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Mayra Beltran / Chronicle
Sue and James
Null — of the group Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays —
have displayed "hate-free zone" tape at churches that support gay rights.
Deborah Murphy of the Montrose Counseling Center says, "There is not a
young, gay person today who does not get hated at daily by somebody." |
IN THE SHADOWS OF
HATE
Many gay teens are
living with scars of abuse
Whether they're mean
words or violent attacks, the pain can shatter
the lives of youth
already struggling to find acceptance, advocates say.
By ALLAN TURNER,
HoustonChronical.com from the Web, June 12, 2005
Thomas Jurewicz never will forget the
night he told his parents he was giving up his cherished dream of becoming a
Lutheran minister. The November evening was stormy, and he took a stroll
in the chilly downpour to calm his nerves. When he returned, he found his
parents in their bedroom. His father was half asleep; his mother was
placidly working a crossword puzzle.
"Mom, Dad, we need to have a talk," the Clear Lake-area teen timidly began.
"I'm not going to become a minister after all." Then he got to the hard
part. "The Missouri synod of the Lutheran church doesn't ordain
homosexuals."
Jurewicz's father bolted upright in bed.
"Son," he demanded, "what the hell are you trying to tell us?"
Then he hurled a water glass at the teen's face.
Jurewicz, now 19 and studying out of state to become an Episcopal priest, came
away with a chipped tooth — and the shattering pain of utter rejection.
His story likely resonates with thousands of Houston-area teenage gays and
lesbians who have felt the lash of intolerance. Gay activists say curbing
such attacks, which are sometimes violent but always emotionally devastating, is
a top priority in what may be shaping up to be one of the hottest social battles
of the new century.
"There is not a young, gay person today who does not get hated at daily by
somebody," said Deborah Murphy at the Montrose Counseling Center's HATCH youth
program. "There is no safe place. There is no safe day. ... I have
known kids to be beaten, thrown out of the house. I've seen them
emotionally destroyed, taken off for exorcisms. I've seen them abused just
short of murder."
The continued rejection and abuse of such adolescents paradoxically comes as the
gay youth movement — an estimated 5 percent of the teen population is homosexual
— makes significant advances.
Nationally, campaigns such as April's Day of Silence, in which an estimated
450,000 students in more than 4,000 schools vowed not to speak, spotlight the
plight of adolescent sexual minorities.
In the Houston area, roughly a score of high schools now host "gay-straight"
clubs, and several school districts, notably the 209,000-student Houston ISD,
have written policies banning harassment of homosexuals.
Broad segments of society, though, adamantly oppose recognition of homosexuality
as an acceptable lifestyle.
Roman Catholic, Southern Baptist and other major religious leaders view the
practice as conflicting with biblical Scripture. Though groups such as the
American Psychiatric Association hold that homosexuality is not a mental
illness, others in the mental health field argue it is a condition that can be
remedied through "reparative" therapy.
Studies tell of teens' plight
Most who object to homosexuality strongly oppose verbal or physical attacks on
gays.
Yet, in a recent national survey of young sexual minorities, 40 percent said
they had been physically harassed because of their sexual orientation; 20
percent had been punched, kicked or injured with weapons; 85 percent had endured
verbal abuse.
At their most severe, such episodes may qualify as hate crimes.
But, said Houston police Lt. John Silva, hate-crimes coordinator with the
department's criminal intelligence office, few cases come to the attention of
authorities.
In the past nine months, he said, Houston police received only one such case
involving a gay adolescent victim.
Other studies show gay teens are more likely than their straight peers to abuse
drugs and attempt suicide. Seventy percent had used marijuana; 29 percent,
cocaine; 18 percent, injectable drugs.
In a Massachusetts survey of high school homosexuals, 40 percent reported they
had attempted suicide. It and other studies indicate the gay
attempted-suicide rate is much higher than that of heterosexual classmates.
Even in the best of circumstances, coming out — acknowledging one's
homosexuality to friends and family — often can throw teenagers into a
vulnerable tailspin.
'Always an issue'
By the time Jurewicz came out to his parents and to himself he had spent years
in emotional turmoil.
"Probably by 13 or 14, I really kind of knew I was different," Jurewicz said.
"What really made me aware of how different I was the same-sex attraction.
That was always an issue — something I viewed as sinful. I was in constant
prayer about it. I even consulted Roman Catholic priests on forms of
exorcism."
In high school, Jurewicz was in deep denial. He performed hundreds of
hours of community service with the church, hoping to gain a college scholarship
to study for the clergy. At school, he was a leader of a Christian
organization and was called upon to address students on why they should oppose
formation of a gay-straight alliance.
"It was like a temporary patch on a tire," Jurewicz recalled. "I kept
telling myself I was a good Lutheran, a Christian, not gay. It was
ridiculous."
Others recalled similar stories.
Jeffry Faircloth, 20, who was brought up in a fundamentalist Pasadena household,
agonized for years over his growing attraction to the same sex. Nightly he
tearfully entreated God to make him straight.
"I felt that if I didn't change," he said, "I would go to hell."
His worst fear was that his stern father would learn of his homosexuality.
That moment came during his senior year in high school when his father found a
copy of What the Bible Really Says About Homosexuality under Faircloth's bed.
The revelation all but wrecked the youth's family life.
"It's very depressing," Faircloth said. "I have a big sense of loss.
Very few people in my family are accepting. I know I'm not going to have
this wonderful family relationship."
Such emotional trauma can have long-lasting consequences, said Denise
O'Dougherty, a Houston psychiatric nurse with a large gay and lesbian clientele.
"One of the most harmful things for children to feel is a lot of shame," she
said. "Being abandoned, struggling to fit in and not fitting in,
discovering that your sexuality is different — all of that can bring shame on a
child. ... A lot of people carry that for life. They are basically
broken."
Klein activist fights in court
For Marla Dukler, 19, who graduated from Klein High School last year and is a
political science major at Northwestern University, going public with her
lesbianism brought more than mere anxiety.
Dukler said her ordeal would begin every morning as she pulled into the school's
parking lot. From there to the classroom, she would be peppered with
anti-gay epithets. Food was thrown at her in the cafeteria.
Once, while walking in the hall during class, she said, she was slammed into a
wall of lockers. When, stunned and bruised, she turned to look at her
attacker, she heard a chorus of obscene jibes and saw a trio of male students
walking away.
Klein ISD has a written policy banning such harassment, and Dukler filed a
complaint. But she was unable to identify her assailants, and nothing came
of the protest.
"I had been active in school, in extracurricular activities and sports, and I
always enjoyed going to school. I loved learning," Dukler said. "But
more and more, every day, it was harder to get out of bed in the morning."
In her senior year, Dukler joined students petitioning for formation of a
gay-student alliance — an effort that came to naught until Dukler filed suit
against the district in federal court with the help of the American Civil
Liberties Union.
The action took advantage of a law requiring schools that allowed any
noncurricular group to use school facilities to provide equal access to other
such organizations.
Dukler's attorney, David George, recalled the lawsuit generated "over the top"
community opposition. Parents jammed school board meetings and picketed.
Dukler remembered some parents insisting the school establish separate restrooms
for homosexuals. But when the hysteria waned, the district settled out of
court.
Klein Principal Pat Huff now thinks establishing a gay-straight alliance has
contributed to a feeling of good will at the school.
Words that hurt
Arguably, taunts and social rebuffs — far more common than physical attacks —
are the meanest weapons in the daily assault on gay self-respect. One
student, who asked not to be named, recalled her speech teacher's midlecture
asides to openly gay students: "You can't fool Mother Nature."
A 19-year-old transgender, suburban high school student said she experienced
death threats and almost daily taunts and assaults. Classmates routinely
pushed her down stairs.
"There was always somebody there to push me," she recalled. "Bump, bump,
push or punch."
The exhausting ordeal led to repeated hospitalizations for depression. At
times, the student considered suicide. For more than a year, she was
home-schooled.
Another teen, anonymous because his father doesn't know he's gay, told of a
female passer-by at a neighborhood festival who approached him and opined that
he was an abomination. A former Baylor University student now studying
medicine in Houston remembered being howled down in class discussions whenever
he offered any moderate views on homosexuality.
Such youngsters' parents, noted Sue Null of Parents, Families and Friends of
Lesbians and Gays, often are flattened by their offsprings' coming out.
"This is such a jolt to them," she said. "They've had expectations, and
now there will be no grandchildren. Now there will be no daughter in a
long, white dress."
Null and her husband, PFLAG President James Null, are the parents of a lesbian
daughter and the surrogate parents of a young, gay man. At worst, Null
said, distraught parents drive their gay and lesbian children from the home.
By some estimates, as many as a third of Houston's homeless teens are gay,
lesbian or transgender.
Even when parents endeavor to be "as loving as possible," she said, friends,
relatives and churches can create problems. "Society," Null said, "puts
all these barriers in the way."
Religious objections
Much anti-homosexual sentiment has religious overtones — and the topic is an
explosive one in the decision-making bodies of the nation's leading
denominations. The Catholic Church and the 16 million-member Southern
Baptist Convention both hold that the practice of homosexuality is contrary to
biblical teachings.
Later this month, Houston-area evangelist Voddie Baucham plans to submit a
resolution to the Southern Baptist Convention, meeting in Nashville, Tenn., that
would empower churches to call on members to withdraw their children from
schools that "treat homosexuality as an acceptable lifestyle" or host homosexual
groups.
The SBC, said spokesman John Revell, acts out of love for "those trapped in
homosexuality."
"There is sensitivity and compassion for those caught up in homosexuality," he
said. "There is no sense of persecution or attack or anger."
"You don't bully people," Baucham agreed. "It's wrong to dehumanize,
humiliate or hurt any person." But, he argued, parents are right to oppose
homosexuality in their children, both for moral and health-related reasons.
Engaging in gay sex is a matter of choice, he contended, and intervention by
"reparative therapists" advocated by such groups as Exodus International, often
can direct young gays into the heterosexual fold.
Exodus International President Alan Chambers said he believes homosexuals can be
pulled from a gay lifestyle just as alcoholics can be saved from the ravages of
drink.
"To say homosexuality is, therefore we must accept it, is too simple," Chambers
said. "It flies in the face of millions who have found freedom."
Chambers, 33, counts himself in that number. Once a sexually active
homosexual, he said he is now a heterosexual married man and father.
Efforts such as his, though, draw sharp criticism from those outside the church
community.
"These are profoundly misguided folks who truly don't understand the nature of
sexual orientation," said Gilbert Herdt, director of San Francisco State
University's Human Sexuality Studies Program and of the National Sexuality
Resource Center.
"In their efforts to help, they are inflicting tremendous damage. The
result of people being forced into so-called sexual reorientation by faith-based
communities is profound feelings of worthlessness, of wanting to die, of wanting
to kill people."
Struggle remains
Thomas Jurewicz's father died four months after their stormy confrontation.
"When he died," Jurewicz said, "I had the freedom to live with integrity.
Now, I thought, I could embrace who God made me to be."
Jurewicz decided to inform pastors of his church of his homosexuality, even
though it could lead to excommunication.
"There were three of them sitting there," he said. "They asked me to tell
them what the situation was. It was very much like the interrogation.
It reminded me of communist brainwashing. ... God was the only thing that pulled
me through it."
The minister of the Lutheran church cited confidentiality concerns in declining
to comment on the matter.
"They kept giving me Bible verses condemning homosexuality," Jurewicz said.
"I gave them back in the original languages, pointing out that they meant
nothing like that. They'd say, 'Well, no, here it is in black and white.
This is what we've built our church on.' Back and forth. Back and
forth. ... I recognized that this church could no longer be my church home.
"I felt very relieved and happy to not be part of a church body that did not
appreciate my work — and very sad."
allan.turner@chron.com
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