Tag Archives: authenticity

Adaptive Potential

A tinge in the tone of voice. An implication. An unspoken hope. The more blatant question, “Why don’t you just marry a woman and have a family?” is one I haven’t been asked outright. Still, the more subtle hopes and desires expressed by people questioning me about my sexuality have been real and I know other gay people who have been asked this question directly. 

Sometimes, the hope underlying the question comes from a desire that my life just be “normal.” The questioner then doesn’t have to think about how my life isn’t what they expect. Sometimes, it comes out of (what I would consider to be an erroneous interpretation of) a religious belief. Sometimes it comes out of a concern for the ease of the path of my life. Apart from not wanting to have to think about it themselves, it comes from an underlying intention of concern. The concern is at its most dire when coming from the religious perspective, because from their perspective it is my soul that weighs in the balance, after all.

On a cultural scale, the manifestation of this hope came in the form of the “ex-gay” ministries that sprouted up 35 years ago, coinciding with the growing visibility of gay people in mainstream life. These ministries purport to extend that hope to The Homosexual as they promise a life free from same-sex attraction. With the demise of Exodus International last year, arguably the largest organization of its kind, it is beginning to be clear that their hope is not as well-founded as once was thought. Still, the ministries that remain maintain that homosexuals can have a “normal” life with a spouse of the opposite sex, given enough faith, prayer and dedication.

I could approach an argument against this philosophy of change or adaptation by getting at the fallacy of its Biblical foundation. By going through the half dozen or so verses in the Bible that supposedly refer to homosexuality and showing how each one has either been misinterpreted or mistranslated, building on centuries of bias, I could render the need for this adaptation or change moot. However, I am not a Biblical scholar and would only be plagiarizing work that has been done better and more thoroughly than I could.

Therefore, I will approach it, as most of us only can, through speaking from my own experience.

Being with a woman is something I considered in the past. In some ways, it might have been easier. My closest friends have been women and there were times I considered the idea of carrying the friendship with one or two of them further before I started coming to terms with my sexuality. I think that I could have had a life filled with companionship, even love, and family — if without passion — at least for a time.

However, I realized early on that following that path wouldn’t be fair, to either of us. The benefits would have eventually been overridden by dissatisfaction, frustration and resentment.

As humans, we are highly adaptable. You can look anywhere in the world and find people who have adapted to conditions and situations that are difficult, adverse, even dangerous. Many entered into willingly while others are a matter of survival. I can think of many examples of people I’ve known who have adapted to a harsh life in order to survive and I know that I could have set my mind to living a life with a woman.

However, I do not think that our lives, that of my hypothetical wife or myself, would have reached the same full potential as lives spent with people who fully adored us. Passion, for music or chemistry or whatever makes you tick, unlocks something within us that allows us to reach our highest potential. At every stage of my life, when I have had a choice between something that spoke to my truest self and something that was safe, and made the choice for the former, I have soared, attaining goals faster and more easily than expected. When choosing the latter, I have been met with obstacles, frustration, and on occasion, regret.

Last year, on the eve of Exodus International’s closing, I watched a man talk about his experience with the organization on Lisa Ling’s “Our America”. He now considers himself an ex-Ex-gay. During his 19-year career as a pastor and marriage to a woman, he saw himself as “the star ex-gay”. However, on the inside he “knew it wasn’t true,” that he wasn’t truly changing, but that “what I was learning was how to hide more.” That doesn’t sound like soaring. It sounds like regret.

Through junior high and high school, I had a violin teacher who would frequently tell me: “We need to get you a girlfriend to light a fire under you.” Awash in confusion, my naive self couldn’t see how getting a girlfriend was going to bring the passion that he thought (and, in hindsight, rightly so) was lacking in my performances. That is, until I had my first serious boyfriend — and breakup — in college. The experience of love and pain breathed life into the years of technique I had learned. Sweet melodies were now fueled by the experience of true love. Melancholic phrases took on nuances of remorse and heartbreak. Loud, fast passages took on the robustness of rage and passion.

Adaptation is possible but comes at the cost of human potential. Compromise is a necessary part of life but our ability to reach our highest potential is diminished when we compromise anything that is at our core. Passion and love ignite the fires that drive us to soaring heights and in this one life that we have to live, it is the saddest tragedy of all to knowingly limit that flight. I could have married a woman but neither of us would have soared. I played the violin, but until I knew love, it wasn’t music.

Divided Lives

For the last few years, I’ve made a point to go to Frameline, the San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival. At Frameline 37, one theme came through in several of the films that inspired some self-reflection.

A short titled “Finding Franklin,” follows the story of a young lesbian who goes to her grandfather’s home after he dies. While going through some of his things, she discovers a box carefully separated from his other belongings. The box contained old photos of her grandfather as a young man with another young man, as well as a postcard signed “Franklin”. The young woman realizes these items tell about a part of her grandfather’s life she never knew. After some digging, she finds Franklin who fills in the picture with the story of the loving relationship between him and her grandfather. It was beautiful and yet bittersweet with the knowledge that the grandfather had gotten married and started a family with a woman. Pressure to present himself as straight caused him to hide his love for Franklin and eventually end it.

Two words vividly came to mind: “Divided Lives.”

Divided in part because these two people who loved each other were not together. Divided, in perhaps a larger part, because each man was living a divided life within himself. A public life. A secret life. A false life. A true life. These dividing lines sometimes blurry, sometimes starkly drawn.

Divided lives, satisfying cultural expectations.

Lewd and Lascivious,” the documentary that followed, detailed a 1965 civil rights conflict affecting the gay movement in San Francisco. The overall story was previously unknown to me and turned out to be well worth knowing – particularly in the current political climate. One moment in particular caught my attention: an interviewee’s name was listed as a subtitle on-screen as “Fred ‘Al’ Alvarez.” It seemed like a typical “Name ‘Nickname’ Surname” way of presenting a name on a documentary film. However, Mr. Alvarez described how, in that time, because it was so dangerous to be known as homosexual, many people would employ a pseudonym when out at gay bars. Fred was his “official” name and Al was his “gay” name. When he received a call at work, he knew which world the person was calling from based on which name they used.

Divided lives and the keepers of the secret.

Keeping the secret requires a trust with all who are told, but carries with it the fear of a slip or even a betrayal. it’s a fear that, even in today’s world, burdens all involved.

A documentary about Alan Turing, “Codebreaker”, continued the theme. Turing was the brilliant, British mathematician instrumental in breaking Germany’s ENIGMA code in World War II, allowing the Allies to gain a strategic advantage over the Nazis that would eventually win the war. Prior to the war, he wrote a paper detailing the basis of the modern computer. Moreover, after the war, he devised a mathematical explanation of patterns in nature that spawned mathematical biology and the beginning of chaos theory. So, “brilliant” is not applied lightly here. These are big ideas that have spawned decades of research and changed the way we as humanity go about our daily lives. Alan Turing was also gay. Alan Turing was gay in a country where a male having a sexual relationship with a male was illegal. After being found to have had a relationship with a man, he was convicted for “gross indecency”. To avoid jail time, Turing agreed to chemical castration and received estrogen hormones for a period of a year. Because his work during the war was unknown by the general public and considered to be state secrets, and because homosexuals were considered to be security risks, the government hounded him after his arrest. At the age of 41, he was found dead from an apparent suicide.

Division equals suppression, oppression, and dire consequences.

Each of these films showed men who hid significant parts of their lives. Reflecting on their stories, it strikes me that with each lie, half-truth, and suppression of self, we chip away at ourselves and splinter our soul into disjointed pieces. I’m not talking about white lies, I’m talking about lies and half-truths that deny who you are at a fundamental level, especially as it relates to something so fundamental as whom you love and whom you share your life with. Division at this level prevents true joy from forming and taking hold.

When I was growing up, the realization I was gay came slowly. It started with the realization that I was drawn to looking at the guys in my class and neighborhood. It continued with the realization that my male classmates had the same attractions, but toward the girls. Concurrently, I somehow knew that I was not to talk about it, much less act on it, and probably shouldn’t even think about it. So, I did not. As I grew into high school, my attractions were clear, but the pressures were so great, that I continued to say nothing. In fact, all I would allow myself to think was “if I’m gay…” which happily pushed any real thought about my sexuality to some point the future. It was a self-imposed, painful and shaming division between who I am and what I allowed the world to see.

In college, I knew that the future had come and I needed to deal with my thoughts and fears relating to being gay, lest I marry and mislead a wife and children about my truth. As clearly as I had known in earlier years that I could not talk about being gay, I knew the time had come to allow myself to explore my own thoughts and begin to speak. Still, thoughts written in my journal about being gay were couched in code words and it wasn’t until my second year that I could finally say to someone “I think I’m attracted to men.” By not saying “I’m gay”, I was still giving myself plenty of room to back out. After telling a second person, he invited me to have lunch with some people who were a part of the local support organization on campus for LGBT people. I don’t think I said anything and shook with the fear that someone I knew would walk by and know that I was at the “gay” table. I was taking the first steps in integrating my true self with the self that the rest of the world knew, the unknown with the comfortable, and I was terrified. I was 19 years old.

At 40, I had come a long way and my life was something different than I would have imagined while I was growing up. I had a party to celebrate the milestone. It was a bigger party than I’d ever had before. But it wasn’t that food was great, the playlist hand-picked, or the Wonder Woman themed plates and party favors that made my party so satisfying. Friends from work, friends from college, friends from church, neighbors, and family were all there, mingling, talking, laughing and having a good time. After years of keeping trips to gay clubs secret, of keeping pronouns of romantic interests gender non-specific, and of keeping lists of who knew and who didn’t, the joy I felt in that celebration came from all of my closest friends , family and boyfriend being there and not being terrified someone might say the “wrong” thing to someone else. Everyone knew. My life was integrated. And I felt free.

The phrase “coming out of the closet” is meant to indicate when a LGBT person tells someone about their sexual orientation or gender identity. I like to think of it more as integration. While moments of happiness can be found within the splinters of a divided life, integration of the soul brings true joy and freedom.