to this point that any issue I had with my mother was simply the usual teenage rebellion/angst. And that’s fine. I do think it was more than that, but the downtimes aren’t as important as the uptimes, so I prefer to look at the bad moments as learning experiences to be laughed at.

But something changed when I got back from my mission. I still remember driving with my mom in a car in a canyon somewhere, although I don’t remember where we had been or where we were going. She turned to me and started talking about the changes our house had gone through while I was gone – all the stuff she didn’t want to tell me while I was on my mission because she didn’t want to distract me from the Lord's work. I learned that my father and her had some major issues, and that both of my sisters had screaming matches with him. She admitted to me how hard she was on us as kids, but that her problems with my father had taught her to let things go. She had learned how to mellow out.

It was odd to hear my mom apologize. It wasn’t something I had ever had happen to me while growing up. She was never wrong, or, at least never admitted it.

And we grew close. Really close. We would take the dogs for a walk every night, and chat on the porch for hours after the sun set. She lent me money for a failed business venture, and invested in my published novel. I’m still not sure what happened during those two years that I was gone to change her so much, or maybe I had just grown up and started appreciating her more (probably a combination of the two), but suddenly our relationship was amazing. I don’t remember her ever yelling at me after I got back from my mission.

About a year later, and after yet another failed relationship attempt with a woman, I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to “fix” my sexuality on my own. I was having a hard time “holding on,” so I confided in my mom that I was gay. One of the first things she said to me was, “This is the worst thing a mother could hear.” Since that time, she has tried to explain to me what she meant when she said that, insisting that it wasn’t meant as I took it, and that she meant something along the lines of it being the worst thing that she could conceive of in regards to my internal struggle, and the fact that she didn’t know about the struggle and allowed me to suffer alone. The negative part was not the fact that I was gay – but that she didn’t know how to fix it for me. It is still hard for me to accept that reasoning, but I have worked hard to put that comment behind me regardless of how it was intended.

The very next day I had an appointment with LDS Social Services, and entered into the grand ‘ole world of reparative therapy.

To make a long story short, it was about two years later that I left home, broken, rejected, putting on a façade of smugness as I announced that I was dating another man. My dad announced that he would rather have a dead son than I gay one, while my mom pleaded with me to “please not do this.”

And our relationship has never fully recovered.

Throughout the years, I’ve received the obligatory “I want you in the celestial kingdom with us” conversations through tears and anger. I’ve watched as my family has rejected my partner, set rules as to what “behavior” they will tolerate from us (not only in their homes, but in public, as if we aren’t capable of controlling our carnal beastly desires). Just last year I finally told them I wasn’t about to have another birthday without my partner being invited so if they wanted to celebrate with me they would have to come to our house. I didn’t realize how big of a request this was. My family took a vote to decide whether or not I was worthy of a birthday. I guess everyone was on pins and needles, afraid that my partner and I might walk out into the living room naked and decide to put on a show right then and there. My older sister told my mom she fears that being around me will turn her son gay.

But the surprising thing is that it is my mother who has made the most progress over the last four years. She argued for the birthday party at our house. She has been pressing the family to allow my partner to be invited on family vacations (the fact that I won’t go without him doesn’t seem to faze the others). She has fought for more inclusivity. And since this blog is about her, I want so share with you our most recent conversation.

Just the Sunday after General Conference, I made a comment to my mom, my dad, and my little sister about how I had received a lot of backlash from friends, community members, and church members in relation to President Packer’s conference talk.

A few days ago, my mom called me to ask me what I meant, and to share some of the things people had been saying to me.

It isn’t anything we gay Mormon’s haven’t heard before (and I’m sure plenty of you have heard these things too), but I commented on how many members took his talk to the logical conclusion of “if your sexual orientation isn’t changing then obviously you don’t have enough faith,” or “see, you must have made a choice to be gay, and if you would only come to Christ he would heal you,” or, “if you are faithful in this life you will be rewarded with a great heterosexual life in the world to come,” etc. etc.

I was surprised to find my mom a bit flabbergasted at the other end of the phone. Finally she said, “You didn’t choose this, and you are a good man. I wish the church leaders would listen to you. I really think you should see your stake president and have him pass your story on to Thomas S Monson (who is in my ward).”

I just had to chuckle a bit. “So you disagree with sexuality being a choice, and that it can be changed?”

She responded something to the effect of “Well, I think the behavior can be controlled, but that isn’t the point is it. I don’t think the temptations or tendencies can be changed, no.”

It was funny that she chose to use those words, the exact same words President Packer used in his talk (both the original, and the changed version).

So I said, “Mom, you realize that you disagree with President Packer then, and that all the people who have been berating me would be berating you for not following the prophets and apostles. To them, you are on your way to apostasy.”

She laughed and said, “Well, maybe I am then, because he’s wrong.”

Now, I don’t think my mom is anywhere near on her way out of the church. In fact, I know better. But it was nice to hear her agree with and trust me when I say I didn’t choose to be gay. It was nice to hear her admit that the church that she loves so much can be wrong… even if it is just slightly wrong.

It was, perhaps, one of the most honest conversations I’ve had with her in a long time. We didn’t have to shy away from the subject. I didn’t have to find other things to talk about like my job, my skating, or anything and everything BESIDES my relationship. We just talked.

While I realize that she may never truly appreciate and be proud of my for the decisions I’ve made, I am happy that we are starting to heal.

One of my mom’s most poignant concerns after I came out was that I would turn my back on her and my family. I admit there have been times when I have wanted to. Sometimes people need the ultimatum to “accept me as I am or I’m gone,” but I don’t think that would work well with my family. And frankly, I couldn’t let her be right this time. I couldn’t let her prophesy that I would go off the deep end and turn my back on them become the truth.

For a long time I worried that the opposite was true, and for a time, it was. I care very deeply for my mother. I love her and know that our relationship is unique and special. She may not be able to walk in gay pride parades or join PFLAG yet, and she may never be able to, but I love her, and accept that she is doing the best she can with a situation that is very difficult. I know. I’ve been there. It’s difficult for me too – which is why I understand how it affects her so much.

I wish I could convince her that it isn’t her fault. She first blamed herself because all of the church material she read said an “overbearing mother and absent father” are the causes of homosexuality. I don’t believe that, and I don’t believe she fits the definition… Ok… maybe while I was in high school, but I was gay long long long before that.

Now she blames herself because she didn’t see me suffering, and because I wasn’t able to trust her enough to tell her when I was younger. I think that is good progression, but still isn’t sufficient. That isn’t her fault either. I lied, and I did it well.

To my mother (who doesn’t read this blog as far as I know, but who may run across it one day. I also mean this for all of the other mothers of gay sons): I love you. You didn’t turn your back on me, and because of that I cannot and will not turn my back on you. I am so grateful for all of the special moments, all the conversations, all the tears we’ve shed, and all of the laughs. It is the pride of every son to be recognized by their mother as a good man, and because of that you are right about what you told me on the phone a few days ago… that is enough.