shereads
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I can't confirm the statistic, but I heard once that gay teenagers have the highest suicide rate in the U.S. Considering the pressure to conform at that age, I guess it isn't surprising. But this series that's been running in Washington Post online is still an eye-opener for those of us who live in urban areas with openly gay communities.
Apparently, Oklahoma is still not quite the place to emerge from the closet, or to be the parent of a gay son. Are things changing for the better in other countries? Or are the acceptable alternative lifestyles still pretty much limited to sex with housepets, as in Sweden?
Sorry, Svenska. Couldn't resist.
------------
YOUNG AND GAY IN REAL AMERICA : Where I Come From
A Slow Journey From Isolation
By Anne Hull
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, September 27, 2004; Page A01
Peace came to Michael Shackelford last year inside a psychiatric ward. He was 16 and his mother had just discovered his relationship with another young man. Feeling alone and frightened, and unable to imagine his future as a gay teenager in rural Oklahoma, Michael bought 10 packets of ephedrine-laced powder from the mini-mart and swallowed them all, which is how he landed at Laureate Psychiatric Clinic and Hospital, his belt and shoelaces confiscated.
At first, in group therapy, Michael was withdrawn. He'd never discussed being gay with anyone. After a few days, he uncrossed his arms and began talking. No one laughed. No one threatened him. No one said he was going to hell. On discharge day, Michael didn't want to leave. But he couldn't stay forever because real life was waiting beyond the double doors.
With the Shackelford family's permission, Washington Post reporter Anne Hull spent hundreds of hours following Michael over the past year as he came to terms with being gay, a journey that paralleled Oklahoma's fight against same-sex marriage. The reporter accompanied Michael to work, church, car shows, speedways and Saturday night forays to the gay teenage dance club in Tulsa. Extended periods were spent in the Shackelford home, where Michael and his mother, Janice, struggled to understand each other. The events and direct quotes in this story were witnessed by the reporter unless otherwise noted.
Now a year later, his initial anguish of awakening to his sexuality has eased. He is making his first bumbling, fumbling attempts at human connection. With a girl, it would be simple. "You just go up to her," Michael says, shrugging. In this new and unknown territory, he has no clue what to do or say. Every calculation is accompanied by a risk: "I could get the crap beat out of me."
One night at the mall he sees a clerk at Abercrombie & Fitch who he thinks might be gay. Heart pounding, Michael decides to go for it.
He asks the clerk: Are you fruity?
The answer is no.
For guidance, he buckles into his truck and drives into Tulsa to visit the Barnes & Noble. After slurping down a chocolate brownie Frappuccino, he buys a book called "Mr. Right Is Out There: The Gay Man's Guide to Finding and Maintaining Love" by Kenneth D. George.
He doesn't want to upset his mother so he reads the book in the bathtub. Who is Mr. Right? And once you find him, how do you keep him?
If coming out is a journey, then Michael is on one. He studies CD covers of Annie Lennox, her pearly beauty drawing him in. His mother feels a spark of hope -- maybe Michael is taking an interest in girls -- until she sees that someone has been using her angel-beige makeup.
At the gay teenage dance club in Tulsa, Michael watches the female impersonators, translucent and fearless. "They just seem so confident," he says. Needing some confidence of his own, he begins wearing a light foundation to cover his acne. He gives up chili cheese fries for Slim-Fast bars. One night he visits his mom at the barbecue restaurant where she works. "Good Lord!" she says, noticing that her son who used to wear work boots and plaid shirts now has makeup at his jaw line. Michael explains to her that he doesn't want to be a woman; he just wants to experience physical perfection.
A month after leaving the high school hallways that felt so hostile, it is February and Michael is studying for his GED and working full-time at the pet store. His cell phone allows contact with the outside world. His fleeting friendship with Victor ended with a text message and now there is an olive-skinned male cheerleader at a high school in the nearby town of Mannford.
"He said the one thing that makes him melt is nice teeth," says Michael, who figures spending $40 on teeth-whitening products at Wal-Mart is an investment in love. When the cheerleader invites Michael to watch him cheer at a basketball game, Michael hurries home from work and showers. Standing in front of the mirror, he applies concealer to his face. Then he can't resist. He rustles around in his mom's drawer and finds a tube of pink lip gloss. His pale blue eyes shimmer like glass stones set in a creamy canvas.
Male butterflies are rare in Sand Springs, and rarer still if they drive trucks with dual chrome exhaust pipes. But off Michael flutters, into the darkness, to the one-stoplight town of Mannford, where hundreds of cars are parked outside the high school gym. Getting out of his truck in the cold, Michael can hear the buzzer and whistles. As he walks toward the open gym door he can see the crowd: the feed caps, goatees, football hunks with floppy bangs and girls in denim jackets.
Michael hesitates. He thinks back to a few days earlier at the car wash, where he ran into his harasser from high school gym class and heard the words "There's that pretty little faggot."
Now at the gym door, he takes measure of his courage. Using the back of his fist, he wipes the lip gloss from his mouth. "I don't want to start any trouble," he says.
Janice Shackelford worries about Michael's eternal salvation, but the truth is, she's embarrassed to have a gay son. She imagines the small-town speculations of those who might wonder where she went wrong as a mother. Janice grew up in Sand Springs but has told only two friends about Michael. She thinks her secret is contained until her pastor approaches her one Sunday before church. "Now, Janice," she recalls the pastor gently saying. "I'm going to talk about something this morning and I want you to know that it's not directed at you." He preaches against homosexuality and same-sex marriage. Janice sits through it, wondering how many others know.
She is in her own closet. A teacher at Michael's old high school suggests Janice find a meeting of Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG). But Janice believes going would send the wrong signal to Michael that she's condoning his behavior. She also knows that it would be a final admission of a truth she's not ready to accept. She wishes the subject would go away, an improbable hope for anyone living in 2004 America. The week that the mayor of San Francisco allows gays to marry at City Hall, Janice keeps her distance from the TV at work to avoid being drawn into any discussions. The only place she feels safe is in her Oldsmobile Cutlass with the radio set to country music. These are the values that matter to her. Driving past the oil derricks and the church marquees with their black-lettered messages, Janice lets the music restore her.
Where I come from it's corn bread and chicken
Where I come from a lotta front porch sittin'
And workin' hard to get to heaven
Where I come from
But just as Michael couldn't stay in the psychiatric unit forever, Janice can't hide in the isolation of her Oldsmobile. During the presidential primary season, the TV at work is tuned to the debates, and Janice feels herself tensing as the candidates are asked to state their positions on same-sex marriage. A co-worker weighs in, definitely against. Janice agrees, but without much conviction. At home later she tells Michael, "It's almost as if I can't stand strong for what I used to stand for."
"Did you stick up for me?" Michael asks.
They both know the answer. The same-sex marriage issue is forcing Janice to choose between her beliefs and her son. Her church is gearing up for the November elections. "I have to agree with the president," Janice says. "We need to keep the family unit as intended." And yet her own family unit is not quite as intended. Twice divorced, Janice works two jobs, day and night. Her unmarried 23-year-old daughter has a baby. Now her only son is gay. Janice begins reading the Bible more closely, studying the Scriptures to see if there is any leeway in the interpretation.
She's driving across the Arkansas River when she sees a gay-themed bumper sticker on the back of a car. Janice finds herself speeding up to get a look at the stranger who has some common thread with her son. She decides she needs to do some reevaluating. "Revamping," as she calls it.
One day Michael is sitting on the couch, telling her how he is destined to be alone. Usually Janice would cringe and start campaigning for girls. This time, she listens.
"I hate love," Michael says, in his deepening drawl. "I'm scared of it."
Janice draws in a breath. "Of love?" she asks. "I was, too."
Ninety miles to the west, in bright winter sunshine, more than 600 demonstrators gather on the steps of the state Capitol in Oklahoma City. Some hold Bibles and long-stemmed red roses. Others wave signs that say "Family: God's Beautiful Gift" or "Oklahoma Supports One Man, One Woman, One Family." The rally is to support all the anti-gay legislation proposed in Oklahoma, and to support President Bush's call for a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. More than 60 elected officials, Republican and Democratic, sit on a dais overlooking the crowd. One by one, they take the podium, squinting into the sun and vowing to fight.
Rep. Thad Balkman, a Republican from Norman, says the protection of marriage is the most important issue facing Oklahomans. A busload of children from a Christian school arrives as Rep. Lance Cargill, a Republican from Harrah, talks about Noah and the ark. "I believe we can build an ark of safety to protect marriage in our country," he says to cheers.
A woman in front waves a photo of a recently married couple. One of the speakers points to the woman and says, "You see that photo? Now that's marriage."
Not according to the 150 counter-demonstrators across the street on the lawn of the Oklahoma Historical Society who are holding rainbow flags and signs of their own. They aim their loudspeaker toward the traditional-marriage rally, blasting them with the gay anthem "I'm Coming Out."
The emcee of the rally shakes his head. "They're coming out," he mocks. "And we are smack dab in the middle of America! We are on the doorstep of hedonism and it must be turned back!"
continued at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A52563-2004Sep26.html
(Free site, registration required)
Apparently, Oklahoma is still not quite the place to emerge from the closet, or to be the parent of a gay son. Are things changing for the better in other countries? Or are the acceptable alternative lifestyles still pretty much limited to sex with housepets, as in Sweden?
Sorry, Svenska. Couldn't resist.
------------
YOUNG AND GAY IN REAL AMERICA : Where I Come From
A Slow Journey From Isolation
By Anne Hull
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, September 27, 2004; Page A01
Peace came to Michael Shackelford last year inside a psychiatric ward. He was 16 and his mother had just discovered his relationship with another young man. Feeling alone and frightened, and unable to imagine his future as a gay teenager in rural Oklahoma, Michael bought 10 packets of ephedrine-laced powder from the mini-mart and swallowed them all, which is how he landed at Laureate Psychiatric Clinic and Hospital, his belt and shoelaces confiscated.
At first, in group therapy, Michael was withdrawn. He'd never discussed being gay with anyone. After a few days, he uncrossed his arms and began talking. No one laughed. No one threatened him. No one said he was going to hell. On discharge day, Michael didn't want to leave. But he couldn't stay forever because real life was waiting beyond the double doors.
With the Shackelford family's permission, Washington Post reporter Anne Hull spent hundreds of hours following Michael over the past year as he came to terms with being gay, a journey that paralleled Oklahoma's fight against same-sex marriage. The reporter accompanied Michael to work, church, car shows, speedways and Saturday night forays to the gay teenage dance club in Tulsa. Extended periods were spent in the Shackelford home, where Michael and his mother, Janice, struggled to understand each other. The events and direct quotes in this story were witnessed by the reporter unless otherwise noted.
Now a year later, his initial anguish of awakening to his sexuality has eased. He is making his first bumbling, fumbling attempts at human connection. With a girl, it would be simple. "You just go up to her," Michael says, shrugging. In this new and unknown territory, he has no clue what to do or say. Every calculation is accompanied by a risk: "I could get the crap beat out of me."
One night at the mall he sees a clerk at Abercrombie & Fitch who he thinks might be gay. Heart pounding, Michael decides to go for it.
He asks the clerk: Are you fruity?
The answer is no.
For guidance, he buckles into his truck and drives into Tulsa to visit the Barnes & Noble. After slurping down a chocolate brownie Frappuccino, he buys a book called "Mr. Right Is Out There: The Gay Man's Guide to Finding and Maintaining Love" by Kenneth D. George.
He doesn't want to upset his mother so he reads the book in the bathtub. Who is Mr. Right? And once you find him, how do you keep him?
If coming out is a journey, then Michael is on one. He studies CD covers of Annie Lennox, her pearly beauty drawing him in. His mother feels a spark of hope -- maybe Michael is taking an interest in girls -- until she sees that someone has been using her angel-beige makeup.
At the gay teenage dance club in Tulsa, Michael watches the female impersonators, translucent and fearless. "They just seem so confident," he says. Needing some confidence of his own, he begins wearing a light foundation to cover his acne. He gives up chili cheese fries for Slim-Fast bars. One night he visits his mom at the barbecue restaurant where she works. "Good Lord!" she says, noticing that her son who used to wear work boots and plaid shirts now has makeup at his jaw line. Michael explains to her that he doesn't want to be a woman; he just wants to experience physical perfection.
A month after leaving the high school hallways that felt so hostile, it is February and Michael is studying for his GED and working full-time at the pet store. His cell phone allows contact with the outside world. His fleeting friendship with Victor ended with a text message and now there is an olive-skinned male cheerleader at a high school in the nearby town of Mannford.
"He said the one thing that makes him melt is nice teeth," says Michael, who figures spending $40 on teeth-whitening products at Wal-Mart is an investment in love. When the cheerleader invites Michael to watch him cheer at a basketball game, Michael hurries home from work and showers. Standing in front of the mirror, he applies concealer to his face. Then he can't resist. He rustles around in his mom's drawer and finds a tube of pink lip gloss. His pale blue eyes shimmer like glass stones set in a creamy canvas.
Male butterflies are rare in Sand Springs, and rarer still if they drive trucks with dual chrome exhaust pipes. But off Michael flutters, into the darkness, to the one-stoplight town of Mannford, where hundreds of cars are parked outside the high school gym. Getting out of his truck in the cold, Michael can hear the buzzer and whistles. As he walks toward the open gym door he can see the crowd: the feed caps, goatees, football hunks with floppy bangs and girls in denim jackets.
Michael hesitates. He thinks back to a few days earlier at the car wash, where he ran into his harasser from high school gym class and heard the words "There's that pretty little faggot."
Now at the gym door, he takes measure of his courage. Using the back of his fist, he wipes the lip gloss from his mouth. "I don't want to start any trouble," he says.
Janice Shackelford worries about Michael's eternal salvation, but the truth is, she's embarrassed to have a gay son. She imagines the small-town speculations of those who might wonder where she went wrong as a mother. Janice grew up in Sand Springs but has told only two friends about Michael. She thinks her secret is contained until her pastor approaches her one Sunday before church. "Now, Janice," she recalls the pastor gently saying. "I'm going to talk about something this morning and I want you to know that it's not directed at you." He preaches against homosexuality and same-sex marriage. Janice sits through it, wondering how many others know.
She is in her own closet. A teacher at Michael's old high school suggests Janice find a meeting of Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG). But Janice believes going would send the wrong signal to Michael that she's condoning his behavior. She also knows that it would be a final admission of a truth she's not ready to accept. She wishes the subject would go away, an improbable hope for anyone living in 2004 America. The week that the mayor of San Francisco allows gays to marry at City Hall, Janice keeps her distance from the TV at work to avoid being drawn into any discussions. The only place she feels safe is in her Oldsmobile Cutlass with the radio set to country music. These are the values that matter to her. Driving past the oil derricks and the church marquees with their black-lettered messages, Janice lets the music restore her.
Where I come from it's corn bread and chicken
Where I come from a lotta front porch sittin'
And workin' hard to get to heaven
Where I come from
But just as Michael couldn't stay in the psychiatric unit forever, Janice can't hide in the isolation of her Oldsmobile. During the presidential primary season, the TV at work is tuned to the debates, and Janice feels herself tensing as the candidates are asked to state their positions on same-sex marriage. A co-worker weighs in, definitely against. Janice agrees, but without much conviction. At home later she tells Michael, "It's almost as if I can't stand strong for what I used to stand for."
"Did you stick up for me?" Michael asks.
They both know the answer. The same-sex marriage issue is forcing Janice to choose between her beliefs and her son. Her church is gearing up for the November elections. "I have to agree with the president," Janice says. "We need to keep the family unit as intended." And yet her own family unit is not quite as intended. Twice divorced, Janice works two jobs, day and night. Her unmarried 23-year-old daughter has a baby. Now her only son is gay. Janice begins reading the Bible more closely, studying the Scriptures to see if there is any leeway in the interpretation.
She's driving across the Arkansas River when she sees a gay-themed bumper sticker on the back of a car. Janice finds herself speeding up to get a look at the stranger who has some common thread with her son. She decides she needs to do some reevaluating. "Revamping," as she calls it.
One day Michael is sitting on the couch, telling her how he is destined to be alone. Usually Janice would cringe and start campaigning for girls. This time, she listens.
"I hate love," Michael says, in his deepening drawl. "I'm scared of it."
Janice draws in a breath. "Of love?" she asks. "I was, too."
Ninety miles to the west, in bright winter sunshine, more than 600 demonstrators gather on the steps of the state Capitol in Oklahoma City. Some hold Bibles and long-stemmed red roses. Others wave signs that say "Family: God's Beautiful Gift" or "Oklahoma Supports One Man, One Woman, One Family." The rally is to support all the anti-gay legislation proposed in Oklahoma, and to support President Bush's call for a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. More than 60 elected officials, Republican and Democratic, sit on a dais overlooking the crowd. One by one, they take the podium, squinting into the sun and vowing to fight.
Rep. Thad Balkman, a Republican from Norman, says the protection of marriage is the most important issue facing Oklahomans. A busload of children from a Christian school arrives as Rep. Lance Cargill, a Republican from Harrah, talks about Noah and the ark. "I believe we can build an ark of safety to protect marriage in our country," he says to cheers.
A woman in front waves a photo of a recently married couple. One of the speakers points to the woman and says, "You see that photo? Now that's marriage."
Not according to the 150 counter-demonstrators across the street on the lawn of the Oklahoma Historical Society who are holding rainbow flags and signs of their own. They aim their loudspeaker toward the traditional-marriage rally, blasting them with the gay anthem "I'm Coming Out."
The emcee of the rally shakes his head. "They're coming out," he mocks. "And we are smack dab in the middle of America! We are on the doorstep of hedonism and it must be turned back!"
continued at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A52563-2004Sep26.html
(Free site, registration required)
