LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Hear Me Out |
by Mubarak Dahir |
Facing Fear, Baptists at Pride
Scott Marler's clock radio belted out its morning wake-up music at 6:30 a.m. on May 5, uncharacteristically early for a Saturday. But this was not going to be just any spring weekend. It was the first ever Charlotte Pride celebration. Previously, different cities in North Carolina hosted a statewide Pride event on a rotating basis, and Charlotte had taken its turn at that years ago. But this was different. This was Charlotte Pridefor the first time planned, produced and attended by Charlotte's own gay and lesbian community. It would be an important turning point for the town. It would be an even bigger one for Scott Marler. Each June, I search for stories I hope somehow illustrate the significance of gay pride. Each year, it gets harder to do. In most big cities, the former marches are now purely parades, essentially about pageantry and partying rather than protest or politics. They are largely a reflection of the times, where, in major urban areas being gay or lesbian has seemingly become a non-issue. In New York City, where I now live, most of my friends plan a weekend get-way and flee town at Pride. It's too crowded, they complain. It's old hat. It's for out-of-towners and tourists. It isn't relevant anymore. Been there, done that. I was coming to share the sentiment. The commercialism of the Bud Lite floats and Miller sponsorships had come to bore me. The increasingly scantily-clad pretty boys and big-haired drag queens failed to either entertain or shock. The sea of gay and lesbian humanity which once inspired me became little more than an obstacle course to navigate. Like so many other gays and lesbians in big cities across the country, I had become jaded about Pride. Then Scott told me his story. Even before the alarm went off, Scott was awake that morning. A mixture of excitement and dread kept the 33-year-old computer specialist from sleeping. He lay there silently debating his last-minute options. If he followed through with his plans, he'd head down to Marshall Park, where Pride was being held, and don a white T-shirt with the word "VOLUNTEER" spelled out on the back in pink and purple letters. That prospect, and the symbolism it represented, startled him. Less than two years earlier, Scott, still struggling to deny his gay feelings, had been immersed in one of Charlotte's biggest and most influential Baptist churches. He'd even risen to a leadership role in the church's singles group. "I was hoping to find a cute girl Mom would like," he now says sheepishly. With his football-player build and all-American good looks, wooing women was not difficult. It wasn't long before Scott's girlfriend was hinting for a ring. Raised in a strict Baptist household, Scott had spent his entire life desperately trying to please the two entities that ruled his world with an iron grip: his God and his parents. Scott knew from an early age he was attracted to boys. But his fire and brimstone upbringing seared shame and self-loathing into his brain. Until he was 31 years old, he prayed frantically and repeatedly that his longing for men would subside. Then one Sunday, sitting in church listening to his preacher rant about evil homosexuals, Scott could no longer endure the misery. He walked out of the church and out of denial. He broke up with his girlfriend. He came out to his family. Though he doesn't regret the move, it has caused him much pain. He lost his entire circle of friends. His parents still refuse to speak to him, sending him letters and e-mails calling him an abomination. The residue of anti-gay conditioning still sometimes makes him feel awkward in his new gay life. There are still many days this towering 6'1" and 250-pound hulk of man feels downright fragile. Charlotte's Pride day was one of them. Still under the sheets as if hiding from the day, Scott felt a nervous knot twisting and growing like a tornado in his gut. His excitement melted to an uneasy nervousness as his mind played out the possible scenarios he might face when he stepped out the door. The Pride festivities were being held in the heart of the city. Someone from work might see him. A television camera or newspaper photographer might capture his image and splatter it all over town. He cringed at the thought of his parents seeing their son celebrating gay pride. But more than anything else, he braced himself for a stand-off with the Baptists. Not surprisingly, a brouhaha had been festering around Charlotte's first planned Pride event. Anti-gay groups, including several Baptist congregations, had threatened to demonstrate. Blessed with a naturally big and strong frame, Scott had volunteered to be part of the security detail for Charlotte Pride. If there were protestors, he would literally be on the front line of confrontation. "There was a real chance I'd have a stand-off face to face with the very people I used to sit next to in church," he says. "I was more than a little apprehensive." For a moment, Scott thought about simply rolling over, going back to sleep, and keeping a safe distance from Marshall Park. "I almost shied away from going." But then Scott had a flashback to the last time Charlotte held a Pride celebration, years earlier when the city was host to North Carolina Pride. Deeply closeted, he didn't dare attend the event. But he couldn't quite stay away either. Riding in his car, Scott slowly drove by the park and looked out enviously in awe and trepidation at the gathered crowd. He was not going to be kept away again. Summoning his resolve, Scott hopped out of bed and got ready. Much to Scott's relief, the protestors never materialized that day. The biggest emergency came when an ice cream vendor's electrical outlet failed, and $6000 of gourmet ice cream faced the prospect of an untimely death unless a new socket could be secured. But even without fending off protestors, the day was a victory for Charlotte's gay and lesbian community, and for Scott personally. Simply by being there, he conquered an enemy more formidable than all the Baptists in North Carolina: His own fear. "I was making a stand for myself as a gay man. I'd never really done that before. It was frightening and it was exhilarating," says Scott. He says he might not have been able to do it without the support of the 4000 other gay men and lesbians who turned out that day. Scott has attended far bigger gay and lesbian events in other cities. But for him, none of them can match Charlotte Pride. "This was in the town I call home. Now I don't have to leave town to be gay." Scott's heard the grumbling of some gays in big cities, and frankly, he's perplexed. "I know in places like New York City and San Francisco and Washington DC, some people are tired of Pride. They say they don't need them. But I can say that here, we do need Pride. I need it." "Maybe in big cities, Pride has lost it's edge, lost its significance. But I think those places are exceptions. Most of us in America come from small towns and small cities. Here, it's still fresh. It's still exciting. It's still important." Thanks Scott, for reminding the rest of us that it's important where we are, too. Mubarak Dahir receives email at MubarakDah@aol.com |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 8, June 29, 2001 |