L.T. Miller shares another scene in a continuing story about his adventures in (and coming out of) an ex-gay ministry.
It was a warm and muggy day, unusually so for early spring. Beads of perspiration dripped from my forehead, and my dress slacks and starched shirt stuck to my sweaty body. I stood alone in the parking lot of my grandmother’s church, smoking a cigarette. I was eager for this whole affair to be done with so I could yank the uncomfortable clothes off in exchange for my signature cargo shorts, t-shirt, and worn out Birkenstocks. I wanted a drink – a real drink – not the thick syrupy iced tea I was sipping.
Family and friends were gathered in the fellowship hall lingering over plates loaded with fried chicken, home-made butter milk biscuits with country ham, green beans cooked in bacon grease, mashed potatoes with gravy, macaroni and cheese, and homemade banana pudding with vanilla wafers for dessert. Normally I would have eaten ravenously and gone back for seconds, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I had sat there in the stuffy room for as long as I could bear it, then finally after what seemed like a reasonable time of endurance, I excused myself into the kitchen to discard my plate and used the opportunity to sneak outside – hopefully unnoticed. I had begun to feel claustrophobic and was tired of the effort it took to make small talk with close-minded cousins.
I had received the call around two o’clock on the morning of April 7, 2011. Groggily I answered the phone and could hear my mom crying on the other end of the line three thousand miles away. “She’s gone.” I immediately jumped out of bed, got online, and booked the first flight I could out of San Francisco.
My grandmother was my rock.
It had taken months of contemplation to finally muster up the strength to tell her that I was gay. As I picked up the telephone and dialed her number one Saturday morning, my hands were trembling and all I could think of was the snide comment she’d once made about the lesbian couple who lived down the street from her, “Just look at ‘em, hair cropped short like men’s, walking down the street holding hands. What a disgrace!”
Surprisingly she handled my revelation well, much better than I expected, and the conversation ended with her telling me she loved me no matter what. From that initial conversation, many discussions ensued, and she offered me nothing but unconditional love. I’m not sure how she dealt inwardly with my coming out to her, but in time she became one of my most staunch supporters. Perhaps one of my greatest regrets in life is that she and my partner Sergio never met. Interestingly enough, however, I often have a recurring dream of the three of us hanging out in her kitchen. It comforts me.
We laid Grandmother to rest at Holly Hill Memorial Park Cemetery amidst blooming cherry trees and azaleas. I had written a letter to her that morning. I fought back tears as I shared my words with those gathered at her graveside service.
My dear sweet Grandmother –
I’m feeling just a tad bit discombobulated today. Bear with me. I’ve had a million thoughts running through my head the last couple of days.
I realize that the term “death” is really an oxymoron. You may have left your earthly body, but you are very much alive . . . your spirit will never leave us. I am overwhelmed with gratitude today. A boy couldn’t ask for a better grandmother. I am blessed indeed. The impact you’ve made on my life is huge. The impact you’ve made on everyone here is huge. You are an amazing woman.
One of the most beautiful things about the mind is its ability to hold on to memories. I’ll never forget you, Grandmother. If I close my eyes, I am instantly taken back to my childhood and the many happy carefree days spent in your presence. I can hear your voice, clear and strong. I can see you sticking your head out the bathroom window, screaming out at the top of your lungs, “If you don’t get of that tree, I’m going to come down there and skin you alive.”
Anytime, I am missing you, all I need to do is take a deep breath, still my mind, and allow myself to be transported back in time to the days before your body wore out. I will always be able to see the five weeping willow trees that graced your backyard, smell the fragrance of your prized rose bushes that ran along the split rail fence spanning the side of your property from front to back, see your dogwoods in their spring glory, and feel the soft dew covered grass underneath our bare feet as we trekked back to the garden, Weensie, Chester, Mack, Queenie or any one of your beloved pets trailing close behind.
You’ve taught me so much. From you I have learned self-reliance. Your favorite expression: “if I can’t do it myself, well then I don’t suppose it’ll get done.” I’ve learned from you self-acceptance. Your motto: “if they don’t like me for who I am – well, that’s their problem, not mine.” I’ve learned from you simplicity. You’ve never needed or desired earthly riches. Fancy cars, flashy clothes, jewelry have never meant a hill of beans to you. For you, wealth has always been defined by loving relationships with God, family, friends, animals, and nature.
Even though easier said than done, today should be a celebration. I am sure that’s what you want. So today, my dear grandmother, we will try to wipe away our tears and smile, knowing that you are not really dead. The term death is nothing more than man’s feeble attempt to explain the mystery of one’s passing from this realm into the next. None of us will ever know what heaven is truly like until we get there, but it sure is fun imagining you right now, running around in a young and healthy body, your youth and vitality restored.
I may not be able to reach out and touch you. I may not be able to feel your warm embrace. But I can feel your presence – I will always be able to feel your presence. I know I can talk to you anytime I want, and I will . . . you can count on it. I love you forever and always.
With my back turned against the church, lost deep in a myriad of scattered thoughts, I was startled by the booming voice of my brother. “Hey faggot, what ya doing out here all by yerself?”
I laughed. Only Phillip could get away with calling me that. I knew his intent was not meant to be disparaging, and somehow allowing him to use that word as a term of endearment gave us both a tremendous sense of power over the homophobes hell-bent on using the word maliciously.
I turned in his direction and quipped, “Wassup, redneck? Get enough to eat?”
He rubbed his belly and untucked his shirt, “Oh yah, man, I’m ‘bout as stuffed as a tick in a blood bank. You?”
I shrugged, “Wasn’t really that hungry. I had to get out of there, dude; gettin’ a little too pious for me.”
He came over and patted me on the back, “Yeah man, but don’t let ‘em get to ya – ain’t worth getting’ yerself all worked up over ’cause you know if they ever say anything to you about being gay, I’m ready and rarin’ to whup some ass, alright?” We both chuckled.
Soon we were joined by my little sister Brooke, twenty years my junior, an absolute delight, more like a niece than a sister. Perhaps I’m biased, but I think she’s stunningly beautiful – a slender blue-eyed blond with delicate features, possessing a heart as big as a Texas hairdo. She has a sweet, sensitive nature, but being an Aires, her temper can explode if she feels wronged: “Dang it to hell, that Bill is gettin’on my last damn nerve. He’s so full of hisself. I just wanna stuff a dirty sock in his mouth and watch his face turn red. Either one of ya’ll got a cigarette I can bum?”
Phillip reached in his pocket and pulled out a Marlboro. “What ya’ll got goin’ on the rest of the day?”
I didn’t waste any time, “Well, I don’t know about ya’ll, but I need a drink. Where ya’ll wanna go?”
Phillip stroked his chin, “Don’t matter to me . . .Brooke, got any ideas?”
“Hmm . . . how ‘bout Leamon’s?”
I glared at her with a look of shock on my face, “They serve alcohol there? Since when?” Leamon’s had been a childhood favorite of mine – a lunch counter on one side serving big greasy burgers smothered with chili, slaw, onions, and mustard, and a small grocery store on the other side. A long porch with rocking chairs ran along the front of the ramshackle building. The owner, Mr. Leamon, was a fine Christian man and I couldn’t imagine him allowing alcohol to be served in his establishment.
“Well,” said Phillip, “Mister Leamon passed on a while back and these new owners – well, they’ve done turned it into a bar. Old man Leamon would prolly roll over in his grave if he knew what they done to his store.”
“Get outta here,” I replied, “Leamon’s a bar? You’re shittin’ me, right?”
“Nope, man, serious as a heart attack.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive.”
“Alright ya’ll, give me a second.” I ran to my rental car, grabbed my backpack out of the trunk, hid behind a row of shrubbery, and quickly changed into something more comfortable before jumping into the truck with Phillip and Brooke already in tow. Brad Paisley crooned from the radio and we said nothing to one another as we headed past dilapidated furniture factories on our way to the other side of town.
A few minutes later we pulled into a gravel parking lot full of motorcycles and dented pickups with NRA stickers plastered to their bumpers. With great trepidation, I climbed out of Phillip’s truck. As we walked into the packed bar, “Hotel California” blared from the old timey jukebox. I looked around at the crowd and was tempted to bolt. As we approached the bar lined with good ‘ol boys wearing hats and boots, a fat man with unkempt hair and a bushy beard yelled from the other side of the room, “Hey Phillip – hey Brooke – who’s that with ya’ll?” Phillip introduced me as his brother from San Francisco. “San Francisco? Hey boy from San Francisco, tell me something.”
“Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “what is he going to ask me?”
A big grin spread wide across his chubby face, “How come all the gay boys move to San Francisco and all the politicians end up in Washington D.C.?”
The chatter along the bar came to a screeching halt and all eyes were on me. “Shit,” I told myself, “you got to think fast here, L.T.” I honestly don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I felt secure in Phillip’s protective presence – all I know is that I suddenly felt emboldened and looked the obese guy dead straight in the face and came back with, “Well, sir, every gay boy should move to the most beautiful city in the country, don’t ya think?” He laughed heartily. I ordered my gin and tonic, retreated to the front porch, and lit a cigarette.
I was soon joined by the weathered bartender with bad teeth and long stringy black hair. “What the hell did he mean by that?” I asked her.
“Oh honey,” she drawled in her thick southern accent, “that was meant as a good thang. You ain’t got nuthin’ to worry ‘bout. That’s Randy, the owner; he’s got a gay brother. He’s an interior designer up in New York City. Lemme tell you somethin’ – if anybody ever came in here and said somethin’ bad about a gay person, well lemme just tell you, their ass ain’t steppin’ foot in here ever again. He was just a playin’ with you. Hell, we got these gay guys come in here every Saturday night – they been together for thirty some years. Don’t fret, honey, you’re safe here.”
I instinctively threw my arms out and pulled her into a tight embrace, whispering in her ear, “Thank you,” wondering to myself if this unlikely character was an angel sent to me by my grandmother.
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L.T. MILLER was born in a small southern town. While in college, he became involved in ex-gay support groups, and in 1996 was accepted into the New Hope Ministries residential program in San Rafael, CA. During his two year stay, he questioned everything until finally he completely abandoned a misguided ideology that made less and less sense. He found a gay church in San Francisco where he was accepted for who he was, and with the loving support of a lesbian pastor he was able to begin life anew as an openly gay man. L.T. Miller is the Ex-Gay Survivor.
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