I browsed this site more or less on a whim.
My father has been pestering me to read it for years.
He is a devout follower of Mr. Noonan, and I'd find it safe to say he agrees with almost everything that springs from that man's lips.
Were there a cult devoted to the worship of him, I imagine my father would be its highest contributor.
So sure, I thought, why not?
I've got some time to kill.
Won't Dad be pleased when I tell him the news? Well, no. Probably not.
Because, you see, Mr. Noonan, you and I have a very different viewpoint about a subject very dear to my own heart, though I imagine perhaps not to my father's.
Gays.
It's amazing how a simple word, once synonymous with “happy” has taken such a turn. It's almost a curse word in the mouth of some, a badge of honor to others. I, myself, count among their numbers. Hurray for me.
Looking Over My Shoulder
I hadn't intended to comment. Honestly. That wasn't the point of this little venture.
I was intending to pick up a few pieces of intel, as it were, so I could have a meaningful conversation with my father about issues that are close to his heart. A peace offering of sorts because our relationship has been a little strained lately. For several reasons, some more obvious than others.
Then I read an op-ed article dated Feb. 4, 2010, that averred that gays being permitted to be “themselves” in the military is a terrible idea on the basis that clearly all gay men are deviant manipulators who only want to …ahem… “convert” straight men and woman to our “cause.”
I'm not entirely certain how that works. There have been, I will admit, a few straight guys in my life who have set my heart a-twitter. It's hardly a crime.
I have no chance.
Sucks to be me, but I move on.
I never have tried to convince one to “swap sides” and join me in my descent to hell, or wherever it is I'm going to end up.
Let’s be honest:
Even if I had, the direst thing that could happen to him would be being locked up for beating the heck out of me. Or perhaps not.
Gay Panic, right?
I honestly live in fear of people like you.
People who decide I'm a danger to their precious hetero children simply because my heart follows a different path. People who use me as an example of moral depravity.
I'm not a prostitute.
I don't do drugs.
I can count on my fingers the number of drinks I've had this year and still have some left over.
I don't have sex with random strangers in the street.
I respect my parents, though I will be the first to admit I don't always like them.
I Would Not Wish This Life
And I certainly don't skulk around like a Gay Batman, scooping up impressionable children and “indoctrinating” them into being gay. Honestly, I wouldn't wish this life on anyone.
It's not an easy one. At work I deal with the constant feeling that I have to watch what I say, lest someone feel “uncomfortable” because I'm a little different.
That I'm the butt of some twisted joke because all my straight male co-workers think it's funny to hit on me.
And in my everyday life I deal with crushing loneliness.
The idea that I may never find someone to share my life with, because the likelihood of finding a suitable, compatible match is significantly diminished by the fact that fewer than one in ten men has ever had a same-sex experience, let alone actively identifies himself as gay.
But I digress.
The point, I'm afraid, is moot at the moment anyway since Don't Ask, Don't Tell has, in fact, been struck down.
I now have the same opportunity to serve my country as any other of the kids in my graduating class. I no longer would need to lie if the conversation turns to sex. Which, let's be honest, in a room full of young, fairly healthy men… it would.
I am now “permitted” to tell them of the guy who might be waiting for me at home.
The one who would share the same honest, real tears that any wife would spill should I be killed in combat. With whom I would have the same joyful reunion on my return.
We can't get married yet, this hypothetical man and I.
And maybe we won't, when the time comes.
But it should be my choice, not yours.
Not the government's, or the religious community at large.
This letter sort of got away from me. I have a tendency to ramble when I'm upset.
It's a case of careful what you wish for. I have something to talk to my father about. And I'm pretty sure neither of us is going to like it.
So thanks for that, at least, Mr. Noonan.
Mr. Kane may be contacted at anyotherstory@hotmail.com
