Boy Erased, a few thoughts

There are no perfect people in Garrard Conley’s Boy Erased: A Memoir. We learn that Garrard unceremoniously and without explanation dropped his longtime girlfriend when they were seniors in high school. When Garrard’s parents found out he’s gay, he was given an ultimatum: he can never act on his feelings for men, or his parents will stop paying for college. In the summer of 2004, after his freshman year, Garrard’s parents enrolled him in an intensive two-week “ex-gay” program. It did not go well.

Faith-based “ex-gay therapy” became a thing in the 1970s after the medical establishment decided homosexuality wasn’t a disease after all. Many fundamentalists and evangelicals didn’t like this turn of events—how could queers not be sick?—so “ex-gay therapy” was born. Since it is not a proper therapy sanctioned and administered by trained professionals, there are no established peer reviewed parameters and protocols, but if you hear enough stories, including Garrard Conley’s, you’ll notice some common themes. Being gay is often equated with addiction, a sinful addiction. It is supposedly caused by abuse and the withholding of affection by the same-sex parent. Those who refuse to believe this and can’t find a way to make their personal stories align with the mythology are told they are rebelling against all that is holy and inviting evil into their hearts and lives. Of course, there is no scientific evidence to support these claims. It is all complete and utter horseshit, and pushing these toxic ideas on a vulnerable person can result in anxiety, depression and self-loathing.

So why would an intelligent person with a bright future allow himself to be subjected to such torture? Why would loving parents foist such shady quackery on their kid? Why would any decent person, including some LGBTs, become the purveyors of ex-gay therapy? Garrard Conley’s book does an excellent job of giving us some insight.

The short answer is fundamentalism. You can be terribly self-critical if you’re a fundamentalist, and if you’re LGBT, you’re encouraged to be ruthless with yourself. You can get away with being judgmental if you’re a fundamentalist, especially if you claim your cruelty is couched in Christian love. But what you can’t do if you’re a fundamentalist is question fundamentalism itself. You have been trained to think that to question basic beliefs and assumptions is to question God. Horrible things might happen to you, and you might end up going to hell. Hell is not a metaphor in fundie land.

Garrard’s parents did send him to the family doctor when they learned their son was gay. She spoke to Garrard in private and explained to him there was nothing medically wrong with him. She told him that she knew it would be difficult to live as an openly gay man in rural Arkansas, but she explained he had the option of moving to an LGBT-friendly city.

But if you’re a teenager, the thought of leaving your family and friends and everything that’s familiar can be rather daunting, especially if you’ve internalized some of the things you’ve been taught since early childhood, stuff about the evils you will supposedly encounter outside the insular fundamentalist church world.

Boy Erased: A Memoir by Garrard Conley, I recommend it.

The Good Stuff

When I was young, I didn’t picture my life turning out the way that it has. I imagined lots of friends, travel, a cool apartment in NYC or SF. I hoped I would be a successful writer and become independently wealthy. I envisioned lots of encounters with sexy men. I was a terrified and lonely boy, so maybe my big dreams somehow gave balance to the reality I was living.

Maybe those dreams didn’t materialize exactly the way I imagined they would, but earlier I was thinking about how that lonely boy would react if someone told him how things would really turn out.

You’ll have your own apartment. Nothing fancy, and not in NYC or SF, but it’ll be just as good as the house you grew up in, and it’ll be yours.

You’ll have a computer, and that computer will give you access to all kinds of information. It’ll be like having a university library in your living room. You’ll also have an endless supply of books, movies, TV shows and lectures on all the subjects you’re interested in. And the images… Oh, my. Even if you don’t travel the world, you’ll get to see it. You’ll get to see all kinds of art. Every day. And the men… You’ll see countless men, beautiful young men, and many won’t have any clothes on. You’ll see them all the time.

You’ll be able to use the computer to write your books. And you’ll get to publish them. You won’t make any money, but some people will read your books and claim they like them.

You won’t be a world traveler, but you’ll visit a few places, and you’ll get to know Yosemite like the back of your hand.
 
You won’t have friends who live near, and you won’t have a parade of lovers in your bed. You won’t have a boyfriend. But you’ll know people from all over. Once again, thanks to the computer. They’ll know all about you. You won’t have to hide the way you do now. You’ll tell them and show them who you are every day, and they won’t go running in the other direction. They’ll like you for who you are, and you’ll like them. You’ll get out of bed looking forward to connecting with them.

All of that might sound pretty good to that terrified, lonely boy.

Together

Hillary Clinton might not be as good at speechifying as Obama or her husband, and she might not be as good at speaking from her heart as Michelle or some of the parents who lost their children to violence, but she admits it. She understands that even though she’s been in the spotlight for nearly 25 years, many still don’t feel like they know her. She’s guarded. That’s something I can relate to. Opening up to strangers is not something that comes naturally to me, and even though I like words and like toying with words and telling stories, the mere idea of standing up and delivering those words to millions terrifies me.

I liked the overall theme of the convention: togetherness. When I was growing up, I felt alone and scared. Really alone and scared. I didn’t feel I could trust anyone, tell anyone my fears or concerns, rely on anyone. I thought I might even be in danger if I let anyone know who I really was. I know what it’s like to have a profound sense of being on your own. It’s a feeling I’ve not been able to shake after all of these years. It still haunts me. It’s still a feeling I have to challenge and fight against every day to keep it from completely paralyzing me. So I appreciate the unity message. We are in this together, and no one can make it on their own. Dividing people only creates more fear and paranoia. In a society where only the privileged are treated with respect, you can never feel safe even if you’re part of the in group, because you might be kicked out of the club tomorrow. I liked what the minister said about how we need to shock the heart of this country with the power of love.

Where would we be...

There is a modern perception that there has been a huge clash been science and religion for the last 2,000 years. Modern fundamentalist objections to evolution and skepticism regarding climate change fuels this perception. But the fact is, western Europe was a culturally backward place when the Roman’s marched north and west, and when the western part of the empire fell apart, it took western Europe several centuries to get their act together. The Roman empire became officially Christian before its collapse, and they did spread the religion throughout the area, but it wasn’t Christianity that cooled progress in the west. In fact, monasteries were the primary centers of learning. They copied and preserved books, and not just Bibles. Christian theologians were intensely interested in Greek philosophy, which is the foundation of modern Western science. The monasteries gave rise to modern universities, which were created by the Catholic Church. They didn’t just study theology at these universities, and eventually departments called “natural philosophy” were established. Natural philosophy is the precursor to modern science.

The same thing is true in Muslim countries. The same centers of learning where theology was studied and discussed where also places where one could study philosophy. That gave rise to advances in astronomy, mathematics and optics. Where would our science be without mathematics? And the Muslim study of optics helped inspire artistic advances during the European Renaissance. Europeans went on crusades in an attempt to capture the Holy Land, but they returned with Muslim ideas and learning.

Nietzsche was a severe critic of religion. He thought religion, and Christianity in particular, were dishonest and underhanded expressions of the will to power. But Nietzsche also believed humans were driven by a will to truth, and he understood that Christians were responsible for advances in science. In Nietzsche’s estimation, Christian will to truth undermined Christian will to power directly in the form of biblical criticism. First lower biblical criticism, which was concerned with the quality of translations, and then higher biblical criticism of the 19^th century, which was concerned with inconsistencies, and literary analysis that suggested maybe Paul didn’t actually write all of those letters, maybe some verses were added later, and apparently much of the Old Testament had been heavily edited numerous times and woven together from various original sources over a period of centuries.

In science fiction stories, time travelers are often warned not to change anything because even the slightest alteration could result in a massive change in the course of history. Some seem to think that if not for religion, we’d all be science minded rationalists living in a highly advanced civilization free of all strife. But would we?

Hope

It got to me a little bit when Bill Clinton, who is looking a bit frail and whose hands shake a bit, spoke about those of us who have more yesterdays than tomorrows at the convention. Bill Clinton was the first president I ever voted for.

I was old enough to vote in 1984, but I didn’t feel confident enough to make a decision. Of course, I now regret not taking the opportunity to vote against Ronald Reagan. It wouldn’t have made any difference, but at least I would have that satisfaction.  However, I was a young whippersnapper, and I knew it.

In 1988, I was deeply depressed. I had recently spent time in a psychiatric hospital and decided to take a break from college. I lived in the D.C. area for a few months with my aunt and uncle and worked in a gourmet food store near DuPont Circle. It was quite an experience, and one of the highlights was the morning I was waiting on a train, and about ten young men ran through the station putting stickers on everything. I was stunned, and within seconds they were gone again. When I got up and had a closer look at one of the stickers, I saw that it read “Silence = Death.” I wished I had their energy and courage, but like most seriously depressed people, doing even simple things was a struggle, and I soon accepted the fact that I just wasn’t up to life in D.C. and returned to my parent’s house in West Virginia.

When 1992 came around, I was finally ready, and I was quite optimistic and hopeful about Clinton. He promised to push for AIDS research and treatment, and he promised to allow gays and lesbians to serve openly in the military.

Well, as we all know, his presidency was a mixed bag for those of us who live on the margins. …DOMA, DADT, welfare “reform.” Bill was quite a wild ride, and because of him, I learned not to be too idealistic about politics or to give my heart to politicians.

But I understand what he means when he says those of us who are getting older want to keep working for a better tomorrow even if we’re not necessarily going to be around. I was in my twenties when I voted for Bill Clinton. I was still hoping for great things for myself, and I was still young enough to imagine the world could be a place where everybody got along. By the time Bill left office, I knew the difference between fantasy and reality, but I have to admit, the ’90s were a lot better than the ’80s, especially for LGBTs despite DOMA and DADT. And Bill was a hell of a lot better than Bush. Many talked about “Clinton fatigue” in the late ’90s, even many of his supporters. That sure as hell evaporated fast after W moved into the White House. Maybe Hillary doesn’t inspire many to imagine we’re on the cusp of a wonderful new age, and maybe that’s for the best. But maybe she will make things just a little bit better, and if not for us, then maybe for someone down the road. I’m absolutely certain that her leadership would be a damn sight better than that strange orange person’s.

Secret Agent Man

In the spring of 2000, my elderly grandfather went to live in a nursing home, and my parents and I moved into his house in Fayetteville, West Virginia. The house actually belonged to an uncle, but he couldn’t sell it while my grandfather was alive because my grandfather had a lifetime dowry. It was a small ranch house, but it was big enough with three bedrooms and two baths. My parents knew how socially withdrawn I was and allowed me to have the room with the private bath. That room became my sanctuary for seven years.

The house was in a nice neighborhood. Solidly middle class. We were beside a church with large stained glass windows, and there were a couple of big, rambling one-hundred-year-old mansions nearby. The county courthouse was down on the corner. I could walk to the town park, the cemetery and to trailheads that led down into the New River Gorge. The trails were maintained by the National Park Service. It was the nicest place I’ve ever lived, and I felt more secure and stable while living there than I ever did before moving in or after I moved out.

My grandfather died in 2003. My mother died in 2004. And finally, my father died in 2007. Then my uncle sold the house two months later.

After a very hasty search on the internet for a new home, I landed in Merced, California. The apartment complex I found was for low income renters, most of whom had a HUD subsidy. It was definitely a big step down.

The elderly woman who lived in the apartment below me turned out to be more than a little nuts. About six months after I moved in, she began making odd complaints about me to the manager. She claimed I had high tech spy equipment which I used to track her movements inside her apartment. She said that if she went into the kitchen, I would go into my kitchen above her, and if she went to her living room, I would go into my living room, etc. Why she thought I would be that interested in her was never explained. She was obviously not right, as they say in the south. She began coming to my door and cussing me out, and when I left the apartment, she would follow me around the parking lot making wild accusations. I was afraid of her because I knew someone that unhinged could be capable of anything.

Eventually, the apartment manager arranged for us to meet in her office where I was asked a lot of nosy questions by this elderly woman and the manager…as if it were up to me to prove that I wasn’t actually a James Bond type agent sent to watch this old woman with a million dollars’ worth of gadgets at my disposal. Then the manager actually asked if she could inspect my apartment. I agreed to this because I didn’t want her to think I had anything to hide, but I felt violated. A couple of weeks later, the old woman called the police on me, and a police officer came to my apartment after midnight and asked to inspect my apartment. Again, I didn’t want anyone to think I had anything to hide, so I let him in.

The woman’s fears were irrational and she had concocted a full-fledged delusion about who I was and what I was up to, so the assurance by the apartment manager and a police officer served no purpose. I knew it wouldn’t and could have told them so.

The woman below me kept pounding on her ceiling with what I presume was a broom or mop handle and screaming obscenities at me. I would be standing in my bathroom brushing my teeth and could hear her screeching from below calling me a mother fucker. After a while, I broke down and called the police because I was terrified this woman was going to lose all restraint and attempt to kill me. A few minutes later a police officer came to my door, and I will never forget how utterly indifferent and dismissive he was. He never let me explain my concerns. Every time I tried to speak, he would interrupt me and insist that the old woman was just afraid and that I should try harder not to disturb her. I wasn’t doing anything but living in the apartment I was renting.

It didn’t take me long to realize that basic circumstances had changed. My station in life was different. I was a poor, disabled middle aged man living alone in a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. People were generally going to look at me differently, including the police. I was less important to this society, and it was less likely that I would be taken seriously. And if something happened to me, it’s not likely much fuss would be made. That fact was made abundantly clear to me.

About a month after the police and the manager made it clear that I was on my own, a unit became available at the other end of the complex, and I grabbed it while I could. I had to pay the apartment manager’s husband and his friend to move my stuff.

Hazy Feelings and Gut Instincts

The form of Christian fundamentalism I was raised with never really took with me. There was always something about it that I didn’t like. As a young adult, I studied philosophy and religion. I guess I was looking for something to believe in. I did learn quite a lot. But to be truthful, there are some things I didn’t get. I didn’t understand certain things, and I found some ideas to be strange and some even odious. But then again, some things resonated with me. However, I never completely adopted any kind of systematic belief system as my own. Never actually found my home. I liked Plato, but I didn’t become a Platonist. I liked Kierkegaard. I especially liked how he described a person’s inner life and their loneliness in such depth and complexity. However, I never quite made that leap of faith he talked about. Nietzsche helped me to see through the homophobes. Nietzsche knew that moralizing often had nothing to do with ethics. Moralizing is often a sleazy trick to shame someone so you can gain dominance over them. I got that, and I liked knowing that, but Nietzsche’s view of life was way too harsh for me. I liked some aspects of Buddhism and Hinduism without ever becoming a Buddhist or a Hindu. I spent a lot of time studying Tillich. I liked his concept of the courage to be, and accepting acceptance. If we can just believe we’re loved and acceptable as we are, life would be much easier. But for Tillich, God was so abstract, so beyond our comprehension. I never felt any emotional connection. Never anything I would feel comfortable calling faith.

Some might suggest that maybe I’m a rationalist and a skeptic, and that might be true to a degree, but like Fox Mulder from The X-Files, I want to believe. I want to believe in something beyond the ordinary. I want to believe there’s something other than what you can find out by observation and logical inference. I love stories about the supernatural, and I love science fiction. After seeing Close Encounters as a boy, I hoped so much that gentle, accepting, altruistic aliens would come and whisk me away to some otherworldly paradise that I began to believe it would eventually happen. It was my version of the Rapture. It was kind of like my religion for a while.

When I’m watching a spooky movie or reading a scary book, I often become uneasy, especially if it’s late at night. I’ll start looking over my shoulder. Every little unidentifiable sound will make me shiver. Sometimes I don’t even have to be engaged in a scary story for this feeling to come over me. In my younger days, I used to get so scared, I’d leave my apartment in the middle of the night and walk around town by myself. I think most would agree that was an irrational thing to do. I was probably much safer in my apartment behind a locked door than walking the streets of Morgantown at two o’clock in the morning. But at the time, I couldn’t shake the belief that there was something threatening in my apartment. What was I afraid of exactly? I don’t know. I don’t want to call it a ghost or a demon or a psycho killer because the fear wasn’t that specific. I just felt there was something in my apartment with me, and I wanted to get away from it.

On the other hand, hope is something that has never abandoned me completely even when I was experiencing severe depression. It’s probably what kept me alive. But is hope really rational? Almost every day, we hear about fanatics and psychotics killing people, sometimes by the dozens. And we’re all headed toward a catastrophe of one kind or another. We’ve all lost people we’ve loved. Many of us have faced our own mortality. Many of us have been in car accidents or had to undergo emergency surgery. It’s only a matter of time before we fall off the wall, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put us back together again. So why not just give up now? I’ve thought about it many times, but there’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to. So far, that part has always won. I hold onto my hope. Can I explain it or justify it? No, I can’t. But it’s there. Is it a kind of nascent faith? Maybe, but I don’t want to put that label on it. I don’t want to define it and burden it with a lot of “shoulds” and “thou shalts.” And it’s not like I didn’t try to find some systematic structure for what I think and believe, but nothing ever seemed to fit. As I get older, I’m trying to become more comfortable with my hazy feelings and gut instincts.