Are You Guys Brothers?

I apologize to those of you who faithfully check in on Thursday to read the new chapter from my book "Are You Guys Brothers?" I have been swamped with work and lost track of time. Most of my attention has been focused on reading and making corrections on the galley of the book. I finished reading it yesterday and will make the corrections before I head to Calgary on Monday. Author House then sends back to corrected galley for my approval and then the book will be available. Ray loves the book and has been generous with his praise. Please enjoy the first part of Chapter Six.

     “If I could give you a pill that would make you a heterosexual, would you choose to take it?”

     The syndicated television talk show host was not being hostile. He was genuinely interested in better understanding the lives of gay people in his 1974 interview of me. The underlying question is “Do you like being gay, or would you choose to be straight?” Even more precisely, the question is, “Are you happy?”

     When I told my parents that I was gay, my mother cried and said in great pain, “Brian, the world is going to be awful to you and there’s nothing I can do to protect you.”

     She was right. Some people in the world would choose to be truly awful to me – death threats, harassing phone calls, obscene mail, open hostility during my college and corporate presentations, cruel comments in the press, icy silence from some formerly-close family members and friends – and there was nothing she could do to protect me, other than to remind me from time to time that she loved me, and be angered by how others, both straight and gay, responded so meanly to her sensitive middle child. But since coming out publicly at the age of 26 in 1974, I’ve never wanted, no matter how bad it got, to take a pill that would make me a heterosexual, if such a pill existed.

     Ray and I have absolutely no regrets. We’re gay men who truly and fully celebrate being who and what we are. We see being gay as a special gift to us, and we feel that we’ve had incredibly joyful, satisfying, and meaningful lives. We’re very, very happy being gay and we wholeheartedly wish that were true for all gay men and women in the world. But we sadly acknowledge that it isn’t.

     On the Fourth of July each year in Provincetown, the magical spit of sand at the tip of Cape Cod on which we have the privilege of living during the summer, head-turning muscular young gay men from throughout the country promenade shirtless down Commercial Street, showing off their hard work at the gym, but doing so, in most instances, without a single smile. If Ray and I try to make eye contact with, and smile at them, most of them will disdainfully look away, as if we were foolishly coming on to them sexually. Yet, we’re only trying to say, “Welcome to Provincetown.”

     I have often wondered why so many of them, from our perspective, look to be so unhappy, these formerly scrawny “sissies” who have pumped themselves up with weights and steroids. Perhaps they are happy and don’t want to show it. Ray and I have speculated that maybe there’s a secret “tribal” understanding that happy faces, except when induced by recreational drugs, are not considered masculine and sexually provocative.

     We’ve had a similarly sad and lonely experience with some gay men dressed in leather and with many college-age lesbians, both groups of which also have a designated week in this spectacularly beautiful “safe harbor” of humanity. The young women excitedly arrive for Memorial Day weekend, several with cases of beer and a visibly surly attitude toward men, gay or straight, even those of us who smile and say “hello.” Many of the older lesbians in town lay low during this spring “invasion” too. I’ve been told by some that they feel invisible or dismissed by the boisterous, partying younger women and feel, as we do, that it’s just not much fun to be around these particular gay people.

     The men in leather land in Provincetown in September, strutting half-naked down Commercial Street in the evening, despite the cool temperatures, in their elaborate, studded ensembles. It looks like fun, but despite what I have been told about the gay leather community being warm and welcoming, one wouldn’t guess that from looking at their faces. There frequently appears to be a conscious disregard for anyone not in their group’s costume, even for those of us who, once again, are smiling and just saying “hello.” Maybe looking angry is considered “sexy.”

    These experiences make Ray and me feel badly and a little disappointed. We feel badly for gay people who can’t smile with joy at other gay people, and we feel disappointed that after all of the years we all have worked to create a world where gay people could easily find emotional health and happiness, significant numbers of our community appear to have missed the opportunity or have rejected the choice to be happy.

     Ray and I are particularly heartsick when we see the impact that crystal meth and other “recreational” drugs have had on the lives of so many gay men, some of whom we know and love but can’t spend time with any more. We’re losing some of our best and brightest souls to this highly-addictive, destructive substance. Why do we have this epidemic of debilitating chemical abuse? It feels like mass suicide to us. Some friends claim that such drugs make it possible for them to feel an intense sense of brotherhood with other gay men. It seems to us though that the drugs they’re taking serve the sole purpose of helping them escape their very unhappy gay lives. How many of them would choose to take a pill that would make them straight, if such a pill existed?

I was an Altar Boy. I can recite from memory the Acts of Contrition, Faith, Hope, and Love, all of which I dutifully learned as a child. I still know by heart the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit. I was in a monastery for a short period of time. I went to Catholic schools for sixteen years. I worked at a Catholic newspaper for four years. I started a chapter of a gay Catholic organization and became the group’s National Director of Social Action. I taught religious education to school children after work. I won the Catholic Press Association’s award for Best Magazine Article of the Year. During my 17-day hunger strike and civil rights battle with the archdiocese, I was compared by one national Catholic columnist to saints of the Church. And, I advised the National Council of Churches and the United States Conference of Bishops on issues facing young adults. No one questioned my Catholic credentials. Thus, I was the perfect person to ask to ascend the stage and quiet the crowd that day when the Bible was burned in effigy.

Yet that same book in our home today is much less cherished than the dictionary, which makes sense because, from our perspective now, the Bible is a primary source of barbaric behaviors toward homosexuals, while the dictionary helps us on a daily basis to answer important questions. Beyond gay-bashing, the so-called “good book,” to us, is one of the two chief sources of justification of the world’s most evil actions. (The other is the Koran.) Rather than being a bridge to salvation, the book, as it is used, in our opinion, is more a major roadblock to the peace that Jesus promised us if only we would live our lives as he lived his.

The stories of the Old Testament, I feel, even if accurately recorded, trap people in cultural contexts that have nothing to do with their daily lives. Though written generally with the best of intentions, the Bible is an enormous cause of abuse - spiritually, emotionally, and physically – to gay people, women, people of color, Jews, and Muslims, among others. It and the Koran are the most inappropriately cited sources ever written. In the tortured lives of many people, the Bible is certainly not sacred, and therefore burning it is not sacrilegious. Doing so publicly might be really stupid, particularly during a national gay civil rights struggle when you’re trying to convince heterosexuals that you share many of their values. But, it’s not, in my view today, sacrilegious.

If other books can be burned, so too can the Bible. I would prefer not to cause emotional chaos in someone else’s life by doing so, just as I wouldn’t throw darts at a picture of the homophobic “saint” Pope John Paul II in front of devout Polish nuns, burn the American flag in front of my Reagan-loving father, or mock Mohammed in front of a fundamentalist Muslim. But the Bible is not beyond criticism and burning it, in my opinion, is far less abusive of it than misusing it to justify one’s biases.

Do I wish I hadn’t chastised the professor for burning the Bible? What I wish was that I hadn’t been so personally horrified by his actions. My emotional reaction was irrational, bordering on hysterical, like the young fundamentalist children in Jesus Camp. Why do we cling with so much fear to such “things” for meaning?

If the future of the world depends on any or all of us believing that Moses brought down the mountain tablets personally inscribed by God, or that Jesus rose from the dead, or that Mary assumed into Heaven in her earthly body, or that Joseph Smith met an angel in America who gave him golden tablets, or that Mohammed ascended into Heaven in a chariot pulled by winged horses, I think that we’re in big, big trouble. And if we can’t challenge religious mythology openly, and laugh about it if we find it funny, then, Zeus bless us, we’re in far worse spiritual and emotional shape than we might imagine.

Nothing should be taboo to discuss, if necessary outside the range of children. Ray and I cringe when we hear the word “nigger” but we recoil even further when we read “the n word.” We hate the word “faggot,” but please don’t start referring to it as “the f word.” Such behavior gives a simple word or event more power than we can possibly manage.

Is nothing sacred then? I do feel that some things ought to be protected at all costs. But they’re not made of paper, cloth, bread, or stone. They’re ideas, like perhaps the ones that each of us has the responsibility to work toward creating a world where every person is adequately clothed, sheltered, fed, and educated, that children have a right to their innocence, and that no one should be victimized because they are different. Why isn’t it considered sacrilegious that we expend so little time, money, and thought on these worthy endeavors? How can we spend billions of dollars every year to fight or to defend gay marriage, rather than investing that enormous amount of money in feeding and clothing the world’s desperately needy? These are burning questions for Ray and for me.

A few days ago, I received an e-mail from a man in The Netherlands who was subscribing to my videos on YouTube. He liked them very much, but felt that I was much less angry than he about the impact of organized religion on the lives of all people, especially those who who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. I don't think that I'm less angry, but perhaps I express it less strongly than some others.
     This morning, as I sat with Ray in the pre-op room of the hospital where he is now having neck surgery, a nun came into our curtained area and asked if Ray would like her to say a prayer. It being a Catholic hospital, her question was not inappropriate. She looked disappointed though when Ray smiled and said "No, thank you, Sister."
     Ray had already sat in meditation this morning and I had already read a section of the Tao te Ching. We had engaged in conversation about the possibility of surgical complications and the joy of the life we have shared. Spiritually, we felt nourished. Neither of us wanted to have that peace negatively impacted by religion. Had he said "yes," to the nun's offer of a prayer, he would have been doing it for her benefit and not his own. We've both come to the point in our lives when Catholic rituals and Christian dogma can cause more pain than peace, and we're wise enough now to set boundaries to protect ourselves from the best intentions of others.
     Our spiritual journeys are described in Chapter Five of my soon-to-be-published book, "Are You Guys Brothers?" What follows is the first half of that chapter. Please feel free to share your thoughts with me at www.brian-mcnaught.com.

During a very large and highly-charged Gay Pride rally in the Boston Commons in 1978, right after the much-publicized, agonizing defeat of gay civil rights legislation in Miami at the hands of Anita Bryant, the keynote speaker, a local anarchist history professor, dramatically, in the heat of his rhetoric, threw a Bible into a burning cauldron. Prompted by the horrified jeers from most of the crowd, including from Ray and me, the rally organizers asked me to speak in response to his defiant, sacrilegious gesture. I chastised him from the stage for abusing a book that had great spiritual significance to the majority of us in attendance, and for resorting to a Nazi tactic to make his point. My comments were enthusiastically welcomed by most of the people in the crowd.

Thirty years later, I have to admit that if it happened again, I would be far less offended, and perhaps even amused by the professor’s theatrics. My offense today would come from his complete insensitivity to the feelings of religious gay men and women. My amusement would result from his utter audacity. It was harder for Ray and me then, than it is today, to laugh confidently at the inappropriate behavior of other gay people.

Yet, the speaker did get everyone’s attention and he provided me with a terrific benchmark to gauge my feelings about the Bible and other objects considered sacred by many people, such as the image of Mohammed, the American flag, and the consecrated host.

In my family’s home, and in Ray’s too, the Bible was far more important, but much-less used, than the dictionary. If it was to be handled, it would be done so with great respect. It was a holy book, the word of God. One wouldn’t dare write in the Bible other than to record births and deaths in the designated areas in its front or back pages. There would never be words underlined in pen or notations made in the margin. What needed emphasis or explanation was determined by the publisher, who did so with different colored inks and copious footnotes.

While the Old Testament never much held my interest, the words of Jesus, found in red type in the four Gospels, and a small handful of inspired writings by Paul, created my concept of God and guided my spiritual development. The Sermon on the Mount, in particular, seemed to me the crux of the book.

The Jesus that Ray and I met in the writings of the four evangelists was an amazing man, unlike any other in our lives. He was strong, tender, thoughtful, wise, non-judgmental, self-sacrificing, inclusive, focused, loving and forgiving. As such, we and Jesus became really good friends; the best of friends, even. He was nothing at all like the scary Frankenstein Jesus that has been put together clumsily but calculatedly by those who need a monster to enforce their fear-based biases. The Jesus with whom we both built an intimate relationship in our childhoods was a lover, not a hater. He was so cool, he could have been (and perhaps was) gay.

Although I didn’t memorize and quote biblical passages as a child, or read the “Good Book” from cover to cover, I was, by Catholic standards, a passionate disciple of Christ. When I watch programs such as Jesus Camp, the Oscar-nominated documentary in 2006 on the frightening extreme emotionalism of fundamentalist children, I see myself and the frenzy I could get into as a young Christian. The parents of my neighborhood friends at one time called my mom with the request that I quit trying to convert their children to Catholicism. In high school, I got the highest score they had ever recorded for social work in a standardized career preference test. (“Would you rather read a book to a sick friend than play outside?” Yes.) Though they took my name off the plaque when I identified myself as gay eight years later, I was the unanimous choice of the faculty for the Christian Leadership Award when I graduated from Brother Rice High School in 1966. At Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I was teasingly called “the dorm Catholic” because I went to Mass every day. Shortly after college, I wrote to U.S. Senator Phil Hart (D-MI) and told him in the strongest possible terms that the Holy Spirit had told me he should run for President of the United States. (He did not run, and to my great relief today, never responded to my letter.)