another pen pal?
I got in trouble at school just for talking about Harvey. In our neighborhood, most people despise him.
But I saw him once. I went with Peter to Castro Street after that vote in Miami, the one where Anita Bryant had the gay rights law overturned. Harvey was leading a protest march with a bullhorn. Everyone was chanting.
I’d never seen anything like it before. Or since, either.
It was hard for me, at first, finding out you were gay. It was hard when I first found out about Peter, too. I couldn’t shake the thought that you’d been lying to me all this time.
Except…I think I understand. We said we trusted each other, but you could never really trust me. Right? You can’t really trust anyone.
I’m the only one who knows about my brother. Or I was, until he started going up to Castro Street. That’s different, though, because his friends up there are all gay, too. He can’t tell anyone else, because he doesn’t know who he can trust.
Well, I’m glad he trusted me. And I know you didn’t tell me on purpose, but I want you to know you can trust me, too.
There are so many things we have no control over. Things that just happen to us, like my dad leaving. We get stuck structuring our entire lives around all these things we didn’t choose. It isn’t fair, but no one else seems to see that.
I used to think being gay was wrong. I almost told on my brother when I first found out. I can’t believe now that I ever considered that.
To be totally honest, I think part of me still thinks it’s wrong. That’s why I had trouble when I first read your letter.
Every adult I know has always said it’s wrong, and I’m supposed to believe what adults say. My friends at school do.
But it’s not as if all adults think the same way. Harvey Milk doesn’t. And those people I saw in the Castro—there were thousands of them. They don’t think it’s wrong to be gay. I know what it says in the Bible, but the Bible says wives are supposed to submit to their husbands, too, and my mom did that, but my dad abandoned our whole family regardless.
I don’t think we’re all meant to live exactly the same way. How can we, when our lives are defined by all these accidents? Maybe being gay or straight is an accident, too.
That’s why I listen to punk. It’s all about being different, and how it’s a good thing.
I mean, look at you and me. You happened to be born in Orange County, and I happened to be born here. I happen to be Catholic, and you happen to be Baptist. I happen to be white, and you happen to be, too.
And I happen to be straight, and you happen to be gay. If I were you, though—if I’d been born in your house, with your family—would I be gay, too? If you’d been born into my life, would you be straight?
How much of who we are is there from the beginning, and how much gets added later?
God made each of us the way we are. Why are we supposed to think being different is a bad thing?
Anyway, if you don’t want to write back, that’s okay. I shouldn’t have read your private letter. I understand if you’re mad.
But if you did write back, that would be cool. I’ve missed writing to you, too.
Yours truly, Sharon
Friday, November 25, 1977
Dear Harvey,
Wow.
I… God. I don’t know where to start.
I just got a letter from Sharon, and it says—it says so many things, but it says…
Harvey…her brother’s gay.
Her brother, Peter. The one she writes about all the time.
He’s gay. She’s known for a while, apparently.
This is the closest I’ve ever come to knowing another gay person. Not counting Carolyn, or you. Since let’s face it, I don’t really know you, and Carolyn is…complicated.