Perverts 'R' Us

Butterflies and Barbwire

By Danyealle ( nosex, dedication )

A sharp wind whipped around the cemetery as the priest said his final eulogy to the crowd that stood there shivering. His words drifted among the graves and floated to the cemetery gates as if God himself wanted those that stood there, the protesters, newsmen and just those ordinary people that came to pay their respects, to hear what was being said. Despite the cold, the mercury hovered right at the freezing mark, and the cold Arctic wind that blew across the lake cut like a knife, making the skin sting from its onslaught.

Hundreds had turned out to show respect for the young man who had died so tragically. Only family and friends were allowed in the cemetery for the graveside service, but hundreds more were outside the gates as a show of respect for his passing. As his parents and family said their final goodbyes to him I stood off to the side, eyes stinging with tears. My grief was beyond what any words could describe, but along with it bloomed the dark flower of hatred. Over and over the words of the protesters rang in my head, 'faggots burn in hell', "God hates fags' over and over those words echoed within me and my anger grew.

After the service was over, Anthony's parents came over to me, both giving me a hug, telling me that I was still part of their family. Even though the laws would not allow Anthony and me to marry, they considered me their son-in-law, and I was always welcome in their home. After thanking them, I asked for a few minutes alone to say my goodbyes then I would join them for the wake.

Stepping closer to the grave, I looked at the onyx casket still perched there. Reaching out, I touched it, feeling the cold from it radiate throughout my body, not wanting to believe that in that glorified box was the man I had known for so many years, first as a friend, then as a lover, and finally as my life's companion. It was then that my tears fell. Bowing my head, sobs racked my body, as if they came from the very depths of my spirit, crying out from the pain. Rubbing my palm over the smooth surface of the casket I said softly, "I will see you again Tony, I know I will. Some day we will be together again, forever." Leaning forward, I kissed the cold metal, thinking that somehow Tony knew it was for him. Then wiping my eyes and straightening my jacket, I slowly walked away.

For as long as I could remember, I had known I was gay. At first, not knowing the word homosexuality or its meaning. I just knew I was 'different' than most other guys. Girls never interested me, not even as I went through adolescence where most guys start acting like a moose in rut every time a pretty one would walk by. Sure, I went along and acted like they did, but my heart wasn't in it. Being from a small, ultra conservative mid-western town, I didn't want to seem 'different', so I acted the part I knew I should, dating, being macho, and doing what the other guys did. Here I was the big, macho football player and man about town, but inside I knew I was living a lie.

As the time approached for me to decide what collage I wanted to go to, I decided on UCLA, far away from my small town and the lie I was living. Going to LA from a town that had a little more than 10,000 people in it was a shock. It was like moving from the US to China - everything was so DIFFERENT. Things that would have gotten you ostracized from my town were everywhere here and considered normal. Quickly though, I found my niche and blended in. For the first time in my life I was around other gay men who understood what I felt and the confusion it had raised. I was accepted for who and what I was. To me, it seemed as if I had found my home. Every year, twice a year, I went back home, putting on that mask and pretending I was normal. But gradually that mask became more and more uncomfortable for me, and finally in the first year of my Masters program, I refused to wear it again.

When I went home that Christmas, I 'outted' myself to my parents, telling them I had found someone I loved and it wasn't a woman. You can only imagine the uproar that caused. First it was tears, then denial, and then finally it ended up with me leaving three days after arrival, disowned and told never to come back. That was fine with me. On the flight back to LA, I realized it hadn't hurt as much as I thought it would, as a matter of fact it was a relief! That lie was over and I could accept their banishment of me more than I could accept the lie they wanted me to live. Before I touched down at LAX, I had made peace with it.

You see, it was Anthony that I had fallen madly in love with. The kind of love that makes you crazy and act like you have no sense. That head over heels, perfect love that so many talk about, but so few had ever found. We had met in a political science class earlier in the year and had just clicked. It was like finding that perfect pair of gloves, the ones that fit just right, not too loose and not too tight. That was us, we just fit together. First we were just friends, and then one night it happened, our friendship turned into being lovers, casual at first, but quickly becoming exclusive, not wanting to think of the other being with someone else.

He was there at the airport, waiting for me, knowing what had happened when I called him without me having to say it. Instead of going back to the apartment we shared, we boarded a flight to Chicago to go to his parents' house for the holidays. It was there that I had my first experience with TRUE acceptance. His family, though being devout Catholics, had known all along he was gay and had accepted it without protest. He was their son, and just because he was different wasn't going to change that fact or how much they loved him.

Without protest they accepted me as well, knowing what their son felt for me, not mattering to them that I was a man. I felt at home for the first time in my life, a place where people truly knew me and didn't care about my faults. When we left for home, his mother and father both hugged me goodbye, telling me I was always welcome in their home, and to call if I needed anything. To someone like me, that meant more than anything else, it meant acceptance.

After we finished school, both of us settled down to our chosen professions. Tony became the artist he had always longed to be, turning out artwork that was expressive and energetic, expressing what he felt through a brush and paints. I went on to the corporate world as a consultant in business software. Our life, it seemed, was on track and going where we wanted it. Within five years of leaving UCLA for the 'real world', we made our commitment official, having a civil ceremony to make us life partners. No, it wasn't binding or a marriage, those still aren't allowed for gays, but just something that showed our commitment to each other. Of course his parents were there, all smiles and proud. Mine, well, you know I suppose. When I called to invite them, thinking it was the adult thing to do and perhaps coming to some reconciliation, I was told they wanted no part in the abomination against God, that as far as they were concerned they had no son. Honestly, it didn't hurt the way I thought it would. I suppose I had already reconciled the fact that they were out of my life forever. That was fine. It was about this time that I started calling Tony's parents "mom and dad". It just felt right to me.

California isn't like the rest of the US. It has a huge population of gays and lesbians, and is accepting of them. Trips to other cities reminded me of the hate and bigotry the rest of the country still held firm to. Although I expected it, it still saddened me every time I heard the slurs or jokes from supposed adults. Those supposed worldly and accepting people that used passages in The Bible to condemn something as an abomination or the gravest of sins. Yet it seemed to me that these were the same people that had no problems breaking the 10 commandments, especially the one about not committing adultery. No, it wasn't right, but I understood it to some extent. These people were still very much like the boys I played football with, making jokes and poking fun at those that were different because of their own insecurities. They just used those passages to cover up for it.

Like most married couples, Tony and I had our disagreements and even fights, but we stuck it out and worked through them. Never once in the 20 years we shared lives did we stray. Our loyalty to one another and the love we felt stopped us from doing that. As we grew older we became involved with many worthwhile causes. AIDS awareness, benefits for same sex partners, hate crime laws, and the teaching of tolerance, were causes close to us. No, we weren't radicals in any way, but it still opened us to the hatred in the world.

In the weeks before his death, Tony was excited about a show being given for him in Chicago, one that highlighted some of his best works. It was also going to have a charity auction with the proceeds going to AIDS research, a special cause close to his heart since a long time friend of ours had died from it. Sure, he knew the city was as tolerant as LA, but he had been there enough times to feel relatively safe.

It was 3:00am when I got the hysterical call from his mother, telling me I had to get there quickly. That was the longest flight of my life, knowing I had to get there and dreading it at the same time. His father met me at the airport. Seeing that big, burly construction worker with those hard, callused hands, the symbol of male strength, standing there with tears in his eyes and looking as though he had aged 20 years since the last time I had seen him a few months ago, told me how bad the situation was.

On the way to the hospital, he told me what he knew. After the auction, Tony had gone out to a bar to have a drink with some old friends of his. As they were walking out, they were jumped by some men who seemed to have taken exception to having gay men in their midst. The others had come through, hurt but alive, but Tony had suffered massive head trauma. When I got to the hospital, it was already too late. He was alive, but only because of the machines he was hooked to. Tony was brain dead. His parents had made the decision to not pull the plug until I could get there, so I had a chance to say goodbye.

After they unplugged the machines I held his hand and told him how much I loved him as he slipped away from this realm and on to what awaited him. Although I know that by the time I got to that hospital, the man I loved was gone, but still I felt I had to tell him, that some way, somehow he would hear me.

They called it a hate crime and it was headline news for days. Chicago didn't want to be known as a city that tolerated this kind of thing. Five men in all were caught and charged under the hate crime statute, but none of that would bring Tony back to me. Friends of his going all the way back to high school talked about his kindness and giving nature, how good he was, that this world was far poorer for his loss. There was not an empty seat in the cathedral for his funeral. People even stood outside to listen to it on loudspeakers.

But you had to expect the protesters for something like this, the hate-mongers that wrap themselves in a holy shroud and proclaim to know the mind of God. Yes, they were there as well, spewing their brand of hatred to all that would listen to them. But most didn't. As I walked into the church with Tony's parents, surrounding the area where the protesters were gathered were people, men and women of all colors, creeds and sexual orientation, quiet but holding up signs that told of tolerance and love, signs big enough that they almost entirely hid the protesters. Tony would have appreciated that.

The wake at his parents' house was a solemn, quiet affair. People were offering his parents and me their condolences, each of them seeming to have a story to tell about Tony, all good of course. As everyone began to depart, the doorbell rang one last time. Tony's mom answered it and I heard a whispered conversation before the door closed quietly.

When she came back in, her eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling. Walking over to me, she took my hand, "Greg, there are some people that want to talk to you." I was about to tell her that I really couldn't, that I wasn't up to seeing any more people, but a finger lightly on my lips stopped me. "No, Greg, these people I think you need to see."

Taking my hand, she led me to the foyer. There, still bundled in their winter coats, were my mom and dad. Stopping cold, I just looked at them, not knowing what to say. But I didn't have to say anything. It was mom that came to me, wrapping her arms around me the way she used to when I was small and had been hurt. The tears I thought were over came again, and I sobbed on her shoulder as she held me and stroked my hair, comforting me. Finally, they had come around and understood. That night we sat with Tony's parents and talked. Just talked, about everything. They had heard on the news what happened. It was then that they realized that they were wrong. After all those years of estrangement they had finally accepted me for who and what I was. It seemed that Tony had left me a gift, the gift of finally giving my parents what they needed to understand.

LA is still my home, it seems I can't live without the hustle and bustle of life there, but in all actuality I have three homes now: mine, Tony's parents', and my parents, and I visit theirs often. Each time I am in Chicago, I go see Tony. Although I know that cold grave is not where he is, I talk to him there, knowing he will hear me. Winter is the hardest; in Chicago the ground is hard, cold, and barren. But spring and summer are wonderful, everything is in bloom and life is popping out everywhere.

A short distance from his grave, there are flowering bushes with a beauty unmatched. It always seemed ironic to me that such beauty could exist in a place of such sorrow. It reminds me of a painting he once did called "Butterflies and Barbwire', depicting a cold, desolate prison, razor wire strung around it, a place you would not consider beautiful, but perched atop the wire was a swarm of the most beautiful and brightly-colored butterflies. It was Tony's way of showing the rest of us that even from the worst can come beauty. A fitting legacy to him, from the worst of circumstances can come something good.

This is dedicated to Skip and Lance, two friends that taught me about love, understanding, and compassion. Though they have passed on, the lessons they taught me still keep them alive in my heart and every day allow me to understand what I normally could not. I know, wherever they are, they are still together because true love transcends both life and death. Go mbeannai Dia duit, until we meet again…