One story: his, mine, and yours

Scheherazade, the heroine of “1001 Arabian nights” postponed her execution by telling tale after tale to the king each night. She withheld the ending until morning, and her life had been spared. The gay press has done the same, spinning story after story, opinion after opinion, all in an attempt to give meaning to the death of Matthew Shepard. We have a long wait until our morning comes, and the reprieve arrives. The story of Matthew Shepard is one of violence, ending a promising life too soon. It is the story of far too many gay men and lesbians.

Violence is part of being gay.  Like coming out, many of us now disclose that we too have been victims of hate. As I envisioned Matthew Shepard strung upon a fence, a martyr in the making, I was suddenly eighteen again, taking tentative steps out of the closet. Late one night, in downtown Seattle, my boyfriend and I were surprised by the screech of tires. Two letterman jacket clad boys appeared, probably no older than ourselves. With no words or provocation, they rushed us. Thrown to the ground I endured several kicks to the ribs and a solid sock to my jaw.

My former-wrestler boyfriend resisted, striking back with frightening rage. Throwing his assailant off with a curdling scream, he became a dervish of anger and violence. The lettermen fled, uttering only “Damn Fags!” just as the police arrived. They surveyed the damage, and told us we had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and should run along home.

We made it back to the car before we broke down. We began sobbing huge, wrenching, anguished cries. Gingerly, we held each other and wondered if there wasn’t anywhere safe for us. I did not think I could live past the bloody nosed humiliation I felt.

At the time, there were no affinity groups or anti-violence coalitions. And even now, with statements and studies and surveys, there are times when I really feel no safer. I’ve gotten through with an activists’ mentality, an “I dare you” attitude. Now though, I’m starting to reconsider.

A few months ago, at a party out of town, I listened to a man tell how his friends, co-workers and customers “appreciated that he didn’t flaunt his lifestyle.” Inwardly I sneered, branding him a sell out and a victim of internalized homophobia. 

Today, I’m not so cavalier. What choices would I make in rural Alabama? 

Birmingham, it seems, is an enlightened place. I live a gay life, open at work and in my neighborhood. I have, perhaps, taken that for granted. I’m fortunate to have a job where performance is the only real measure, and my neighbors love the improvements gay men make on their homes and cherish us as members of the community. For the Post-Stonewall generation, being gay is a matter of fact, not a shameful secret. At least here, at least now.

But what about the rest of our state and our nation? Stepping out of Crestwood, it’s not a pretty world. It can be ugly, hateful and brutal.

I’ve tried to understand why the death of Matthew Shepard affected me so much. Maybe it’s because we grieve so often as gay people. I grieved when my friend Doug died from complications due to AIDS. I grieved when another committed suicide, unable to face his closeted life. I will not grieve by returning to the closet.

The saddest thing is that for Matthew Shepard, I grieve for a person I didn’t even know. I am sad that I will never know this sweet young man. Even if I am romanticizing Matthew Shepard, how many other young people die or kill themselves before they reach this community?

I don’t know what to feel. 

I don’t know what to say. 

I do know that this must stop. We must stop accepting violence, discrimination and hate. As gay men and lesbians in this city and state, we make a difference. Even if you are out to only one other person, that is one less person who can de-humanize you, and gay people as a whole. I believe this is something everyone should do. The more real we are to others, the less they can hate us. We cannot stand silent, if the holocaust taught us anything; it is that hate speech is just the start.

We also must stop being strangers to one another. We are horribly divided, by race, by money, by gender. Enough is enough. I’ve written a lot of warnings and cautions in this column. This murder, however, had shifted my focus, and changed me personally. It seems so sad that we are so disconnected that the only time we come together is over a crisis, a murder or a plague.

Matthew Shepard died too soon, a stranger to us. The only fitting legacy, I think, is to follow his lead. Be gracious, peaceful and loving to your friends. Be a part of your community.

To that end, I pledge to work to make us better known to ourselves. In the coming months, I want to introduce you to some members of this community that you may know already, and tell their stories. But I’d also like you to meet some of the less visible folk, who also work for our common good. And don’t worry, I’ll have plenty to talk about in other areas.

With John Aravosis and other gay journalists, I declare:

I will NOT be silent.
I will NOT forget.
Matthew deserves nothing less.

Tod Companion is a Ph.D. candidate in Biochemistry and Molecular Gengetics at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. His columns and features are archived at www.geocities.com/~todc, and he can be reached through email at todc@geocities.com.