By Matt Lum
Throughout my adolescence and college education, I considered myself lucky. Many of my friends were stuck in majors at the behest of their parents studying law rather than literature, or medicine instead of art history. There was no such pressure from my family.
Instead, I was always encouraged to pursue my dreams and instilled with the confidence that I could accomplish whatever my heart compelled me to do. "You can grow up and be whatever you want to be, Matthew."
It wasn't until last week that I learned they meant I could be anything but gay. It was a startling revelation, considering I came out to them eight years ago and had always been appreciative of their handling of the news.
I grew up in a small Texas town on the Gulf Coast called Freeport. Submersed in a conservative media bubble and bound by the Bible's belt, I had no way of knowing that being gay was a viable option as I pieced together my developing psyche. In the time before Will & Grace, nary a non-homophobic gay image made it past the gatekeepers. I felt truly alone.
That's why I was surprised and elated when I read an editorial in my hometown newspaper condemning Bush's support for the Musgrave [Federal Marriage] Amendment. I instinctively wrote a letter to the editor expressing my appreciation, sharing a bit of my experience growing up in that area.
On Monday, the editor called to ask if they could run my submission as a guest column. It was an excellent opportunity to speak directly to my hometown, one I knew to be thirsty for positive and affirming stories about the gay community. I gave the green light to publish, and immediately called my family to let them know.
Mom, who works at the local police department, was very supportive. I left my brother, a new teacher at the local high school, a voicemail and trusted the word would filter to my father before it was too late.
At 3 a.m. I was awakened by the phone. "What are you trying to do, Matthew?" my dad asked. "You are so selfish. Don't you realize people will be laughing at me behind my back when I go to work tomorrow?" Dragging myself to consciousness from a deep sleep, I realized I was getting to know my family in a whole new way.
For the next half-hour, I listened to some of the most homophobic rhetoric I've ever heard from anyone and it came from my father. "I told you I would never accept it," he said. "Two men together is just not right," he stated flatly. "You've been brainwashed," he told me. "Gay doesn't exist and one of these days you'll realize that. You'll realize you're wrong."
The support of my parents, something I'd counted on for the past eight years, was swept away in a flood of words that would have made the Bush Administration and their fundamentalist backers proud.
Far from unique, one simply needs to set gaze on Washington, D.C. to see the most high profile incarnation of my experience. Mary Cheney, lesbian daughter of Vice President Dick Cheney, is toiling away for her father's re-election, silent about the proposed constitutional amendment.
Dick once espoused support for his daughter, saying states should be allowed to make their own decisions about gay marriage. Bush forced him to choose between his family and the Party line, and Cheney made his choice. And Cheney's daughter, who must somehow reconcile her father's love with his support for an amendment that guarantees she is forever consigned to second-class status, stands silently by as she watches him throw her rights away.
"You're going to kill dad if you print it," my brother told me in a follow-up 5 a.m. phone call. "Don't kill dad."
In those early morning hours, my mom's encouragement veered sharply to the right. Her maternal instinct to circle the wagons to protect the family meant she, too, took issue with my letter. I can't hold it against her because I know it's in her job description, but she shouldn't be forced to choose, either.
Despite the fact that every argument my family gave me for not publishing my story clearly demonstrated its need to go to press, I pulled my column. I became another child left behind. It hurts.
