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

A Letter from Your Clandestinely Queer Daughter

[Editor's note: Please welcome our third newest blogger in as many days, Sara!]

Dear Mom and Dad,

You’ll never see this letter, but I make no promises I can’t necessarily keep. It doesn’t really matter; you would hear none of it. You’d refuse to see me, acknowledge me, let alone keep our precarious bond intact. It’d be shredded pieces of paper from a daughter that’s no longer a daughter to you, blood be damned. You’ll wash your hands clean of it, praying to God—you’d be furious with Him, albeit your loyalties made your bed, so lie in it, prayers and all—to give you the strength to go through this. You’ll smile, bear the burden of having raised some heretic that contradicts every inch of your stern belief system, occupy yourself with another daughter—she’s perfect, she won’t stray. She won’t break your heart in two, watch it go asunder, know it was of her own devices and still went through with it anyway.

If I were to open my hand, guide you through the many rooms occupying my thoughts, through each intricate, deeply concealed secret, my offer wouldn’t be extended for too long. You’d immediately shut the door before ever crossing over the threshold, and flee.

This is a story that may never reach you—you, the tragic heroes, and I, the villain who ripped the world apart.

Now it’s high time I’ve gotten some things off my chest. Because you won’t see this—assuming I’ll always remain the same meek, reserved child of ’95 frozen in time on the hordes of pictures stashed in some corner in your closet (oh, the imagery makes me swoon)—I am without reticence. I’m sad that reassures me more than when you held my hand on my first day of kindergarten, or when you held me close when I was wrecked of tears and unbidden cynicism, nineteen and angry and exasperated.

Mom. Dad. I love you. I also happen to not be straight.

I know, you’re wondering where you went wrong with your parenting. Actually, your parenting skills were incomparable, look how far I’ve come, how much I’ve accomplished? This isn’t you, not exactly. What is you, though, is what you’ll do with my confession.

So, I’m queer, if you haven’t noticed. I thought I was dropping some neon bright, anti-heterosexual sentiments the last time I was home; my adamant demands for the shortest haircut possible and my aversions on the topic of boys were definite givens. I’m attracted to both men and women, but I never equate physical attractiveness to sexual attraction; they’re two mutually exclusive things in my head, no argument there. Which is why for the longest time I thought I was asexual, since, y’know, I have intimacy issues—probably because I was touched inappropriately/coerced to perform sexual favors on my “friend” when I was seven-eight years old. Half of the time I identify as asexual, with convoluted explanations as to why I am and why I am not “strictly” asexual. But I’m absolutely positive I am not straight, sorry.

I am not, however, “out and proud”.

Remember that night, Mom, back in my first year? It was after the awkward ride back home when my older sister blurted out that many of my friends at Duke were G-A-Y. For a moment there I really thought the car swerved dangerously close to a conveniently placed ditch by the side of the road. Your knuckles were stark white against the backdrop of the steering wheel. The rest of the car ride continued in silence.

The next night remains seared into memory, leaves me sick to my stomach each time I replay the words that will forever and forever cause me to doubt the strength of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“If you ever,” you said, alarmingly calm, like the eye of a storm. I faintly recall that you gripped my hand and I heard bones creak under your fingers. “If you ever said you were a lesbian, Sara, I’ll disown you. I will disown you.” In the same breath, she asked me to join her in prayer.

My cheeks were burning. She placed my head against her shoulder, muttering a string of biblical verses against my forehead, rocking me back and forth: I was her little girl again, the one who hadn’t rough-housed with boys, the one who hadn’t walked straight to the menswear during back-to-school shopping, some ideal daughter I loathed with every fiber of my being. For the longest time that night she never relinquished my hand.

I remember my mother gesticulating in a booth of a diner, frustration lurking behind every word, as she relayed to my two sisters, my older sister’s husband, and me the rumors that claimed I was a butch, a lesbian, a dyke, a freak. My older sister glanced at me, as if she were searching for answers I didn’t have. Closing my eyes, legs trembling under the table, I took a shuddering breath as I burst into tears, hiding my face into my shaking hands. I couldn’t bear looking at my mother then, couldn’t bear explaining it to them. So I lied through my teeth, I’ve only liked boys, while in the deepest crevices of my heart, there lingered feelings for a friend who’s just recently passed away last month (September 9, 2011).

I love my mother, but…how can you be the best possible you for someone when your own mother — unbeknownst to her — denies a piece of you so fragile, so empowering, very much an integral part that makes you you?

Dad, I’ve neglected you for awhile. I don’t know you well enough to predict the consequences if I were to send this to you. I can’t say we’ve talked much about love, or about life, or about our lives as father and daughter. This does not invalidate our quiet bond. How could I, when we’re so similar? Sometimes, just leaning on you, my silent, impenetrable wall, offers me the greatest comfort and warmth. We easily slip into contentment. I can hear the ocean waves lapping against the white sands of Hawaii, long hair blowing in the wind, my heart full because I got the chance to sit there with my daddy, no care in the world, except for the worry bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

What would he say if he knew? What would he do? If you can’t even tell me you had a heart attack, how would you expect me to tell you I’ve had boyfriends, but I thought about girls, too, the ones who’ve rendered boys as mere candles next to her brilliance?

I want to tell my parents that I haven’t fallen in love yet—I’ve come close, but they all end up the same: I love the idea of a person I’ve fabricated and imposed on them, not the reality that sets fire to bridges between these infatuations, or they leave me first. (R.I.P, D.W.) Rarely with my family have we been on the same footing, which is becoming more and more evident in my third year at Duke. Lying is second nature now, something I never fathomed as a possibility. I was taught that lying was an ugly sin against your family. I was also taught that home was my sanctuary, my shelter, the center of a child’s universe. Sometimes home…isn’t safe. And that is terrifying.

I want to tell you, when it (eventually) happens, I’m head over heels for a person; they just happen to not be a man, and you won’t mind. When you meet her, I want to lean over and whisper, unabashedly and with no hint of irony, “She could be the girl of my dreams,” and you’ll grin and say, “She deserves you.” During holidays, when our fragmented family comes together under one household, the room lit up by your wonderful smiles and big, gracious hearts, I want my boyfriend—I want my girlfriend to receive the love I know you’re capable of giving. You’ll glance my way, say, “Welcome home, love, you’re always welcomed, never forget that.”

Unfortunately, I can’t have these things, not unless I tell you, and even then it’s not guaranteed. Not unless I unlock those secretive rooms floating in my head for you and you accept everything in stride could we be okay. You’ll say, “Thank you for sharing this with us. You won’t ever have to hide again.”

I will always love you, no matter what, you’ve once, twice, countless times, said.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Please, let it be true. (It won’t be.)

Sincerely,
the girl behind closed doors