Through almost five years of writing this column, I've shared much of my personal journey. Those who are closest to me have often advised against being so open in a public forum. If I allowed myself to remember that my personal sharing was going to be published and readily available across Northern New Mexico, I don't think I'd be courageous enough to send it off to The Santa Fe Reporter. This column is the most intensely personal I've ever written. It is my wish that today's column might help someone who is dealing with painful experiences.
I'm in my mid-fifties. Not an old man yet, but certainly not a young man, either. Middle-aged? Perhaps, if I live to be 108 years old, I'm middleaged. The truth is, I'm closer to the end of my life than to its beginning. I believe I have a responsibility to become an elder, to share any wisdom I might have gleaned from the past half century on this planet. That having been said, let us proceed.
Last year, a stranger wrote to me in response to a column in which I mentioned being a gay man. He wrote that he felt sorry for my parents, who must have been emotionally destroyed through having a gay son. When I first opened the email and read it, I sat immobile for a long time. I felt as if my blood had turned to ice inside my veins. I pushed my chair back from my desk, put my head in my hands, and all the strength left my body. Through a sheer force of will, I managed to delete the email, and to empty it from the trash can. I felt that it had polluted the computer and my home. I remained silent about the email, never even mentioning it to James, my spouse of almost 22 years. Recently, I saw a film,
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, about the persecution of gays in Germany. The stranger's email haunted me all the more. Today, I'll answer that email. The topic of my parents is one I generally avoid. It's not pleasant to write about my mother and father, but more than that, I've come to realize that my silence has served to protect them. The truth is that for years, they have tried to destroy me. They've worked very hard to exclude me from their family. They are ashamed of me because I'm a gay man.
That has to be the only reason they are ashamed of me, for I've never done anything else to bring them unhappiness or shame. They never had to get me out of jail. They never had to go to school to discuss me with any teacher, because I always made perfect grades, and behaved. I always did what was expected. I was a polite, well mannered youngster, teen-ager and young adult. I was the first on either side of my family to finish college, and, as far as I know, the only one to earn a master's degree. Who wouldn't want a son like that? Meanwhile, I have a cousin serving a life sentence for a violent murder. I have many cousins who've married and divorced multiple times, scattering children all over creation, to be raised by the nape of the neck. But, thank goodness they didn't embarrass their family by being gay. I've got relatives who are practicing alcoholics, drug users and drug dealers. But at least they aren't gay. According to their Bible, they aren't abominations in the sight of the Lord, like I am. They haven't been declared unfit for military service, because, thank God, they aren't gay. This is the family who, for the most part, looks down on me and is ashamed of me. They love Jesus so much, that there's no room in their hearts for me or people like me.
Several years ago, my mother called to tell me that the Grahams, her family, were having a reunion. She was afraid that someone would invite me (no one did), and I'd actually travel 1500 miles, show up, and embarrass her. She said that children would be there, and that, "they shouldn't be exposed to people like you." But, that wasn't cruel or insulting enough. She added, "Robert Ransom, every time someone mentions your name and asks about you, we just die inside. It would be better for us if you were dead and buried six feet under the ground, so you'd never be mentioned again." This came from my own mother, the Christian lady who, in a "one man, one woman marriage," gave birth to me. There's more. Twenty five years ago, when I finally got the courage to tell them that I was gay, my mother and father went to the sheriff and attempted to have me arrested and taken to the state mental hospital. They were furious when they discovered that a few years previously, homosexuality had been removed from the list of mental illnesses. Until the mid 1970s, gays were routinely committed by their families to mental hospitals. They were forced to undergo brain surgery and electric shock "therapy" in order to cure them of homosexuality, since it was officially classified as a mental disease. My parents tried to have me committed, but my Grandmother Odom warned me of their plan, and I stayed across the state line, in Louisiana. While I was living in New Orleans, my parents forged my name and sold a piece of property I owned. Right after Hurricane Camille, in 1969, I bought a water front lot. It was fairly inexpensive, as it had only just recently had 25 feet of water over it during the hurricane. I paid for it myself. Mother said that I should list them on the deed as joint tenants, since I was unmarried. I foolishly did, and they sold my land. They also kept the money. I never got a penny, even to this day. For all these years, my silence about their cruelty and treachery has protected them. To some degree, I internalized their hatred of me, and it transformed into shame I had to bear. When I read that stranger's email, all the painful secrets of the past flooded over me. How could that stranger presume to know the truth? He correctly assumed I was raised in a home with a father and mother who were married in the eyes of God and the state. One man, one woman. Like Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. For all that stranger-who-emailed-me knew, I was an ungrateful son, an irresponsible gay cha-cha bunny, hopping from bar to bar, from one anonymous partner to another. Except, I'm not that stereotype. But, even if I were, would I deserve to be treated so cruelly? The stranger who emailed me assumed that my sweet gray-haired parents were loving, Christian, long-suffering martyrs, who loved their wayward son, no matter what. Except, they weren't…and they still aren't. They could mistreat me with impunity, because they didn't see me as a real person, as someone whose needs or feelings mattered. Furthermore, their government and church backed them up by labeling me as a pervert.
What I've shared with you today is the truth. Cut out this column. The next time you hear someone talking about a true marriage equaling one man and one woman, and that gay relationships are defective, give this to them. For almost 22 years, James and I have created a loving supportive home and family. We are not victims. We are survivors. We are proof that you can have a happy life without the blessing of the church, the support of the government, or one of their programs…actually, despite the church and the government. In the end, love heals all. But first, we must speak the truth. Today, in a very public way, I've told the truth. My silence will no longer protect those who seek to destroy me, whether they are over in South Mississippi, in the Roundhouse, or in Washington DC. OM
To ask Robert a question, visit his Web site, RobertOdom.com, e-mail him at desertrj@msn.com , or write him at PO Box 33, Santa Fe, NM 87504.
