In 2008, I attended the ex-Mormon conference. It felt alien. Apart from a brief "conversion" at the age of 22, which got me through a rough time but never amounted to any real involvement with the Church, I only knew about the Church from what I had studied, which fascinated me.
But never mind that.
At one point, I met a very smart fellow, the son of a medical doctor, who was gay. Not only was he brilliant and a very gifted writer, but extremely angry. Again, I felt like an alien, looking in. Ostensibly, I was "gay" (whatever that meant), but completely different from this fellow--I'll call him Jeff. Jeff was unabashed, in-your-face, liberal, an atheist, someone who liked to enjoy himself, and professorial. Imagine a very young, gay Christopher Hitchens, and you'll get a sense for what his personality. I was conservative, admired Mormon culture (not that I dared make that widely known there), and didn't fit into the gay scene.
I remember the formal dinner. Jeff sat to my left, and an older gay man to my right. I always try to be polite--to a fault--and so people would never imagine the real thoughts that I think and the feelings that I feel--unless and until they read my writing. And for the first time in these past two years, I'm going to write (just a little) about what I thought and felt that day.
Earlier in the day, there was a talk about being gay compared to being left-handed. At the end of that talk, Jeff had gotten into a conversation with a middle-aged straight fellow and father. Normally, I would have quietly sneaked out, but I overheard Jeff mention something that happened to interest me. I think that he was trying to explain that the modern family truly is a modern concept, and that it was nothing like what we know it to be today back, say, in the Middle Ages.
I had been reading parts of a book about just that, _Medieval Households_, by David Herlihy, and against my better judgment, I gently inserted myself into the conversation as an active listener. The father tried to explain his bafflement at how someone could be gay--i.e. a male desiring another male. There was Jeff, three feet away from me, and there was the father, three feet away. I could tell that the father wasn't trying to be judgmental, only trying to understand, and I felt myself overcome with both compassion and sorrow--compassion for the suffering, the discomfort, that someone in the majority must have felt when confronted by minorities and ways of living that were utterly foreign to anything he'd ever experienced or thought could possibly exist, and sorrow that he, or anyone else, should have to suffer. I immediately recognized that homophobia harms not only gay people, but straight people. It separates *people*. And we could learn a lot from each other.
I would never be a father. That much, I knew. But I had some idea of what it might be like to be a father; I could imagine both the responsibility and the difficulty of it. And for a Mormon father to show up at an ex-Mormon conference to explore and learn new ideas was, in my book, a very courageous act.
Jeff said a few things to the father, and I found myself serving as a mediator and translator. Jeff was gay. The father was straight, and courageously trying to truly *understand* the concept of being gay. I knew that Jeff was too intense for the father, but that if his rhetoric could be buffered, a valuable bridge might be established. At one point, I looked up at the father, and said, "I know how mind-bending this is." I didn't intentionally try to serve as a bridge between cultures, but for a brief while, I became one, using my imperfect understanding of both, and my far greater comfort in the heterosexist culture, to facilitate meaningful and even insightful communication and learning. I genuinely wished that neither Jeff nor I needed to try to explain that there was nothing wrong with gay marriage, an idea that this man opposed, but nevertheless was open-minded about. He kept saying that he was just trying to understand, and I'm certain that he was sincere.
I knew that had I been the father, I would never have allowed myself to get caught up in a conversation about gay marriage. I could deeply empathize with where this man was coming from, given the culture and historical era that he'd been raised in. Usually, we "gay" people want straights to feel sorry for us--or at least, I think that many of us do. It doesn't often happen the other way around, and yet I felt myself really admiring this man who was fighting his natural instincts to even talk to us, not to mention to attend the ex-Mormon conference. It amazed me, and I felt a moral obligation to help him understand anything that he wanted to know about, to the best of my ability to explain it, given my own limited knowledge and many other constraints.
I explained what little I'd learned about what families in former times used to be like, which got Jeff's intellectual nature excited, and we had a good, if brief, conversation among the three of us. It wasn't that my hope was to change the father's mind about gay marriage. Really, I didn't have any goal at all, other than to make him feel less uncomfortable. I wonder if that man still remembers the conversation, and if it made any kind of a difference. It's not the conversation that mattered, but I hope that in some small way, I was able to make him feel--to make him know--that we weren't a threat to straights and straight marriage.
As I thought about Jeff--and by then, I'd learned quite a bit about his background and plight--I knew that if I was "gay," I wasn't "gay" in the same way that he was. The label felt uncomfortable. I nearly had a panic attack when a woman at the conference asked me which username I used on RfM, and I actually told her, "GayPhilosopher." "I had an uncle who was gay," she said, nonjudgmentally. I just stood there, staring at my feet, not knowing what to say.
I'm all too well aware that other gay males would consider me a traitor. A gay Mormon former friend who went on to become a neurosurgeon even accused me of being a "traitor," and a liar (about being gay). But I know what it's like never to be able to fit into straight society through the channels of marriage and children.
And then there was the older gay fellow who sat to my right at dinner. In a private conversation outside of the hotel the next day, he told me that he had been in a relationship with a fellow he loved, but that that fellow had never been able to control his passions, and had eventually contracted AIDS, and after a prolonged and horrific battle, died. My interlocutor told me at one point that he said to his former lover, "I don't have the capability to cope with this..." (your dying from AIDS). He tried to take care of his former lover, but it was extremely hard on him, and at some point, he had to step away from it to avoid harming himself. I got the impression that this was a very sensitive and kind fellow, but he talked about being gay, and about AIDS, in a straightforward and open manner that frankly made me feel uncomfortable. If there were any thought running through my mind at the time, it would have been, "I don't belong here. Not among gays. Not among ex-Mormons. Not in Utah. Why am I here!?"
Maybe part of it involved curiosity; I'm sure that it did. Maybe part of it involved trying to understand the environment that my deeply missed friend Doug Stewart was shaped by, to somehow be able to better cope with his suicide two years earlier. To this day, I don't know.
I do know this, though. At one point, several of us--including Jeff--got in a car, drove to a Unitarian Universalist church where Richard Packham was speaking, with Lyndon Lamborn and others in attendance, and--at least speaking for myself--had a relaxed and fun time. For a while, gay, straight, Mormon, ex-Mormon, God, atheism...all of these became just words, words that over the course of dinner, a little later, dropped off as defenses went down and fun and compelling human personalities came through.
As I continue to study Mormonism, gay men (a changing concept as homosexuality becomes more openly discussed, leading to inevitable social, institutional, and individual attitudinal change), and struggle to reconcile what it means for *me* to be gay in a very non-gay way (i.e. straight-sympathetic, conservative, and shocked by outrageous displays), I wonder what our society will look like in 20 years. The challenge is that we have to live in it today, and create what it will be like two decades hence, with all of the suffering that that entails. And my answer thus far is to cultivate kindness. Words and straw men divide us. If we can just control our emotions and respect everyone, no matter how different others are from us, we could travel light years instead of picometers, to create a better future.
I think about Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, a lone wolf who seemed to live inside that gap between the passing of one age and the dawn of another. Many of us exist in that gap, waiting and hoping--all the while keenly aware that we're "losing" time--that the future will be better. In the aftermath of death and destruction is birth, and life. In the long term, I'm optimistic, but it's so very difficult to not get caught up in the pain and countless insults and disappointments of everyday life to hold on to the hope, and take the actions needed, to not only imagine, but *create*, a better world for us all.
For anyone interested, have a look at
http://www.youtube.com/user/MorMenLikeMe#p/c/3AD5055210433F74/0/ByJS8eOgLTMWatch the other men's stories, too. There is no archetype of heterosexuality or homosexuality, or even humanity. Instead, there are a lot of individuals that find themselves part of groups and not teams, living in buildings and not homes, walking and working among strangers rather than friends, belonging to a species rather than a community.
How can we connect, or even if not everyone can connect, at least, how can we come to a place where we can honestly wish everyone peace of mind, shelter, health, love, and happiness?
If we could do that, it would utterly transform our world.
Steve