Rab Marlow's Open Salon Blog

An open letter to my niece on her coming out

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 08:03:52 -0400

My dear woman,

You can't imagine the excitement with which your coming out letter was read aloud in our house. Or maybe you can, you who received the cheers of your church youth group when they got the news. We're excited. Not because there's strength in numbers (there is) and one more lgbtiq person has joined the family (you have), but because the benefits of your living out of self-awareness are many, and we’ll all feel them: you, your immediate family, these two uncles of yours, those in your circles of influence.

May you go far. I spent years flailing in repression and denial, trying to move forward through life. I might as well have been swimming the 100-meter breast stroke in mud. How much further and faster you’ll progress buoyed by self-awareness and self-knowledge, carried forward by a societal current moving towards inclusion. The impact of the decisions you'll make, of the support, advocacy, love and nurturing you'll offer the world will be amplified many times over.

Holy ground, this coming out. Sacred space, the paths by which we come to know ourselves and share who we are—the stuff we are made of—with others.

Not that being aware, not that being out will free you from hardship, heartache, despair. Life will bring these your way no matter what. But you will be better prepared to meet the challenges head-on, with eyes open.

Your coming out reminds me how far we as a society have progressed and how far we have to go. I was 35 when I came out. In 1995, 22 states had laws on the book that made of us criminals, that defined our expressions of physical intimacy as illegal acts. Mainline religious bodies condemned us to hell. True, the American Psychological Association had removed homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses while I was in high school, yet my wife readily secured the services of a counselor with a reputation for turning gay men straight, and a medical practitioner who claimed to be able to do the same. Didn’t work.

Soon after I came out to my best friend, he approached the president of the small evangelical Christian liberal arts university where I was employed. “Did you know you have a gay man on your staff?” my friend asked.

“Stop right there,” said the college president. “I don’t want to hear any more.” I was grateful for his unwillingness to discuss the matter.

Yet look who’s talking now.

Two days before your letter arrived in our mailbox, the president of these United States referenced the gay rights movement in his second inaugural address. He enfolded it into the larger American story of the struggle for human rights, referencing in one breath Seneca Falls, Selma, and Stonewall. President Obama rattled some cages when he said, “Our journey is not complete until our gay brothers and sisters are treated like anyone else under the law; for if we are truly created equal, then surely the love we commit to one another must be equal as well.”

To hear our struggle given voice, our journey made visible, our lives accorded value, all from so elevated a platform—what a launching pad for your coming out. You’ll not be swimming in mud, girl.

All the same, you’ll face some people who will sling dirt your way. Last night, on a long drive home, your Uncle Dave flipped through radio channels. He listened in on a long harrangue about the evils of homosexuality and the subversive influence of gay people. Such voices still pepper our airwaves. May their words not lodge in your heart.

By countless acts of courage and resolve—undertaken in love, anger, sorrow and joy—lgbt pioneers made it possible for all of us who have followed to witness and work for an ever-rising tide of acceptance and appreciation, to continue to call for change. I’m so excited to cheer you on in this journey, to wonder what chapters you and your generation will add to this ongoing story. With your coming out letter you’ve turned the first page.

Bravo, with love, from your

Uncle Bryn

Stop in the name of love

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 08:03:45 -0400

Even in rural Indiana, traffic can be crazy. On our trip into town yesterday, at two separate intersections my husband and I watched dumbfounded as an approaching driver ran the stop sign. One vehicle we could have broadsided had we wanted to. I wanted to. We had already sidled up to the bright red octagon, come to a complete halt. Our turn to go when a man in a gray sludgebuster coming from our right slowed and drove right on through, right in front of us. I wanted to ram him. Good thing Dave was at the wheel.

Me, I was wielding the December issue of The Sun, a favorite literary magazine. I often read aloud when I’m riding. A few hundred yards back I'd finished a brief piece by Thomas Schritz recounting an experience he had while waiting at a red light in Los Angeles. He watched a man who appeared to have palsy attempt to cross a busy six-lane freeway. As the man stepped out into the crosswalk Schritz thought to himself, he’ll never make it in time. He was right. The light turned green when the man was only a third of the way across. A nearby police cruiser sounded its siren and pulled into the intersection, lights flashing. Schritz grew angry as he waited for the officer to give the man a ticket. “The Los Angeles police are not known for being overly friendly,” he writes. He was surprised when the officer simply blocked all traffic until the man made his way safely to the other side.

My voice had caught in my throat. I’d choked up. Dave had glanced over. “What?”

“Sometimes we all need help making it to the other side,” I’d said.

“You’re right. You and me, both. And Joe, for instance.”

Joe entered our life quite recently when he mustered up the courage to call the phone number his therapist had given him. “This is the contact information for a gay couple who may be able to offer you some support,” she’d told him. We’d been cued in that he might ring.

A denizen of small-town Indiana, Joe is in the early throes of coming out to himself in mid-marriage, midlife, mid-air. He feels like he’s falling, not sure what to do, where to turn, how to find his way. Not sure he’ll survive.

Over 15 years ago, Dave and I found ourselves in similar straits. More than 15 years later we are still grateful to the people who extended a helping hand, warm welcome, listening ear. We too came out in midlife. We too wrestled with how to tell our wives, children, parents, siblings and society the truth we were discovering about ourselves.

There is no easy road, no one right way to exit the closet. And there are no guarantees. Not everyone makes it. Most everyone hits hard times somewhere along the way. Joe tells us he feels lonely, depressed, afraid. Feels sad, scared, foolish. Feels like a teenager. Feels like an old man. Feels hopeful one minute, then despondent for days.

“It’s all a part of it,” I tell him. “It’s natural to feel a wide—and wild—mix of emotions. How could you not? Everything is changing for you right now. It’s an unusual time, a remarkable opportunity. How many people have their world upended and get to recreate their lives half-way through? These days hold great peril and also great potential.”

We’ve met with Joe a few times. We’re going out for pizza together tonight. We look forward to staying in touch, offering him the kind of support we received as we took our first faltering steps into new life. Simple kindnesses, really. Stop, look, listen. Bear witness. Offer encouragement, pointers and warm regard.

After all, the traffic is crazy out there. The lights change quickly. We all need help making it to the other side.

St. John is a creep. I am, too.

Fri, 8 Mar 2013 17:03:26 -0500

He's a bit creepy, Ian Bannen, in his role in the 1970 TV movie “Jane Eyre.” He plays St. John Rivers, a solemn young clergyman pledged to be a missionary to India. He's cute enough, mixing little boy sincerity with raven-haired adult resolve. But he's got this religious thing going on. That, and an inflated ego or a bent view of God’s demands. Probably both. I recognize too much of my former self in him to think otherwise. Bannen plays the role I once lived: Good Boy/Good Church Boy/Little Mr. Please-Everyone-Else-Especially-God.

Creepy.

I had to be good and better than good to make up for a deep-rooted inner sense that I was sick, would never measure up, was deep-down worthless. I didn't have a word for the type of person I was, didn't want to know the word. Knew it was bad. Knew I was bad. Knew I was dirty and shameful and rotten to the core. I didn't want to look too closely into the pit at the center of my psyche. But I knew always it was there. I tried to fill in the hole with religion.

I see all this in the St. John character on the mini-silver screen. My husband Dave and I look at each other across the popcorn bowl. "Repressed gay man," he says. I agree.

St. John (Brits pronounce it SIN-jun) lives with his two younger sisters who encourage his developing interest in their house guest Jane Eyre. When he at last gets alone with Jane, St. John leads her to the village church where he preaches each Sunday.

"I want to serve in a large way," he tells Jane. "I have to serve my Savior. I have to serve my Savior." He sounds earnest, serious, sober, intense. "Do you understand? I shall do it with all my power and with all my strength."

He's trying too hard. I can relate. He wants to find a hard-headed woman to accompany him on life's journey. He’s set his sights on Jane, not because he's in love with her, but because she's strong and determined. She has character resources he needs.

"Don't you see?,” St. John says. “God sent you here for a purpose, to join with me in this great work…. Marry me. Together our strength will more than double what we each have. And we’ll give it all to God.”

Damn.

This is me proposing marriage to the woman who became my wife. Although I didn’t understand it at the time, I wanted her to save me from myself, be my ticket into heaven, my rock and my salvation. Later in our marriage I wrote her this note: “In some way I don’t understand, you have saved me—from myself—and I love you for it.”

I was way off base expecting someone else to save me. Never a good idea. I put my wife on a pedestal, myself in the dirt. I had to serve her—she was my savior. I resented her for this, and it was my own doing. I disempowered myself and sabotaged our relationship.

In the movie, Jane Eyre has the sense to turn her back on St. John and his proposal. But he catches her, spins her ‘round, pulls her to himself.

"Say yes, Jane, say yes. I need you as I've never needed anyone. Help me. Help me. Help me. Give me your strength as well, for I neeeeeeeed it.”

He has never been more creepy. I shudder to hear my past self in him. Funny how an evening’s entertainment can reach out and bite.

Yet I console myself with this: I was desperate, yes. I was flailing, yes. I was stupid, misguided and all the rest. But I was reaching for life as best I knew how. Perhaps this ultimately was my salvation.

This essay appeared in the January 20123 issue of The Community Letter

Did you blow it, Gabriel?

Fri, 8 Mar 2013 17:03:22 -0500

December, 21012—And this month the world comes crashing to an end. Or maybe not. But our nation is prone to doomsday fervor and our society does have a morbid fascination with fiery endings. How else to explain the traction the fictitious planet Nibiru has gained in some quarters? From what I read, this mystery planet supposedly will materialize (perhaps bolt out from behind the sun) and smash into the earth on December 21, a date that figures on the ancient Mayan calendar as the end of a long cycle of calendar time. Perhaps the end of time itself. Bye bye, birdie.

Such claims pique my interest much more than they poke my anxieties. I find people endlessly fascinating, and inexhaustible the number of things we get worked up about. (Please note, the things I get worked up about are no laughing matter: rigged voting machines, rabid raccoons, nylon socks.) Perhaps I can feel at peace facing the apocalypse for having already lived through my fair share of predicted doomsdays, and finding myself none the worse for wear.

Before I came out as a gay man, I regularly attended a local United Methodist Church whose pastor was quite convinced the end of the world was at hand. This I found unnerving. He had a fiery preaching style, worked himself into a sweat most Sunday mornings railing against abortion and homo-SEX-uality.

He was certain the Judgment Day would arrive within the next year or two, before 1993, and he preached it. Listening to his sincere and heartfelt warnings week after week, repeated rapid-fire at about the same decibel level as a low-lying helicopter, I began to wonder if maybe he wasn't onto something. He sounded so sure of himself. At the time, sincerity and self-confidence carried a lot of pull with me.

During the lengthy Sunday services my wife and I were using Cheerios, board books and little toy cars to keep our three young sons quiet. I began to wonder if I'd get to see them graduate high school before the end of all things.

That I should have been projecting so far into the future now seems poignant. High school graduation? As it turns out, I never saw them enter first grade.

The calendar turned once, twice, and our pastor scratched his head wondering aloud how he could have been mistaken. “I was so sure,” he said.

From outside the church came dire warnings about January 1, 2000. Remember those? According to some predictions, the Y2K computer glitch would have airplanes dropping like flies from the sky. Some folks dug in, built bunkers, stockpiled food and guns. Not me. I drove into town on the day before the chaos was to be unleashed, withdrew $20 and bought a four-pack of toilet paper.

You see, by that time, the world had already ended for me. And I had learned the secret that in every ending there is a beginning. In 1995, in the middle of my life, I’d come out to myself and others as a gay man. This marked the end the world as I’d known it. End of my marriage. End of being counted father to my children. End of my job. End of friendships, family relationships, church membership. End of massive amounts of personal energy being funneled into repression, suppression and denial.

In this ending was a beginning. New life, a world of possibilities, different eyes through which to see.

We lgbt people who have come out, who in so doing have rocked our worlds to their very core, who have lived to tell the tale, we have this message, this mystery, to offer the rest of society—or did some angel beat us to the punch?—“Fear not, neither be afraid. For I bring you glad tidings of great joy that shall be to all people.” Life is born in darkness. From the end of all things, the beginning of wonder.

This essay appeared in the December issue of The Community Letter. Photo courtesy WikkiCommons

Take it off, take it all off!

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 09:10:06 -0400

Soon as we step into the high-ceilinged red-carpeted lobby my pulse quickens, breathing goes shallow. I might have walked smack dab into a scene from a gay sexual fantasy. I want to stay and watch. I doubt I’m allowed. I don’t know what to do with myself, where to look, how to appear nonchalant.

Loitering about the room are a dozen or more scantily clad sexy men. College-age. Lithe limber bodies, each bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a skimpy pair of black boxer briefs. There are women, too, in gauzy black, but I hardly see them until one approaches my husband Dave and I where we stand stock-still stand in the entryway.

“Don’t be shy, gentlemen.” She slides a finger down my arm. “Come join the pah-ty.”

Egads. That’s exactly what I want to do. Well, not exactly. What I want to do is carry off the blond with the dreamy eyes, hear him say “Sir, yes, Sir.” I want to lick the finely sculpted chest of the dark-haired man with the bright smile. I want to feast my eyes on each and every one of these men without appearing to do so. I want very much not to drool down the front of my blue sweater. I wish I felt more comfortable with myself.

Although it’s late, we’re early. Show time is 11:00 p.m., an anomaly for our sleepy midwestern burg. Decent folks are abed by then. Maybe that’s the point. This is a burlesque show, a one-night-only benefit performance for the civic theatre. All-volunteer cast. And what sexy volunteers.

Probably I’m gawking. I do that sort of thing. Dave quietly suggests we go in and sit down. I follow his lead. At least my sweater will stay dry.

We find seats before the auditorium fills. As I scan the largely college-age crowd, Dave leans my way and says, "What strikes me is how comfortable they are with themselves. With their bodies. And at their age. Can you imagine? Maybe we could just forget our pasts."

His words land like a hypodermic needle, slip in under my skin. I’ll think about them for days to come. At the moment, I nod. "Maybe we could. And why not? After all, I'm the one who lugs my past around with me. Who else in the whole world really cares that I drag it along? What if we created new histories for ourselves?"

The lights dim, the show begins. Song, dance, show tunes, strip tease. Most of the performers are university students.

If I were to fashion a new history for myself, it would be like those I imagine I see unfolding on stage. Young people at home in their own skins, able and willing to cut loose, have a good time for a good cause.

That would be me with the new past I envision for myself. In this new history, I grew up embracing my sexual orientation, affirmed and supported in being myself. I now fully inhabit my body, celebrate my sexual self.

This new me walks taller, feels more confident, more self-assured, welcome in the world. Is more decisive, focused, more of service to others. More healthy in myriad ways.

Imagination is a wonderful thing.

And I’ll count it wonderful if today’s lgbt youth grow up accepting themselves, live into a world that values diversity. It’ll make a big difference for us all.

We’re not there yet.

I’m surprised that tonight’s show includes so few overtly gay-themed routines. Surely the performers chose which acts they wanted to audition. Yet most selected numbers that reenforce traditional heterosexual mores. Maybe I give these young people more credit for being self-accepting, self-celebrating than they are. More to the point, I can work on these issues myself, not shunt them onto others. If I can’t redress my past, I can start reshaping my present and future self. It’s time to take off.