I would like to thank who helped to raise awareness of the recent attack against Rachel, a transgendered woman in our community, by sharing the story through Twitter and Facebook. Rachel received medical attention at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital and gave a police statement regarding her attackers. The police at District Six as well as the LGBT liaison committee to the police are looking into the incident.
As we become more aware of the vigilance needed to keep our community safe, we are hit by another wave of sadness.
The recent bullying and suicides of Tyler Clementi, Asher Brown, Seth Walsh, and Billy Lucas four gay teenagers whose lives were cut short is just senseless. It is disheartening to learn that in this day and age, our youth are still plagued by homophobia that is rooted in ignorance.
I am saddened by their deaths but remember that their tragic stories are just four out of the many untold ones out there and much more must be done to give LGBT youth out there the hope they need to see them through troubled times.
As a response to the death of 15-year-old Indiana teenager Billy Lucas, writer and sex columnist Dan Savage started the It Gets Better Project, a YouTube channel allowing gay adults to share videos reassuring LGBT youth that life does, in fact, get better after adolescence.
I would also like to share my own personal story as well, in hopes that it helps someone out there.
I remember it was a space between two buildings near the back of the school. It was a small empty space that marked the ending of one building and the beginning of another with no distinctive features other than the concrete corridor that ran through it and a tiny grass patch that stretched from the back of the buildings beyond the green wire fence and ended at the large drain that was beside St. Patrick’s Secondary School.
It was a quiet space that was away from the attention of the assembly yard where the rest of the boys played and became a refuge for me in times of loneliness. On hot humid afternoons between classes I would stare at the big open drain in front of me and sometimes quietly sing to myself or pull out my recorder, a type of English flute, to try to squeeze out a tune.
I was never really good at music but was always drawn to melody because of its unspoken expressiveness. You could be singing about love but know that there was actually pain behind those words of sweetness and it was this secret meaning that captured me.
Those afternoons of in-between times, I transformed my sorrow into notes playing without instruction and only to the tune in my heart. The soft frightened melody floated past the green wire fence and over the large drain behind my school, sinking into the tide of muddy water to be washed away.
When I was tired of the tears and could no longer swallow the lump in my throat, I would wipe the wet spittle from my mouthpiece and sneak into the nearby bathroom to wash my face. I didn’t want them to see the redness in my eyes. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
My four years in that Catholic all boys’ school was strung together by that broken melody played and heard only by myself, but I was not without company. Besides those afternoons in that in-between space by myself, I fostered a bond with the boys in my art class.
We had grown up together in primary school and stayed friends throughout secondary school. Even though back then they didn’t know I was gay, we stuck to each other because we shared a common struggle against bullying.
We would spend hours in the art room working on our craft projects and listening to our Spice Girls CDs, making stupid jokes that only we in our little group got the humor of. And we all developed the same defensive sarcasm that was the results of daily name calling and being the target of pranks.
One of the more memorable stunts that these jokers pulled was to spit on the railings leading up the stair and watch who got spit in their palm making their way up.
Our school was a two storey building and sometimes we would have to climb the stairs to get to our next class. I hate to climb stairs and I still do today but back in secondary school that task was a lot harder because I was a lot heavier back then and I would always need the support of the railing to make my way up to the second floor.
As I slowly climbed up, the boys would watch as I placed my hand over the part where they had previously spat on and laugh when I realize stuck my hand onto their phlegm and saliva trying to make my way up.
My gang was never far behind to offer a tissue or a wise crack back in my defense but of course that did nothing to stop a pointless verbal exchange that was sure to follow.
We were quite the odd bunch, neither similar in looks, status or personalities but it was our differences that became our similarity.
Those times are now scars over my heart that have healed and become reminders of how far I have come. I will not say that I have made it on my own and that is why I understand how important and valuable it is to have support. As a young gay teenager fearful and ashamed of his sexuality, I stood in front of what seems to be an endless ocean of filled with easy depths to fall into and without friends and love, I would have easily overlooked the tiny sparkles of light on the surface that is tomorrow.
Today, I am a confident, out, loud and proud queer that is not afraid to express his opinion or back down in the face of oppression. My friends have helped me on the way and you should not be afraid to reach out to them because if they are truly your friends they will accept you for who you are and not what you are.
I cannot promise you that it will be easy but I can promise you that it will get better.
More information can be found at www.thetrevorproject.com