Letter to Anita Bryant

     This has been 20 years in the making. I was 15 through most of 1977, a Baptist by choice. Gay by birth. Not happy gay, just gay. I was smart, friendly, outgoing and talented. I wrote poems, played piano, spun records for hours on end, loved my cat Pandora to distraction, adored and respected my parents, enjoyed my friends.
     Being alive was a gift. I knew that even at 15. All I wanted was for every creature that drew breath to be happy and never suffer. (I was no angel, but a Virgo/Libra child is the next best thing.)
     Your face began appearing in the paper, on the news, screaming an unholy rage. I was a child and didn’t understand how you could hate someone you never met.
     I didn’t hate you. I liked your song “Paper Roses.” It was one of the records I played. I thought it was honest and cute how you stamped your little foot when you didn’t win the Miss America pageant that one year.
     I was 15 and didn’t even know what bigotry was until you taught me. Your Christian face blowing hatred out of our tv every night. Teaching self-hatred to children. It inspired me to dig beneath the surface of Christianity, then logically abandon it.
     At 36, I understood a little because I caught myself hating back at your brick wall, slammed door face. It doesn’t feel good though. I’m handing that dubious Christian gift back to you. I don’t want it. I don’t hate you, and I won’t hate anyone. You can’t make me.
     My good parents taught two wrongs don’t make a right. My hating you back won’t erase the pain of inequality and discrimination.
     Twenty years later, Anita Bryant, I can say this: I’m happy gay now. Being gay is my birthright. Being alive never felt better. And I love you --- you paper roses, amazing grace, foot stomping beauty queen you.

 

Hands

St. John Grade School, 1972

During 3rd grad, my best friend from 1st-grade-on
moved to Idaho. I was devastated. A new boy moved
to town from Texas: good-natured, honest, a clown at
heart & very real. The first time he smiled at me, my
heart was his. Who knows how it started, but for two
years we held hands in school every moment we were
together. Until 5th grade, when Rebecca, a snotty
high school teacher’s aid saw us and sneered, “Boy’s
do NOT hold hands!” She whacked our hands apart
with her fist. Out of her sight, I reached for my
friend’s hand. He jerked it back. He walked away.

 

Great Bend, May, 1991

Robert and I were in the car on our first date. He was
about to become my first serious lover. He reached
for my right hand as I drove. I jerked away as if I’d
been shot. He was hurt, and surprises as I was. I
reached over, took his hand in mine. Held it the entire
time I drove with the other. From then on, driving or
walking, we were hand-in-hand, fingers locked against
the crap of the world.

 
from michael's
new book

cosmic children