Today marks the anniversary of Matthew Shepard's death, five days after he was beaten and left to die tied to a fence on the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming.
Since Shepard's death, he's become something of an icon. He's become a martyr, a poster child, a rallying cry, the subject of numerous movies and books, and a significant milestone in the gay rights movement.
Yet today, I look at that old black and white photo of Matthew Shepard--the one that's used most often and appears on his Wikipedia page, and my first thought is--
Wow, he was five years younger when he died than I am now.
He was a kid.
Today, he'd be thirty-four years old if he were alive. But what about the rest of us who are still here? Where are we?
It seems sadly appropriate to look back on Shepard's death during a month when multiple gay men have taken their own lives because of discrimination and bullying.
It would make any practical person to argue that nothing's changed.
I'd like to think I'm a practical person, but I'd still like to argue that there has in fact been change over the past twelve years.
I was fourteen when Matthew Shepard died. I was just entering high school--a school I would later come out in as a senior three years later.
Looking back, I can't remember a single gay character on any of the television shows I watched back then. I can't remember any gay singers or musicians, nor can I remember anybody actually speaking to me about what being gay meant.
I wasn't the victim of homophobia, but I was completely unexposed to homosexuality even though my high school had just decided that freshman needed to be taught sex education because sexuality was no longer something they could pretend fourteen-year-olds didn't think about.
So where did that leave me?
By fourteen, I had already experimented with a friend, and I felt immense guilt about it. I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. Was I gay? Would it be wrong if I was? I didn't know who would be against me if I came out, and in some ways, that made it harder to do so. I felt like it would have been easier to prepare myself for it if I knew who would flip out and who would accept me. Instead I had to gamble, and in more than a few cases, I gambled wrong.
What I remember about Matthew Shepard's murder is that it forced people to talk.
There was no more avoiding the issue. Suddenly, people had to take sides--even people who would normally avoid conversations that combine both religion and politics.
Suddenly it was easier to tell the allies from the strangers.
When I came out my senior year, I was one of only a few out gay students in the school. I felt incredibly lonely, but more than that, I felt frustrated. I knew other students at my school were gay, but despite seeing myself and others come out, they still weren't able to do so themselves. I could accept feeling lonely, but I couldn't accept watching others feel that same loneliness but not be able to cure themselves of it by admitting who they were.
I still believe that a large part of it was the uncertainty.
Who would accept us? Who would love us? Would it mean we would be forever challenged in life and faced with obstacles that straight people wouldn't be?
There was just so much I didn't know.
I knew from a very young age that I wanted to be an actor, but I remember thinking--"If I come out, the I'll never be a famous actor, because nobody famous is gay."
It's amazing to remember those thoughts now and then realize that we have actually come a very long way in the past twelve years.
It's not just that gay characters appear in the movies and on television. It's that they're appearing in movies and on television shows that lots of people watch.
Yes, we still have stereotyping, but we no longer have the black void of being unexposed.
Even at fourteen, I never believed I'd see celebrities coming out on the cover of People magazine. I never thought I'd see gay politicians holding office. I never thought gay marriage would even be entertained as a feasible possibility, let alone fought for in a fight I now believe we will win.
Perceptions are changing. Generational change is happening.
It's heartbreaking that so many young gay people are giving up, but in the same way we all tried to find hope after Matthew Shepard died, I believe we need to find that same hope now, and help others find it as well before it's too late.
In the words of Dennis Shepard, Matthew's father, "Matt's beating, hospitalization and funeral focused worldwide attention on hate. Good is coming out of evil. People have said enough is enough."
It's been over a decade, and I still can feel that fight in people. I can feel it getting stronger with time.
It's been a longer and more frustrating fight than many of us would have wished it to be, but it's a fight we're winning.
"Good is coming out of evil."
Take today to remember that kid--not as a martyr or a milestone, not a picture you see on google or in a newspaper, not an abstract idea--just a kid, a real person, and someone's child, who deserved to live a much longer life.
Remember him, and remember those other kids out there that we're still fighting for. The ones who still have a chance to live.
Since Shepard's death, he's become something of an icon. He's become a martyr, a poster child, a rallying cry, the subject of numerous movies and books, and a significant milestone in the gay rights movement.
Yet today, I look at that old black and white photo of Matthew Shepard--the one that's used most often and appears on his Wikipedia page, and my first thought is--
Wow, he was five years younger when he died than I am now.
He was a kid.
Today, he'd be thirty-four years old if he were alive. But what about the rest of us who are still here? Where are we?
It seems sadly appropriate to look back on Shepard's death during a month when multiple gay men have taken their own lives because of discrimination and bullying.
It would make any practical person to argue that nothing's changed.
I'd like to think I'm a practical person, but I'd still like to argue that there has in fact been change over the past twelve years.
I was fourteen when Matthew Shepard died. I was just entering high school--a school I would later come out in as a senior three years later.
Looking back, I can't remember a single gay character on any of the television shows I watched back then. I can't remember any gay singers or musicians, nor can I remember anybody actually speaking to me about what being gay meant.
I wasn't the victim of homophobia, but I was completely unexposed to homosexuality even though my high school had just decided that freshman needed to be taught sex education because sexuality was no longer something they could pretend fourteen-year-olds didn't think about.
So where did that leave me?
By fourteen, I had already experimented with a friend, and I felt immense guilt about it. I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. Was I gay? Would it be wrong if I was? I didn't know who would be against me if I came out, and in some ways, that made it harder to do so. I felt like it would have been easier to prepare myself for it if I knew who would flip out and who would accept me. Instead I had to gamble, and in more than a few cases, I gambled wrong.
What I remember about Matthew Shepard's murder is that it forced people to talk.
There was no more avoiding the issue. Suddenly, people had to take sides--even people who would normally avoid conversations that combine both religion and politics.
Suddenly it was easier to tell the allies from the strangers.
When I came out my senior year, I was one of only a few out gay students in the school. I felt incredibly lonely, but more than that, I felt frustrated. I knew other students at my school were gay, but despite seeing myself and others come out, they still weren't able to do so themselves. I could accept feeling lonely, but I couldn't accept watching others feel that same loneliness but not be able to cure themselves of it by admitting who they were.
I still believe that a large part of it was the uncertainty.
Who would accept us? Who would love us? Would it mean we would be forever challenged in life and faced with obstacles that straight people wouldn't be?
There was just so much I didn't know.
I knew from a very young age that I wanted to be an actor, but I remember thinking--"If I come out, the I'll never be a famous actor, because nobody famous is gay."
It's amazing to remember those thoughts now and then realize that we have actually come a very long way in the past twelve years.
It's not just that gay characters appear in the movies and on television. It's that they're appearing in movies and on television shows that lots of people watch.
Yes, we still have stereotyping, but we no longer have the black void of being unexposed.
Even at fourteen, I never believed I'd see celebrities coming out on the cover of People magazine. I never thought I'd see gay politicians holding office. I never thought gay marriage would even be entertained as a feasible possibility, let alone fought for in a fight I now believe we will win.
Perceptions are changing. Generational change is happening.
It's heartbreaking that so many young gay people are giving up, but in the same way we all tried to find hope after Matthew Shepard died, I believe we need to find that same hope now, and help others find it as well before it's too late.
In the words of Dennis Shepard, Matthew's father, "Matt's beating, hospitalization and funeral focused worldwide attention on hate. Good is coming out of evil. People have said enough is enough."
It's been over a decade, and I still can feel that fight in people. I can feel it getting stronger with time.
It's been a longer and more frustrating fight than many of us would have wished it to be, but it's a fight we're winning.
"Good is coming out of evil."
Take today to remember that kid--not as a martyr or a milestone, not a picture you see on google or in a newspaper, not an abstract idea--just a kid, a real person, and someone's child, who deserved to live a much longer life.
Remember him, and remember those other kids out there that we're still fighting for. The ones who still have a chance to live.
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