By Jen Ham—Soulfource Freedom Rider
Editor’s Note: Church of the Open Arms hosted the Soulforce Freedom Riders on Wednesday, March 22, 2006. Several of the Freedom Riders spoke that evening about their own personal experiences and why they had joined the 7-week ride to confront colleges that ban the enrollment of glbt students. This is the story of one of the Freedom Riders.
I was six years old. I sat on our brown carpet; my mother sat behind me on the couch. She was watching “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” I would rather be watching cartoons. Suddenly, Counselor Troi comes on screen. I think, “Wow, she is pretty. When I grow up, I’m going to marry her.” I didn’t know I couldn’t marry a woman, but I did know that I had just become a “Star Trek” fan for life.
I was eight years old. My friend Shannon and I are playing house—I am the husband and she is the wife. She tells me her parents kiss each other, and she leans over and gives me a little smooch. I think, “Maybe if things don’t work out with Counselor Troi, I’ll marry my Shannon.”
I was ten years old. Up the street lives the most beautiful girl in the world—Selena, my first love. It begins to occur to me that I am somehow different from most of my friends. I am the only person in my circle of friends who doesn’t have a “boyfriend.” That doesn’t bother me, because I don’t really want one. I have two good boy friends, but I don’t want to date them; I just want to play video games and baseball with them.
I was eleven years old, and a touchy-feely type of kid. I hug everyone until the day my friend Tanea says I must be a lesbian because of that. I’m not sure what a lesbian is, but from the way she said it, I knew it couldn’t be good. To make sure no one ever thinks I am a lesbian ever again, I stop hugging people. In fact, I’d rather just not touch anyone in any way, just to be on the safe side.
I was twelve years old. I have just learned in church that God sends homosexuals to Hell. I don’t know what a homosexual is, but I am glad that I’m not one. Soon, I get tired of having so many questions about the Bible go unanswered to my satisfaction. I quit attending church and call myself an atheist.
I was fourteen years old, and just moved to the other side of the state. Everyday in high school is a constant stream of insults: “fag,” “dyke,” “homo.” I wonder if “homo” is tied to “homosexuals,” which I’ve been told go to hell. I look up the word. The whole world freezes as the light bulb in my head goes off: “Oh, man, I am homosexual!” The book goes back on the shelf and I make a conscious choice to never acknowledge that I am homosexual. Later that year I start dating a boy, Brandan. Nothing feels more unnatural to me than to kiss him, but I think that I have to play the part lest people figure out my secret.
I was fifteen years old. A boy who went to my school has just transferred—he did not hide his homosexuality, and endured vicious harassment for it. As for me, I hide mine by being cruel behind the backs of other gay students. I tell my friends when the subject comes up that gay people are evil, that they are not even human. My friend Heather fights with me about it and tells me, “You know, Jen, the people who hate gays the most always turn out to be gay themselves.”
I was sixteen years old. Matthew Shepard’s murder is in the news. I am visiting my grandmother, in her kitchen watching the news. When Matthew Shepard comes up, Oma says, “I don’t know why anyone would ever claim that gay people choose to be gay. Look at that poor boy—he didn’t ask to be beaten and tied to a fence. People that say gay people make a choice to be gay make me so angry because they just don’t get it.”
I was seventeen years old. I hide pictures of Kate Winslet next to my bed underneath pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio. Being so hateful toward gay people—and toward myself—takes a lot of energy. Hiding makes me tired. I am so angry all the time, and my soul feels like it is missing a vital piece. I sometimes look in the mirror and say “I am not gay,” over and over again. I know it’s not true, so I take razors and cut up my arms and legs so that I can focus on physical pain instead. I try suicide once, but didn’t know to slice the wrist vertically. I try it again, but the torn bed sheet noose rips; I figure that death is just not what fate has in mind for me.
I was eighteen years old. I am in college now, and I even have some gay friends. By February, my secret is too much to bear. I realize I have two options: admit my sexuality or kill myself. I remember what Oma said and I remember how much I have hurt myself already. I choose life. I tell my friend Meghan that I am gay and she asks how I feel. I can only think of one word: “Liberated.” Later that year, I write a long letter to my parents explaining that I could not keep this secret anymore. They call me to tell me that the house they are building will no longer have a room for me in it because they don’t want me to make my brothers gay. They also tell me that since I made such a choice, I would now have to pay for college myself.
I was nineteen years old. I am walking through campus on my way to 7/11—I am running low on cigarettes. I had recently purchased a small pin, a pink triangle, the symbol the Nazis used to identify queers in concentration camps. Oblivious to all else, I am humming a Dave Matthews Band song. I hear someone yell “DYKE!” Instinctively I turn, just in time to see spit flying through the air. It lands on my shoe. Three guys are laughing—it’s just me and them in the area. My first hate crime; I am terrified and pick up the pace. That incident sends me on a path of activism.
I am twenty-one years old. I have a girlfriend named Joanna. I feel at home in her arms, and nothing feels more natural than kissing her. We move in together, we adopt two kittens, and I no longer feel as if something is missing. Her parents are amazing, but I think they are kind of surprised to learn how utterly normal we are. So normal, in fact, that most of our friends refer to us as “the married couple.” I want to marry her, but my state doesn’t allow it yet. I hope that someday my country will treat me equally, because it’s hard enough to convince Joanna that we don’t need to move to England as it is.
The LGBTQ students of Lee University are brave, because their strong Christian faith leads them to remain on their campus and bear the brunt of antigay policies. They need those of us on the outside to give them some space to breathe and to be reassured that they are not alone in their struggle. They need a strong alternative to the reparative therapy that is offered to them repeatedly. Until they have such resources to assist their survival, I remain fearful for their well-being. I move forward on the Equality Ride with a greater urgency for more dialogue with students attending schools with antigay policies. I want them to come to know that God created them with an unalterable gift, not a sickness. I feel driven to provide tangible resources that can prevent the further torment of those living with a minority sexual orientation.
