Journal #8: Pen on Fire

The first time I knew I held ideals different from my family, we were sitting around the dinner table on Christmas day. After a long, drawn out prayer that I thought would surely go on until next Christmas, usual dinner table conversation ensued. “How is school?”, “Have you begun thinking about college?” the usual topics.

When suddenly my great-aunt recalls an article she read in the paper. “Did you hear about the two men who got married this week? Marine veterans. Disgusting, a real shame. Don’t they know they’re dishonoring their country and their God?” My jaw dropped. I wasn’t educated enough to know this is what homophobia was, but I knew damn well that everything coming out of Aunt Bonnie’s mouth was what was truly disgusting about the situation.

My uncle was the next to chime in, “Nothing makes me angrier than a bunch of fags. We oughtta just make um dig their own graves, line um up, and shoot them into um.” I’m sorry Uncle Paul… did I just hear you recommend mass genocide? I didn’t realize we had any relation to Nazi Germany… I was under the impression we were of Scottish descent.

I was fifteen years old. What was I supposed to say to my 73-year-old great aunt and 56-year-old uncle that could make them understand the gravity of what they were saying or at least make them understand that gay people deserved the same love and respect as straight people?

As more comments about the marines circulated, I became more and more upset. I quickly asked to be excused to go to the bathroom. I sat in the bathroom for a while, long enough so that my mother came and checked on me. “I’m fine,” I responded abruptly.

When I returned to the table, the conversation had changed. My little brother’s little league tournament was the topic of importance. I sat there silent and stoic the rest of the meal.

Later on when I became acquainted with the term homophobia, I knew that that was what plagued my Southern, conservative relative’s brains.