Dear friends- I want to share with you what I feel Pride is for me (yes these are my words):
Having lived through the time when I was beaten up in high school, pushed into lockers, thinking about suicide for being gay and different from everyone around me, and feeling as if I was going to have a tortuous future, Pride is having lived through all that. Pride is living after having my car windows shattered by marauders while I was inside giving my first boyfriend a kiss( on the lips). Pride is finding a career where I could live a healthy life knowing that my skills would keep me employed and my gayness would not get me beaten up and thrown in the river by a co-worker. Pride is having the courage to contribute to my community as my confidence and financial stability grew, so that others could benefit in a way that I did not, when young. Pride is knowing that I can hold a hand of a man, a boyfriend or a friend and walk down the same street where I was faced with straight men wielding bats 35 years ago. Pride is wearing my colors and saying hello, good morning, to everyone on the street and knowing that my words may brighten their day. Pride is creating tea dances, hikes, bar crawls, art creations, playing competitive sports with straight folks and knowing that I, and my friends, are truly valued side by side. Pride is knowing that life and culture and community are not just about how it serves me but how I can give to others and contribute to a functioning,, respectful society where we all mix with worth. Pride is surviving and knowing that my contributions and wisdom that I provide to younger people as I age, may very well save them from a misery that I once knew and experienced. Pride is offering my spirit and passion to my world where I have such value that I receive a thank you every day, I receive a smile on a face, where I dance with glee because I am wearing a silly outfit. Is there commercialism sure-! I order 25 pairs of rainbow-colored boot laces- one pair for me and 24 pairs to give to a young person who will react with awe when they see mine, and I can hand a pair to them as a treat. Pride is going into your community and saying to yourself- “I am free to love and you are free to love who- you- want!!” Pride is raising a rainbow flag and knowing that when the conservatives want to take my rights away, I have a whole community of friends as my arsenal who have my back and we will face the forces together! Make Pride a giving experience to others and you will never have to have doubts about your worth.
Have a delightful month, and year!
Michael is an organizer for several queer social groups in the North Shore.
The views expressed are the author's own. Unedited. The author owns the copyright.
My View: Salem's recognition of gay pride is reason for celebration.
I was born in Salem on Oct. 9, 1942. Dr. Shaughnessey delivered me, as he did three of my siblings. Salem has always been very important to me, and when I was young I recall traveling with my mother and father to Salem on Saturday mornings to purchase produce from an open-air market in Derby Square.
While Danvers is my lifelong and voting residence, I have always considered Salem a part of my home. The fact that the city this month is holding the first gay pride celebration in its long history touches me to the core.
I was nearly 50 years old before I began to struggle with the reality that my sexual orientation was principally gay. That realization was torture for me, a culmination of a half-century of guilt and shame. I still shudder to recall the terrible isolation of that journey.
From grades one through eight, I attended the finest public schools in the country in Danvers. I then attended St. John’s Prep, a great place for me. My teachers, all Xaverian teaching brothers, were generous, courageous, brilliant and committed, and I remember several every day in my prayers.
However, the relentless social message of the time was that all normal, healthy people are straight, and anything other was to be destroyed or, at the very least, kept hidden.
On to Boston College, and Boston College Law School. I often reflect with gratitude that I had the benefits of working at Vic’s Drive-in and The Village Green restaurant for 11 years while I was attending high school, college and law school. Those places gave me somewhere to hide from my intensifying depression, which, by the time I reached Boston College, was profound at least one day out of three. Shame kept me from ever attending a single football game in my four years at BC, and to this day I have not a single friend from my undergraduate years. The disconnect was then, and for years after, very painful.
By the time I entered law school, the depression was pronounced. I attended Catholic Mass often, continued to say the rosary, and pleaded that Jesus would fix me and make me like other men. I dated kind, graceful and beautiful women with the hope that “something would click,” in the words of one of my many psychiatrists. They promised that my mental illness could be cured and they would mature me into a traditional heterosexual. Tragically, I believed them.
I felt so isolated, so alone. There were no gay/straight school alliances, no gay pride events then, nothing to alleviate the loneliness and helplessness.
At the end of law school, I matriculated to a mental hospital to undergo medical psychiatric treatment for my “mental illness.” In truth, I now know that I was not mentally ill, and never had been. I suffered the panic and depression that resulted from acute, catastrophic sense of aloneness that came from the shame of growing up gay in a straight world.
In July 2001, when Gov. Jane Swift nominated me to be the first occupant of the 23rd seat on the Massachusetts Appeals Court, I was often asked: “Did you always want to be a judge?”
Well, not really.
Indeed, becoming a judge was not among my wildest dreams. For the first 50 years of my life, as a closeted gay man, a principal hope was to keep my sexual orientation (and consequent fear, doubt and insecurity) hidden, while I attempted the promised cure. I was told, and believed, that I was unspeakably mentally ill.
British mathematician Alan Turing, an undeniable genius, created a primitive computing device that helped decode German naval war codes during World War II, assuring an Allied victory. He was convicted of “gross indecency with a male” in March 1952, when I was 10. Instead of prison, he was sentenced to chemical castration — injections of the female hormone estrogen, designed to suppress his homosexuality. The injections destroyed his athletic frame (he would have run the marathon for Britain in the 1948 London Olympics if it hadn’t been for an injury) and turned him into a bloated monster. It also set the diffident genius on a slow, sad descent into grief and madness. As a consequence, on June 7, 1954, when I was 12 years old, and just weeks after Turing’s 42nd birthday, he killed himself by taking a bite out of an apple that he had dipped in cyanide.
Several historians filed a brief, amici, in the case of Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003), which was decided when I was 51, in which the Supreme Court on June 26, 2003, struck down all laws that prohibit sex between consenting gay adults. The historians noted that discrimination against homosexuals became widespread in the 20th century and reached its peak between the 1930s and the 1960s. Gay men and women were labeled “deviants,” “degenerates” and “sex criminals” by medical professionals, government officials and the mass media. The federal government banned the employment of homosexuals and insisted that its private contractors ferret out and dismiss their gay employees. Many state governments prohibited gay people from being served in bars and restaurants, and many municipalities launched police campaigns to suppress gay life. The authorities worked together to create or reinforce the belief that gay people were an inferior class to be shunned by other Americans, and homosexuals were penalized as a genuinely subordinate class of citizens. Same-gender sexual expression was criminalized, carrying the possibility of imprisonment in every state.
Such was the cultural paradigm for my parents, my siblings and me during the first 35 years of my life. When I argued my first case before the U.S. Supreme Court, homosexuality was still defined as a mental illness, and the faith tradition of my Polish and Irish ancestors labeled me then (continuing to this day) as “intrinsically disordered.” (My father was with me in the courtroom. He never had a clue as to how lonely I really was.)
No. I never wanted to be a judge. Why would I want something so absurd, so beyond imagination.
During my confirmation process in 2001, I was prepared for harsh treatment. Augmenting my somewhat establishment credentials, I had slowly become, somewhat modestly, visible as a gay man. I represented Boston Mayor Thomas Menino and the city of Boston in Connors v. Boston, 430 Mass. 31 (1999), considered by some to be a predecessor to Goodridge v. Department of Public Health, 440 Mass. 309 (2003), often called the “Massachusetts Gay Marriage Case.” (“The Massachusetts Constitution affirms the dignity and equality of all individuals. It forbids the creation of second-class citizens.” 440 Mass. at 312.) But instead of being treated negatively, I was unanimously confirmed by the Governor’s Council, with no mention of any “gay issue.” I could not believe it.
I will paraphrase from “The Velvet Rage” by Alan Downs:
The truth is that I grew up disabled. Not disabled by my homosexuality, but emotionally disabled by an environment that taught me that I was unacceptable, not a “real” man and therefore shameful.
As a young boy learning to fish in the Danvers Mill Pond, I readily internalized those strong feelings of shame into a core belief: I am unacceptably flawed. It crippled my sense of self and prevented me from following the normal, healthy stages of adolescent development. I was consumed with the task of hiding the fundamental truth of myself from others around me — first my family, then my town, then the Prep, my college, my profession ... everyone and everything. I pretended all the while to be something I wasn’t. At the time, to me, it was the only way that I could survive. It was really lonely.
I have seen lots of change. I am very proud of the town of Danvers and its diversity committee. When I was elected town moderator, Selectman David McKenna noted with a smile of his own pride that the town of Danvers had elected “an openly gay moderator.” The courts in Massachusetts have been leaders in protecting the sensitivities of lesbian and gay people by according to us full dignity as human beings. It was a long time coming. Sometimes the progress boggles my mind.
I’ve come a long way, but I still struggle daily with remnants of the shame camouflage that wrapped me for the first half-century of my life. The fact that the city of my birth celebrates gay pride is a spiritual homecoming for me. I’m very grateful. And I will continue to try to do my part, as one single human being, to free the world of unearned guilt and shame.
Many lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender persons still live in a cave of terror. I will try to change this. Frankly, I think that the Salem event will contribute greatly to my hopes.
For the first 40 years of my life, I never knew that I knew another gay or lesbian person. I never discussed the shame that polluted me spiritually and emotionally. Some 40 percent of my person was invisible to those around me and, indeed, to a great extent, to me.
I experience this Salem gay pride event as celebrating and affirming me as a whole and worthy person and a proud son of the city of Salem. Public pride is a good thing for me.
David A. Mills, 69, is in his 11th year as a member of the Massachusetts Appeals Court. He served as a Town Meeting member in Danvers for 30 years and was town moderator for three terms.
The views expressed are the author's own. Unedited. The author owns the copyright.