Thank You, Jonathan Zhao

Dear Jonathan,

I know that there’s been a lot of controversy over your recent op-ed for The Chronicle this past week entitled “Gay Marriage is Not a Right,” Having spent the entire semester reading your eloquent and well-informed prose about various issues confronting the Duke community and the broader world, I wanted to take a moment to thank you personally for all that your brilliant article did for me.

First off, thank you for reminding me what I’m fighting against:

Because the sentiments embodied by Amendment One are not just shared by the North Carolina legislature and 61% of this state, but by people who walk around on my campus everyday.

Because you’re not the only one who thinks it’s okay to put minority rights to a majority vote.

Because the phrase “liberty and justice for all” still excludes people like me.

And because, despite your categorical rejection of my right to a family, you still feel comfortable asserting that you’re not a bigot.

Secondly, thank you for reminding me to fight harder:

Because Duke’s introductory political science and economics classes can teach a freshman like you to use those intellectual tools for hatred.

Because The Chronicle still takes homophobia so lightly that they’re willing to publish your work and let you sit on their Editorial Board this upcoming year.

Because denying members of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer community fundamental rights is still considered to be a “legitimate political opinion”

Because we have an education system that allows even those with access to the best educational resources to know absolutely nothing about what the LGBTQ community has gone through—from Stonewall to electroshock therapy to the AIDS crisis.

And because opinions like yours are taken so seriously in many communities that LGBTQ people are routinely killed, assaulted, or forced into poverty simply for being who they are.

Lastly, thank you for bringing our community together:

Because after your column was published, we all remembered that the fight against homophobia and heterosexism hasn’t ended on this campus, in this state, or around the world.

Because over the course of this semester, you’ve once again reminded us just how closely homophobia and sexism function together.

And because, through your writings, you’ve only fortified our collective desire to ensure that people like you are remembered as those who stood against the tide of progress.

Jonathan Zhao, thank you.

Sincerely,

Jacob

P.S. I would also like to point out another portion of your article that I found deeply unsettling, namely your assertion that “playing Nickelback loudly from my car...is not harmful enough to strip me of the liberty to play it.” Personally, I find Nickelback’s music to be a fundamental violation of my human rights and would support a referendum calling for its abolition in the state of North Carolina.

Strength

I have to admit it. As the vote on Amendment One draws near, I’m scared. And not just horror movie scared—no, I’m scared in an existential way that shakes you to your core. It may seem obvious to some, but let me explain why I’m scared.

You see, I consider myself a strong person, and yet these past few months, I’ve started to feel very weak. While weakness isn’t new to me, I haven’t felt this weak in quite some time. In many ways, I’ve spent my life learning to be strong, learning to overcome, and learning to take pride in my identity. Through persistent effort, I’ve been able to make weakness something that is constantly in my past—at least until now.

I remember feeling weak as a child, when the other kids in my neighborhood made fun of me for playing with Barbies and for wanting an easy bake oven. I used to sit in the dining room of my house and watch the other kids in my neighborhood play on the street, but because I was a “sissy,” and a “girly-boy,” I didn’t go outside—I stayed at the window, wishing that I had friends in my neighborhood who could play dress-up with me, who could be my friends even though I was a little bit different. I remember feeling weak then, but I mustered up my strength, learned to assert myself, and eventually found a way to make friends in spite of being different.

I remember feeling weak in middle school whenever my friends asked me if I had a crush on someone. I dreaded that question, because every time someone asked me, I longed to tell them the truth and never did. Thoughts of a boy in my class would bubble up warmly into my mind, but each time I pushed them back down in favor of a lie. I lied so often. I remember feeling weak then. Over the years and after many failures, I gained the courage to stop lying, to claim my truth. Through strength, I was able to live a more honest life.

I remember feeling weak in high school, when I heard about Lawrence King, an eighth-grader who was murdered by one of his classmates because he was gay. It wasn’t until I heard about Lawrence’s death that I began to understand the full magnitude of homophobia, and it was crushing. I realized that I lived in a world where even children thought it acceptable to kill someone for being different. I remember feeling weak then, but I didn’t take weakness for an answer—I found the strength to make an announcement over my high school intercom decrying Lawrence’s murder, I found the strength to begin organizing local gay straight alliances in Raleigh, and I found the strength to author and pass a resolution against LGBT bullying at the Annual Conference of the NC Methodist Church.

And I remember feeling weak last semester, when the NC General Assembly approved a referendum on Amendment One, placing my civil rights to a majority vote. I sat, dazed, surrounded by the realization that something like this could happen in my home state. But once again, I summoned all of my strength and got moving. Along with a few cherished friends, I worked to establish a campus-wide coalition against Amendment One, to hold a rally, to secure a voting site on campus, to author a Duke Student Government resolution against Amendment One that passed unanimously, and to get grants for printing up t-shirts, buttons and stickers.

But over the past few days, I began to realize something.

I realized that, no matter what I do, I could never be strong enough. Through individual strength and perseverance, I will never be able to defeat one of the most hateful pieces of legislation in our state’s history. My personal strength—no matter how fervent, no matter how fierce—will never be able to overcome amendment one, because at the end of the day, I am still just one person with one vote. In the face of Amendment One, I am profoundly weak. For the first time in my life, I feel powerless.

Which is why I need you.

While I may be weak as an individual, with you, I can be strong again. Because of you and through your ardent support, I will be able to find my strength. Alone, I may be only one person with one vote, but together, we are two people with two votes, and as a community, we are hundreds and thousands of people with the strength to change this world.

So I need you to be strong. I need you to be strong for my family. I need you to be strong for my community. Alone, I can never achieve equality before the law, but together, we just may stand a fighting chance. Together, against all odds, we may just be able to beat Amendment One. If we stand up, arm in arm and hand in hand, we have the chance to make history by being the first state in the South to vote down an amendment that takes away the fundamental rights of the LGBT community.

Together we are strong. Together we make history.

Will you be strong with me?

A Brief Reaction to the Wake County Board of Commissioners

Yesterday, while I was in class talking about freedom songs of the Civil Rights Movement, the Wake County Board of Commissioners was busy voting to support Amendment One, an amendment to the state constitution that would make any legal recognition of same-sex partnerships unconstitutional in North Carolina. Because I was in class, I couldn’t make it to the meeting to speak during the public comments section. So I figured that I’d do it here. Without further ado, here’s what I would have said to the Wake County Board of Commissioners at their meeting yesterday:

Hello Commissioners,

I want to take my allotted three minutes to introduce you to two people who have played an extremely important role in my life, to introduce you to two people who I deeply love, two people who have made me the person that I am today.

I want to introduce you to my mom and dad.

They’re the ones sitting over there waving at you shyly; my mother’s the one that’s probably beginning to get teary-eyed at the sight of her little boy speaking in front of the County Commissioners, and my father’s the one who’s been overzealously socializing with the stranger he’s sitting next to up until I started speaking. My dad’s a people person, and just like me, he’s never met a stranger.

Today, I stand before you as someone who has spent most of his young life working to bring about a world where his rights and the rights of his community will be recognized. I stand before you as someone who has had to fight for his very identity. I stand before you as a minority whose right to a family is currently being decided upon by a majority vote. I stand before you as someone whose home state has turned its back on him. I stand before you today as a proud gay man.

But let’s be realistic. I know that you probably don’t think about people like me. I know that you probably don’t think about the families of queer people or about the rights of those who identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. I know that, at best, many of you may think people like me are strange, and at worst, many of you think that we’re an abomination. I know that you probably don’t think about how this amendment impacts me, even though I grew up in Wake County, even though I completed over 300 community service hours every year in high school, and even though I was one of two Wake County students who received a full-ride scholarship to Duke my year. I know that, no matter what I do, you probably don’t think about people like me.

So I want to introduce you to two people who you will think about. I want to introduce you to two straight people who will be profoundly hurt by the proposed constitutional amendment, because I know that those are the kind of people whose rights and concerns you respect.

I want to introduce you to my parents. I want to introduce you to them because they’re probably not the people that you’ve been thinking about up until now. In your haste to insert discrimination into our state constitution, they’re the kind of people that you’ve forgotten about. I think you’ve forgotten that almost every person who is gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender has straight parents, has a mom and a dad. I think you’ve forgotten that my family is larger than just my future husband and my future children—my family includes my straight brother, my straight mother, and my straight father. And if this amendment passes, my straight father and mother will be deprived of legal recognition of their grandchildren. If this amendment passes, my straight brother will be deprived of legal recognition of his nieces and nephews.

What I think you’ve forgotten is that what you define as “gay” families are never truly “gay.” You cannot separate my “gay” family from my “straight” one. Everyone that I love, everyone that has shaped who I am, is part of my family, gay or straight. And in your rush to take away my right to a “gay” family, you’re depriving my “straight” family of their rights too.

So if you cannot respect me for who I am; if you cannot respect the rights of queer people, then at least respect the rights of straight people. Respect the right of my straight mother to look at her grandchildren for the first time, to rush over to them, to scoop them out of my arms, to hug them in the way that only a new grandmother could, and to spoil them for the rest of her life. Respect her right to a family. Respect the fact that, behind most gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender individuals, there are straight parents who want their families to be recognized, who want the best for their grandchildren.

County Commissioners, I want you to meet Abraham and Jane Tobia, my dad and mom. I want you to meet the people whose right to a family you are trying to take away by supporting Amendment One. I want you to meet the people whose current and future family will be broken apart by your actions today.

And North Carolina, I want you to meet my parents too. I want you to meet them so that, when you go to vote on May 8^th, you’ll know exactly whose family you’re impacting. I want you to meet them so that you will know once and for all that this amendment is not just about gay families—it is about all families. I want you to meet them so you can know exactly whose rights you’ll be taking away if you vote in favor of Amendment One.

Say hello.

-Jacob

[Editor's note: If you want to take a stand against Wake County's Resolution, consider signing this petition.]

An Ode to Dad

On the heels of the four-year anniversary of me coming out to my parents, I wanted to reflect a little bit about someone that I don’t talk enough about or give enough credit to: my dad.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, or at least of my posts, you’ve probably heard a lot about my mother and how amazingly, wonderfully affirming she is. She may have even made you cry—as she has made me many times—with her life-affirming and nurturing love that only a mother can give a queer son.

But I haven’t really taken adequate time to tell you all about my father. My father’s journey was much more challenging than my mother’s and he struggled much longer with my sexual orientation than my mother ever did. But my father came around; he learned to be proud of me for exactly who I was, albeit with some trepidation. But let’s start at the beginning shall we?

I’ll never forget how my father reacted on the night I came out. After watching a Goosebumps marathon on Nickelodeon and feeling nostalgic as all hell, I decided that, for whatever reason, that was the night I was going to come out. I was just going to do it. I was just going to march downstairs and tell them. First I called my best friend Paige to make sure that she was on call in case things went badly and I needed a pick-up, and I called my brother to let him know that I was finally going to do it. For whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to find my parents in the same room that night. So I spent a few minutes wandering around the house trying to see if they’d naturally settle in the same place; when it became abundantly clear that they wouldn’t, I just asked them both to come downstairs, “I just have something I want to talk to you about.”

“What’s wrong sweetie?” asked my mom.

“Nothing, I just want to talk, that’s all.”

So now my mother and my father are standing across the island in our kitchen, we’re all standing up, and I jump in.

“There’s not really a way to preface this, so I’m just going to say it…Mom, Dad, I’m gay.” The words dropped to the floor, and my father let them crash and shatter at his feet. My mother, thankfully swooped in to catch them before they could break, and she began to do what any mother would do. She started asking warm, loving questions.

It was strange, because while my mom and I were talking, my dad only stood there. After about twenty minutes of talking with my mom, she was out of questions, and my father’s silence hung thickly in the room.

“So, Abe, what do you think?” my mom asked my dad.

My dad paused a moment, and began to speak, “Well son, if you choose this lifestyle, I will not have any part in it. If you choose to have a partner, he will not be my son-in-law. If you choose to adopt children, they will not be my grandchildren. You are still my son but this will not be a part of my life.”

After he had finished, his silence no longer hung in the room; it was now suffocating, heavy, weighing down on our family.

“Well, I’m glad you’re being honest dad. At least we can work from there.”

The silence grew heavier and heavier.

“Could you at least give me a hug?” I asked.

The silence broke.

“I’m not sure if I can do that right now.” he stated coldly.

And as the silence broke, I broke along with it. Something inside of me snapped—a fundamental string that connected me with my family, with my father, with my home, had snapped. So I ran. I didn’t know where I was running to, all I knew was that I had to get away from him. I ran through the cold rain of December in a cotton hoodie. I ran to the playground in my neighborhood, where I sat and cried, crumpled on warped wood. I called my brother; he couldn’t understand me over my sobs. I called my friend Paige, who eventually came and picked me up.

For the next week, my father wouldn’t say a word to me. He avoided me in the house, shunned me in the most hurtful way possible. He said it was because he didn’t want to distract me during mid-terms; I knew that was a lie.

A week passed, midterms were over, and I made my dad a card from construction paper and magic marker. On the front it said, “Dear Dad,” and on the inside it said, “I love you and I’m gay. You don’t have to accept the second part, but you at least have to accept the first.”

I sat my dad down in our home office, and I started the conversation by turning the tables, “Dad, I don’t really care if you accept the fact that I’m gay, because you’re my dad and I will love you for the rest of your life, whether you accept me or not.”

For the next hour, my dad and I went back and forth yelling and cursing. He said it was a sin. He said I was going to hell. He said that I couldn’t tell his family, that I shouldn’t tell anyone else. At the end of his vitriolic rant, I shoved the card I had been keeping behind my back at him and stormed out of the room.

As I got in my car to drive away, my dad said, “Jacob, come here.”

I hesitated, unsure of what he was going to do. I walked back over to my father, prepared for the worst, but the worst never came. I walked over to my father and my father gave me a hug.

It was the beginning of a long journey that took two years, but eventually my father came around, but it was only because we both worked on it, because neither of us let the other one give up.

***

Two years later, my dad and I are sitting by the Christmas tree and he says, “Hey son, do you want to take a walk?”

As we wander the neighborhood, my dad starts to speak, his voice timid but firm.

“Son, I owe you an apology.”

I was a bit perplexed, because I couldn’t think of what he had done recently that was worth apologizing for.

“Two years ago, when you came out to me, when you told me that you were gay, I wasn’t there for you. In the moment when you needed me to love you the most, I didn’t love you, and I will go to my grave regretting that I didn’t. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am for how I reacted.”

This time his silence hung in the air, but it was warm, it was loving, it was gentle. Something that had been broken for a long time had been fixed. My father had finally picked the shattered fragments of my identity off of the floor and glued them together.

Now, my dad is fine with the fact that I want to go on to be an LGBTQ rights activist. He’s okay that I want to make a career fighting for my rights and the rights of others like me. But he just wants me to get a J.D. or Ph.D. from Harvard first; then I can go save the world.

Happy holidays y'all,

Jacob

Why Queers Should Care About the Occupy Movement

By the time that this blog post is published, the Occupation will have begun at Duke. That’s right folks, Occupy Duke will be showing its face on the Chapel Quad, right in front of the statue of James Buchanan Duke. For me, it’s something that is exciting, energetic and full of potential, but that’s not the case for everyone on campus. Over the past few weeks, the question I’ve kept hearing has been “So what’s the point?” I wanted to take this chance to write something that would help elucidate what exactly the point is, but more importantly, I wanted to write something about why the point of Occupy Wall Street and the point of the LGBTQ rights movement are at their very core the same thing.


If someone were to ask you what it’s like to be queer, what would you say? It’s a difficult question, but it is a question that is fundamentally important. For me, being queer is not something that I chose, it is not something that I opted-in to, it is not something that I brought about: it is the way that I was born, the way that I came into the world. And when I came into the world as the queer baby that I was, I came into a world that wasn’t going to make life easy for me. I came into a world where I was going to have to fight much harder in order to get to the same place as my heterosexual, cisgender friends. I came into the world already at a disadvantage, and that disadvantage was something that I had to work hard to get through. But I fought on: I fought hard to get through childhood, even though I knew that my queerness made me different than many of my peers; for a long time, I fought hard to seem like I wasn’t queer, I wasn’t different; I fought hard to be secure in myself and in my capabilities despite my queer identity and I had to work harder to achieve the basic things that made life happy for me. Many doors were shut in my face and I was barred from things that I thought everyone was entitled to—a date to the prom, a secure job, a happy marriage, a consistently loving and affirming family. Being queer made life harder.

And what about poverty? How you describe what it’s like to be poor? What would you say? I imagine you would say much the same thing. For those who are economically disadvantaged, being poor is not something that you chose, it is not something that you opted-in to, it is not something that you brought about: it is the way that you were born, the way that you came into the world. And when you came into the world as the economically disenfranchised child that you were, you came into a world that wasn’t going to make life easy for you. You came into a world where you were going to have to fight much harder in order to get to the same place as your affluent, economically privileged friends. You came into the world already at a disadvantage, and that disadvantage was something that you had to work hard to get through. But you fought on: you fought hard to get through childhood, even though you knew that your poverty made you different than many of your peers; for a long time, you may have even fought hard to seem like you weren’t poor, you weren’t different; you fought hard to be secure in yourself and in your capabilities despite your economic status, and you had to work harder to achieve the basic things that made life happy for you. Many doors were shut in your face and you were barred from things that you thought everyone was entitled to—a reasonable mortgage, a secure job, an adequate healthcare system, a living wage. Being poor made life harder.

It’s about time that the queer community wakes up. It’s about time that we, as the LGBTQ citizens of the world, stop seeing our movement as something that is separate from the movement against poverty. It’s damn well time that we stop seeing our struggle as fundamentally different from those of the poor. It’s time to recognize that privilege is privilege everywhere, and that all systems of privilege are immoral, not just the ones that disadvantage us. It’s about time that we, as a queer community, rise with our brothers and sisters in poverty, many of whom are queer themselves, and say that we are not only tired of homophobic laws, but that we are tired of a the heteronormative, racially discriminatory, economically divided system of privilege that engulfs our modern world. It’s time that we rise up as one voice fighting for a more equal society for everyone.

That is what the Occupy movement is all about. It is about working towards a more just, more equitable, and fairer world where systems of privilege do not perpetually disadvantage some and perpetually benefit others. We strive as a movement to create that world, and through our presence, to help others see the importance of it.

It’s time for us queers to join the Occupation.

In Solidarity,

Jacob

An Open Letter to the NC General Assembly

Dear NCGA,

Hey, it’s me. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we used to be pretty good friends. Do you remember that awkward high schooler who stood at the dais of the Senate back in 2007 when he was a Senate page? You remember, the one who had just gotten a haircut because his father said that he should look presentable at the legislature. The one who had long, brown, curly hair before then. You don’t remember me? But I stood right at the front of the Senate sessions, just to the right of the now-governor Beverly Perdue.

Perhaps you remember me in a slightly different way. Maybe you remember me as the young, scared, closeted high schooler that I was; maybe you remember the way you made me feel then. When I sat in a question and answer session with Senator Jim Forrester, and he decided that the best thing to talk about with a group of pages was how frustrated he was that the Democratic leadership wouldn’t hear a bill on a referendum to ban gay marriage in the state constitution. Maybe you remember me as the kid who went home to my best friend Paige that night, the only person I was out to, and told her how angry you made me. Or maybe you remember the way that I timidly talked to the other pages about how frustrated you made me feel, but not so much as to give away that I was hiding something.

Or it might be that you remember me when I came to the legislature on a field trip with my high school, and after sitting down with representative Deborah Ross to hear from her about what it’s like to work in the House, I asked her why you couldn’t pass a law that protected people from employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity. Maybe you remember the way that she looked at me with sad eyes and told me that other legislators are scared to support the LGBT community because they could lose their seats.

Or maybe you remember me from a year later. I could’ve sworn that we met at some point. That summer I was interning in my state senator’s office. It was only for a week or two, but it was really exciting for a high schooler like me to feel important in that way. You even gave me a staff badge so I could walk around on the Senate floor without getting in trouble. Didn’t you see me? I was that same, curly-haired high schooler that you saw running around to drop something off at a committee meeting or at a caucus. You probably saw me as I welcomed you into my senator’s office; I was the young guy sitting at the front desk, who smiled as he asked you to wait for a moment as he went to see if the Senator was in. Maybe you remember me as the intern who hesitantly came out to his state senator, so that his state senator might better understand why he should vote for a bill that stops LGBT kids from getting bullied. Does that ring a bell?

But maybe I made a stronger impression later in high school, when I was volunteering with Equality NC, and I went around to all of you and handed you all hand-signed postcards from your constituents telling you that they support having a law that protects LGBT kids from bullying. Do you remember the way that made you feel? Do you remember how strange it was to have a gay high schooler come around to your office and tell you to vote for a bill that would protect him and other people like him from harassment in school; that would protect his fundamental right to seek an education in a safe environment? Do you remember me? Do you?

Two weeks ago, you showed me that you don’t. When you signed into law a referendum putting my minority rights to a majority vote, you erased me from your memory. When you decided that my right to one day marry the love of my life was less important than your own political goals, you showed me that you don’t remember me at all. Two weeks ago, when you decided to denigrate my identity in our state’s founding document, when you decided to slander my pride and self-esteem in the most permanent, public way possible, you denied that we ever met. Last week, while you were on the house and senate floors rejecting my worth as a citizen and trampling on my human dignity, I was crying in the LGBT Center at Duke, lamenting the fact that you can’t even remember my face.

Given that you seem to have forgotten me completely, I’d like to take a brief moment to re-introduce myself:

Hello. My name is Jacob Tobia, I’m a gay North Carolinian, I am someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s future husband, and I am deserving of your respect.

Do you remember me now?

—Jacob

An Ode to Mehdy

This past Sunday, June 5th, one of my good friends from high school died after suffering brain damage due to a fall. I’m not going to say that he was my best friend, because we didn't spend all that much time together in high school, but I will say that he is someone for whom I had a great deal of respect and a great deal of love. Moreover, he is someone who took me completely off guard one day, a year after I graduated.

At my high school, we have a very close-knit alumni community and we invite all alumni who are around to come visit in mid-May. As a recent alumni, I came back to visit, and amid the maelstrom of chatter and hellos and hugs, I got a chance to see Mehdy. I told him how much fun it’s been watching him (via Facebook events, etc.) implement multicultural programming at my high school in a way that I never could’ve, I told him how wonderful I thought he was, and I told him how excited that I was for him to go to college next year (at Harvard of all places, no big deal). All of that was expected, and didn’t surprise me really at all.

What took me off guard was the facebook message that I got from him a few days later, and I cannot think of a better way to honor his memory than with his own words, so I’m re-posting our exchange. I apologize if it’s long, but it shows so much about who he was as a person--about his capacity for critical analysis, for deep introspection, and for love:

* * * * *

Hey Jacob,

I really hope you are doing very well by the Grace of God.

I guess, I wanted to say to you thank you. You've placed on me a lot of cognitive dissonance, and you've made me confront my intolerance and my homophobia. I faced some stress and I think the truth can be bitter, but it needs to be embraced: homosexuals can be great, magnificent human beings. And, I guess, I will admit that parts of it remains, but it no longer pervades my heart like it once did, and even at this point, I'm battling it. Hatred is a beast that if you let in your heart, eats (quickly or slowly, but eventually) your beautiful essence up. So thank you. A lot. Thank RCHS. A lot. And most of all, thank Allah (ST). A lot. For everything.

I want to talk to you about homosexuality though. I have overcome my hatred and I want to understand now in clearer terms why I may or may not oppose homosexuality. As you probably know, Islam is against it, according to most scholars. I am a Shia Muslim and so first off, I am interested in hearing what you have to say about Iran's stance on trans-sexuality. I heard you mention it once in Social Justice at the beginning of your senior year, and I became very interested. Unfortunately, I got caught up with other things, but I am very fascinated, esp. now. Here's the wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transsexuality_in_Iran

Also, I wanted to know how you felt towards Islam's stance towards homosexuality. There are obviously (and this is common in most religions) very prejudiced, and at times fundamentalist scholars who preach a dehumanizing Islam that is no way consistent with the Islam Muhammad lived. But regarding the points these prominent American Islamic Scholars, I wanted to know how you felt:

This is Hamza Yusuf: (link)

This is Tariq Ramadan: (link)

I believe that in Islam, everything goes back to how Allah defines Himself and in the process, our reality. Allah is composed of 99 names within Islam and we believe that there are three categories for which those Names fall in to: Majesty (Masculinity), Beauty (Femininity) and Truth (the Oneness). And for men and women, Allah has concentrated certain amounts of each of these Names into their essences, their souls, and so, for example, men have a higher concentration of Names that fall into the category of Majesty and women have a higher concentration of Names that fall into the category of Beauty.

And, by God's will, He has manifested these Names in physical and psychological ways. That is why it can make sense that the spiritual self is connected to the physical, genetically composed self. Now, who are homosexuals? How do they work into this human spiritual structure? And I feel that homosexuals can be genetically pre-disposed to be attracted to the same sex. Homosexual tendencies can and do exist for at least two reasons that I can think of and it is very natural to be attracted to the same sex.

Now, back to the categories of Divine Names. In Islam, Muhammad had said Marriage is half of Islam and I feel that it can be seen very easily why in the inherent duality in humanity. The mark of a successful Muslim's life is the realization of Oneness and in order to attain that Oneness, heterosexual marriage is very necessary in order for men and women to transcend their duality. With this metaphysical understanding, I do feel that that is why Islam and I think possibly most religions believe that homosexuality is natural but been placed there for us to struggle with and eventually overcome to meet our Beloved. And I feel that individuals with homosexual tendencies are similar to individuals with alcoholic inclinations, in that it is natural for them to (strongly, for some) desire that thing, but in order to fulfill our purpose of creation, we need to not indulge.

So, all of that was not well-developed and there are probably many mechanics issues, and I apologize. I feel that mutual respect is very important in facing any issue and we have more in common than we differ in. Thanks again for everything and I will leave you something to ponder over: (link)

-Mehdy”

* * * * *

I sent him the following response:


Well, to start off, the Lupe Fiasco video rocks. I miss the days of socially conscious hip-hop and it's refreshing to hear it.

Secondly, I want to maybe preface everything I say by saying that I have a deep--albeit for the most part uninformed--respect for Islam. Muhammad has wisdom that we can all learn from.

Also, I'd like to strike a deal with you. I will help you to learn about and discuss homosexuality if you will help me to learn about and discuss Islam. In some ways, it's shocking; you'd think that I would know a lot about Islam as an Arabic student, but I haven't learned very much at all in my classes and I would love for someone to tell me more about it. The last thing I want to be is ignorant.

Another thing that I definitely want to express is that you are not at all alone in struggling with this. From what I can tell during my experience at the Global Youth Summit, most of my Muslim friends all throughout the Middle East are having this struggle. My friend Said in Morocco, my friend Edris in Afghanistan, and my friend Jessica from Egypt all talked to me about this when we were in London together for the summit. Jessica was so conflicted that it brought her to tears, because for her, she felt that being perceived as anti-gay is but one of the thousands of stereotypes that people had about her as a Muslim woman who wears a hijab. I very much empathized with her in that regard, and I think most people can. So bottom line is that this is a struggle that people are having all across the world.

As far as Iran's policy towards transsexuals, I actually think that in many respects it is a huge step in the right direction towards the acceptance of people who are transgender. It makes the process of switching one's sex legitimate and affordable and in that respect, it is a good policy. What is problematic about it, in my opinion, is that it demands assimilation and covering-up one's past after surgery. I think that view creates some kind of shame about the procedure, when people are not allowed to be open about having it done. Secondly, allowing the procedure does nothing to breakdown the prevalence of concretely defined gender roles, which I think in many ways is the larger problem for people who are transgender.

As to the more theological concerns and questions, I'm not sure if I'm terribly qualified to answer them given my limited knowledge of Islam, but I'll try to address them as best I can. When it comes to viewing marriage as the realization of Oneness, to me it seems that there is room for homosexual relationships. From what you've said it seems that the important part of that Oneness is this transcendence of duality and you've defined that duality as something that exists on the basis of gender, but could that duality not also exist in a larger more human way? Could we, as humans, be fundamentally separated from one another, and the Oneness that is realized through marriage is a Oneness that is created from the connection of two human beings, regardless of gender? For me, that is what is remarkable about love. Love unites people in a beautiful and deeply spiritual way regardless of gender, and thus finding your Beloved is a daunting, but worthwhile task for anyone, gay or straight. I don't know if I've stepped on any toes theologically with that perspective, but it's what I believe about love. The remarkable thing about love is not it's ability to cross the oftentimes arbitrary lines of gender, but it's ability to cross between two human souls and unite them in Oneness.

As for the idea of struggling with and overcoming homosexuality, I have never agreed with that idea. For me to struggle against my homosexuality would be for me to struggle against who I am, against who Allah made me to be. (I hope it's not offensive for me to use the term Allah, personally, I believe that God is one and that Allah seen through Islam is the same God that I grew up worshipping in a Christian church, many paths one destination and all of that, but that's a different philosophical debate in and of itself) I very much believe that Allah creates each one of us in his image, that Allah creates each one of us beautifully, and I see my homosexuality as part of that creation. So I would never struggle against homosexuality. That being said, I believe that everyone, gay or straight, struggles against lust and against the desire to objectify people and see them as sexual objects. But that is a struggle that I believe is universal.

I can't help but feel like this conversation might be better in person. Do you have any free time this weekend or potentially afterschool on Monday or Tuesday? I leave for my ten-week summer placement on Wednesday, so I couldn't do anything after Tuesday, but I'd love to get together and talk more. I have a great deal to learn from you I'm sure. If you can my cell is (919) 741-7696. Just send me a text or something.

Mehdy, I can't tell you how glad I am that you contacted me. It says a lot about your character, your ability to think deeply about things that are important in your life, and your good heart.

Most sincerely,

Jacob

* * * * *

We never had the chance to get together before I left for my summer placement, so I will never get the chance to see what that conversation would have looked like. During the past few days, I have found myself reading this message over and over again, wondering what the purpose of it all was, mourning the fact that we never had the opportunity that we deserved to learn more deeply from one another. Which is hard. However, I am left with the hope that, if people would only learn from Mehdy’s example, insha’Allah, we’d be on our way to a more equal and more loving world.

A Call for High School Stories

So normally, I'd tell a story or two about my life for my bi-monthly posts, but this time, it's all about you guys and your stories. Seriously, BLOW UP the comments section with all of your stories.

So I'm currently working with Duke Professor Brian Ammons in the education department, and we're going to be conducting a basic LGBT-issues training for student teachers in the education department. For the LGBT-issues training, we want to have real-life stories of positive or negative experiences that you guys have had in schools. Whether that be a peer using homophobic language class and a teacher failing to respond, or a teacher who went out of their way to be inclusive of LGBT-identified individuals in the classroom, we want to hear it.

So what are your stories?

I'll tell you one of mine.

My favorite moment at my high school graduation was when my friend Evan got his diploma. At my high school, one of my good friends Evan was transgender, and transitioned from living as a girl named Sarah to living as a guy named Evan throughout the course of high school. His parents were not at all supportive of his transition, and made things really difficult for him at times, but he had a supportive community at our high school through the Gay-Straight Alliance. When the time of graduation came around, he was having a hard time, because his legal name was still Sarah, and that was to appear on his diploma, but it wasn't really his name anymore. It was like someone else was graduating, some figment of the past. So the big graduation day rolls around, and my favorite teacher, Mrs. Klein (who also happens to be the advisor of the GSA, and an academic dean) is calling out the names for people to walk across the stage and get their diplomas. As Evan walks up to the stage, I hear Mrs. Klein's voice booming over the microphone, "EVAN McMillan." It may have gone somewhat unnoticed by most other people, but it was the highlight of my high school graduation. It's that kind of affirmation in schools that LGBT people like me never forget, simply because it is so rare.

More of my stories about education to come in two weeks, but in the meantime, WHAT ARE YOURS????

An Ode to Mom

So this week, I had a very significant anniversary. It was my three-year anniversary of coming out to my parents, which in my life—and in many of my LGBT friends’ lives—marks one of the single most significant moments in my life. It was the moment when I committed to never hiding who I was again. It was the moment when I began to start the process of becoming a whole person.

I call it my “Gayday.” It’s like my birthday, but for me it’s so much more significant. After all, on my birthday, most of the work was left to my mom; on my Gayday, I did all of the work.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. For me, my Gayday was the culmination of years of work, of self-discovery, and of building courage, but for my parents, it was only the beginning of all of the work that they had to do. My parents had to begin to do the work of understanding what it would be like to live with a gay son, which is no small task.

So at any rate, yesterday, December 15^th, was my Gayday.

That makes me three-years-old, and with all of the profound insight of a three-year-old, I’d like to take some time to reflect on the one person who is most important to every three-year-old: my mom.

I’ll never forget how my mom reacted on the night I came out. After watching a Goosebumps marathon on Nickelodeon and feeling nostalgic as all hell, I decided that, for whatever reason, that was the night I was going to come out. I was just going to do it. I was just going to march downstairs and tell them. First I called my best friend Paige to make sure that she was on call in case things went badly and I needed a pick-up, and I called my brother to let him know that I was finally going to do it. For whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to find my parents in the same room that night. So I spent a few minutes wandering around the house trying to see if they’d naturally settle in the same place; when it became abundantly clear that they wouldn’t, I just asked them both to come downstairs, “I just have something I want to talk to you about.”

“What’s wrong sweetie?” asked my mom.

“Nothing, I just want to talk, that’s all.”

So now my mother and my father are standing across the island in our kitchen, we’re all standing up, and I jump in.

“There’s not really a way to preface this, so I’m just going to say it…Mom, Dad, I’m gay.” The words dropped to the floor, and my father let them crash and shatter at his feet, but my mom swooped down, caught them, and cradled them gently in her arms.

My mother’s reaction was remarkable. All she did was ask questions, as if it was a new hobby that I was picking up and she was curious. She asked things like “how long have you known?” and “who else knows?”—you know—basic sorts of things.

My father didn’t react quite as positively, but that is a post for another day, and rest assured, it’s a story that ends well. But for the moment, fast-forward a few minutes and I’m out the door. I wasn’t running away for good: I just needed some space. So I went to Paige’s house, drank hot cocoa, and cried for all that I thought I had lost.

My mom called at around 9:00 and only wanted to know if I was safe, and if she could pick me up. I said that she could and that I had never planned to run away forever. She said that she knew and that she understood.

When we got home, we sat down on our favorite couch, she held my hand, I leaned on her shoulder, and we talked until 2 am in front of our fireplace. I have never felt more loved by my mother than at that moment, when she sat there holding me, and telling me all the things that I needed to hear. She told me that my father would come around, that he just needed some time. She told me that she loved me no matter what, and that I was her son and nothing could take that away. She told me that she was amazed by my bravery, by my courage to be myself. She told me that she had had a sneaking suspicion that I was gay since I was 4, and that she had even talked to a therapist about what to do if her son was gay. She told me that her only worry, her only concern, was that I wouldn’t be able to live the life that she had always wanted for me—a life free of discrimination, free of hurt, and free of the prejudice of others. In the midst of everything that she could have focused on, she only focused on me. All she wanted was for me to be happy regardless of my sexual orientation. On a sillier note, she also made me pinky-promise that I wouldn’t get HIV, which I assured her wasn’t even a concern given my current lack of a dating life at the time.

And I told her a few things. I told her that she should still expect a beautiful marriage, that she should expect to meet my boyfriends as they came, and that she should still expect grandchildren—beautiful, adopted, wonderful grandchildren.

From that point on my mother has been my pillar. It was her who supported me when I began to get involved with my high school’s GSA, and it was her who claimed me as her son when I came out to 2,000 Methodist church leaders at the NC Methodist Annual Conference. It was her who lent me a shoulder to cry on when I faced the pain of religious marginalization, and it was her who was the first to congratulate me on a successful youth march at the NC Pride Parade or a great meeting of the Triangle GSA Council.

So to all mothers out there who support their gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender children, know that you are our rock, know that you are loved, and know that you make more of a difference in our lives than you could ever understand. And thank you. Thank you so much for being everything that you are.

And to those of you whose mothers have not been supportive, know that they love you. They truly, truly do. Your mothers love you more than you could know, no matter how terrible they are showing it. I promise.

I started this post by talking about how yesterday was my 3^rd Gayday and yesterday my mother, because she is hip and wonderful and the best mother that I could ever, ever ask for, sent me a text message that I will never delete:

“I just realized that it’s the third anniversary of your coming out to us. It was the night before our cantata at church, which is tomorrow…I know, a very strange association. I just want to say thank you for helping me to see the world in a better way. You are still the bravest man I’ve ever known and I love you very much! Mom”

I love you Mom. Merry Christmas.