Our Lady of Perpetual Doubt

Here is his letter.

Dear Mother, 
 
            I call you “Mother” because so few of us have accepting families. I am just another face in the crowd of rejected, tormented, bullied, raped, and murdered children, who were rejected by their mothers, fathers, and siblings for the “sin which dares not speak its name,” and have suffered so much of our lives under the heel of homophobia, which came to a head 10 years ago, when Matthew was hung on a fence and left to die.
            I never had the chance to meet Matthew, although I am sure I would have eventually but for the turn of events. When you’re gay and live in one of the massive Western states, it feels like you are the only gay person within a thousand square miles, but with the proliferation of the Internet, gay people could meet others, who might, indeed, live a thousand miles away.
            Myself, I was born and raised in Butte, Montana, one of the most dangerous small cities in the United States.
            For example: during my eighth grade year, there were numerous knife fights, stun guns, and three, very-real bomb threats; terrifying because there were actual pipe bombs stashed in various lockers.
            The elected town sheriff was known as “Chester-the-Molester” because if he caught any body (male or female) after curfew, he did not call your parents, nor were you officially arrested. Instead, generations of kids lived in fear of the unspeakable things he would do to them if they got caught.
            I was one of the lucky teenagers who were never taken into custody.
            The relevance of that dreadful anecdote comes into play when, several years later I was working at a JB’s Restaurant and the news of Matthew’s murder became a rallying point for LGBT groups, and P-FLAG meetings started convening to address the struggles of any gay kid, both in and out of the home.
            With sorrow, I must admit to an unspoken acknowledgment amongst my peers, it was surprising more kids did not end up like Matthew, and you put yourself at risk for even appearing to be sympathetic to homosexuals.
            That said, I beg your forgiveness for not attending the solitary, candle-lit vigil held at one brave little church for fear that I would be recognized or my car would be recognized, and so I chose to stay home…and have regretted that decision ever since.
            When I went to the March on Washington the following year and heard your awe-inspiring, grief-stricken, speech, I fell to my knees, surrounded by thousands of other gay people; all of us weeping uncontrollably.
            Not long after, Fred Phelps and his crew showed up, and I had to be forcibly restrained from attacking them with my bare hands.
            I suffer from a lot of emotional disorders, which fall under the umbrella of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, with its depressive, manic, and obsessive/compulsive states. Phelps and crew are not the sole reason for my mental state, but a black hole burns in my gut whenever I hear his name.
 
            Several years later, I found myself majoring in World Arts & Cultures at UCLA, and one bleak day, I came face-to-face with the God-Hates-Fags.com people, who claimed their constitutional rights to assemble on public grounds!
            Once more, the counselors and administrators of the LGBT Center on campus held me back, and I grimly went to class.
            We were having group performances, but after several minutes, I interrupted the class and shouted that the real forces of evil, homophobia, bigotry, and ignorance were on our doorstep. Then, I ran back to Bruin Plaza (supposedly a Hate-Free Zone) where the GHFs were still preaching their message of hatred to a growing crowd of gaping students as well as a unit of armed riot police at hand, should any “incidents” flare up.
            A grotesquely fat woman wore an XXX-large t-shirt broadly proclaiming, “Matthew Shepard Burns in Hell,” at which point, I admit to complete loss of self-control and hurled myself at her, attempting to wrench her flag from her hands.
            I was swiftly and forcibly “subdued” by a UCLA police officer, which added fuel to my rage, because the ostensibly "good guys” were protecting the obvious “bad guys.”
            A few minutes later, however, my entire department had joined hands in a circle around the hateful core and actually forced them to leave our campus.
            Proudly, we (or rather they—my colleagues) had scored a point against the GHFs, although the neo-conservative campus newspaper ran headlines to the effect of “Peaceful Demonstration Interrupted By Violent Attackers…)
            Flash forwards a couple of years, and I found myself in Louisville, Kentucky to care for a friend whose partner had died from AIDS-related pneumonia.
            There, in River City, home of the World-Famous Kentucky Derby as well as the fittingly-named “Sluggers,” my tale climaxed on Memorial Day, when I was fag-bashed by three men and severely hurt —I was knifed repeatedly, and pummeled, kicked, and beaten into a a bloody pulp before some people came by, who called for help.
            I am 100% convinced if the attackers had not retreated, they would happily have killed me.
            My stab wounds gushed blood, I had a major concussion from a fractured skull, and my right eye had been blinded.
            Perhaps the most disturbing thing about that series of events—the stuff that keeps me awake at night—happened after a squad car arrived on scene, and when the police heard I was gay, the officers hastily backed away, and only then donned their Personal Protective Equipment!
            Additionally, to this day, I have not been able to find any record of the “incident,” at any of the police precincts, and furthermore, the University of Louisville Hospital Emergency Room maintains they have no record of me being treated there, despite a whispered referral one intern gave me for an ophthalmologic surgeon, who was able to repair my eye after a couple of surgeries.


            I am so sorry for your loss.
            What’s more, I am sending this letter to many people, gay and straight, hoping they will petition their respective legislatures, courts, and police regarding hate crimes.
            I am also sorry for the world’s loss of a gentle, promising, intelligent young man whose life ended on a barbed wire fence ten years ago.
            Thank you for your diligent struggle to make a difference in this country.
           
            That young man could easily have been me.
 

PS for any concerned readers of this letter, please help the Campaign To Erase Hate by visiting http://www.matthewshepard.org/
 
Sincerely yours,
 
Dan Tyler & Tucson-the-Wonder-Dog