A Journey In Therapy From Homophobia To Acceptance

Several years ago, an adolescent boy was killed in a hate crime targeting an LGBTQ+ community center. The family set out for a normal day. Instead, their world crashed. “Montford” had never come out to his family members, who were shocked to discover that their 15-year-old son/brother/cousin/nephew had been murdered at a social event for gay teens. 

Montford’s aunt “Kate” and uncle “Stan” lived in a city near me, in a different state from Montford. A mutual friend referred them to my psychology practice.

Struggling with the initial wave of shock, Kate and Stan sat in my office for our first meeting. Before I could say a word, they began to speak. 

“Our friend said you were comfortable with those people,” Kate anxiously.

“Which people?” I asked.

“Gay people,” Stan shifted nervously.

I nodded.

Stan then stated he wanted an objective opinion. 

“An objective opinion about what?” At this point, the tension spiked so high that I asked quietly, “What’s not being said here?”

The floodgates burst open.  

It was “unacceptable” that Montford was gay, Kate stated. “Ridiculous, actually.” 

“He didn’t even like fashion!” Stan added. “He was on the football team!” 

“There was nothing gay about him!” Kate.

“He can’t be gay!” Stan. 

“He must have been at the LGBTQ Center by accident.” Kate.

“Maybe he was lost and asking for directions.” Stan.

“The entire situation makes no sense.” Kate.

As one spoke, the other nodded then jumped in, overlapping. They left no room for discussion as they frantically threw out an avalanche of reasons why Montford couldn’t possibly have been gay. Finally, they paused and looked at me expectantly. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d tolerate a short moment of quiet, but quiet wasn’t on their agenda. Kate leapt in. 

“You believe us, don’t you? He can’t be gay!” 

I listened closely, trying to figure out a path into a productive therapy.

“I can’t think about anything else,” Stan said.

“We can’t even ask Montford about it. We’re stuck with it.” Kate’s eyes filled.

With that comment, she gave me an opening. “I think I understand what you’d like from me — to help you get unstuck, so you can mourn the way you need to.”

They both nodded.

“I want to ask something that you might not expect. Why is it so important that Montford wasn’t gay?”

They talked about their relationship with their nephew, and with Stan’s brother and sister-in-law, Montford’s parents, who also had no idea that he was gay and couldn’t believe it was true. Kate and Stan’s son “Gil,” loved his cousin and was heartbroken to lose him. The boys were the same age and spent two weeks every summer visiting each other, alternating homes.

Stan explained that Gil’s reaction puzzled them. “He doesn’t seem to care whether or not Montford was gay. He’s not focussed on that at all. It’s very strange.” 

I tried again. “Can I say something that may seem even more strange?”

They nodded.

“Let’s substitute the word dead for the word gay.” 

They exchanged a confused glance, so I did it for them.

“Montford can’t be dead. It’s ridiculous that Montford is dead. It must have been an accident that he’s dead. It makes no sense that he’s dead. There’s nothing dead about him.”

There was a long pause and they both began to cry. 

Finally Kate spoke: “It’s much easier to focus on the gay piece than the dead piece.”

Session after session, layer by layer, Kate and Stan grieved. I couldn’t take away their pain, or rush their grieving process. Worst of all, I couldn’t bring Montford back to life. But I could offer them a different path, so that their grieving was, in Kate’s words, “no less painful, but a lot less impossible.”

As they worked through the harsh initial stage of mourning, I wondered if they’d ever be willing to address their homophobia. As it turned out, their son Gil helped the process move forward. Gil’s best friend came out to him. When he told his parents, saying he was so glad his friend felt safe telling him, Kate shook her head.

“Wow,” she said, “I never would have guessed. He always seemed so normal.”

Stan grinned. “Did he try to hit on you? I’ll bet he did. You’re a good looking guy!”

They were completely taken aback when Gil shouted at them and stormed out. 

Kate opened the next session. “Gil thinks we’re homophobic assholes.”

“An exact quote,” Stan said.

“Do you think you’re homophobic assholes?”

They both blinked then laughed, surprised by my language. 

Kate took a deep breath. “I think maybe Gil’s right.”

Stan nodded. “I hate to admit it, but he has a point.”

“Why do you hate to admit it?” I needed to see whether he’d follow through or veer away from this part of himself.

“I don’t want to be an asshole,” Stan looked down. 

“I don’t want to be a bigot,” Kate added.

I held my voice calm. “So you’ve both realized you don’t like a part of yourselves.”

They nodded.

“What do you each want to do about it?” I asked softly, carefully non-confrontational.

This was a turning-point moment in therapy. My job was to show them they had a choice; their job was to choose. Many patients would have chosen to leave the treatment at that point rather than face the painful work ahead. The choice had to belong to them, so I waited. Their eyes locked.

“I feel like a jerk,” Kate said quietly. “I mean, Gil’s best friend is a normal guy. That hasn’t changed one bit. What I said was idiotic.”

“Not as idiotic as making a joke like I did,” Stan winced. 

“When we first met,” I said, “you were both  focussing on Montford’s being gay because it was less painful than focussing on his death. You were using homophobia to protect yourselves from something that felt more painful. Do you think that’s a piece of what’s going on now?”

We then embarked on one of the most difficult phases of their therapy as they confronted the intersection of their grief for Montford and their homophobia.

Kate wondered “why Montford never told anyone he was gay.”

They tossed ideas back and forth until Stan suddenly caught his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Kate turned to her husband.

He cleared his throat. “Montford didn’t tell anyone because the whole family is filled with homophobic assholes. My brother, my sister-in-law, the two of us. He was probably afraid to tell Gil, because of us. It’s our fault.”

“He must have felt so alone,” Kate whispered.

Over the next several sessions, they talked about what that must have been like for Montford to know he was gay and to be surrounded by people he couldn’t safely tell. 

This led to their both talking about their own secrets, the parts of themselves they felt they had to hide. 

As a child, Kate was a talented cellist, but also aced her math and science classes. She held a Ph.D. in biology and taught at a nearby college. She never told anyone how much she missed music, which her family considered “frivolous.” 

Stan grew up in a family of academics, and he taught chemistry at a university. But he had given up his secret dream, to become a chef. “A kitchen is like a lab. A lot of it is chemistry, except unlike in the lab, you create something wonderful to eat and you can share it with people you love. But where I came from…” Stan trailed off as a thought took hold. “Where I came from cooking was for girls, not guys. When I was little, I’d help my mother in the kitchen. But when I was around ten, my parents started making jokes that I was gay.” Stan closed his eyes. “So I stopped cooking, grew up, and did a version of the same thing to Montford and to Gil’s best friend.”

Over time, they both grieved for Montford, for themselves, for the pain they felt as they hid core parts of themselves, for the much greater pain Montford must have felt, for the closeness they might have had with Montford if they had been more accepting.

“It was us and them,” Kate explained. “We were the us, and anyone who was gay was the them.”

I asked why they thought they had focused so much of their us/them mentality on gay folks.

Stan shrugged sadly. “They’re an easy target. I was on the basketball team in high school. My teammates were always hassling the gay kids. I never stepped in, never stopped them, told gay jokes. I was a coward.”

“I was just as bad,” Kate admitted. “I didn’t care. I didn’t bother to notice when someone was being targeted. I let it happen, sometimes right in front of me, and I just walked away like it was nothing. I was a coward, too.”

I could feel their shame permeate the room, threatening to stop them in their tracks, shut down the issue. So I asked if they could acknowledge the courage involved in admitting cowardice.

A long pause followed.

“Maybe we can change,” Stan quietly. “Starting now.”

“For Montford,” Kate didn’t wipe her tears. “And for us. We’ve missed a lot.”

“We can never make it up to Montford,” Stan said sadly.

Kate nodded. “I failed him. But I can learn.”

“It took us too long to get there, but we’re here now.” Stan reached for her hand.

At the end of the treatment, Kate had started “my own little orchestra” — five friends, five instruments, playing together every month in an informal concert for their families. At each gathering, Stan planned the menu and cooked for the event. Anyone who wanted to cook with him was welcome. “Every time we’re in the kitchen and they call me chef, I feel great,” he smiled. In the colleges where they now taught, both Kate and Stan became active in the LGBTQ/Straight alliances. They began hosting an annual social event in their large yard, with Stan flipping burgers and veggies on their outdoor grill, bringing the two college alliances together. 

Two years after our first meeting, we said goodbye. As Kate and Stan walked out of my office for the last time, she turned at the door.

“There’s a path for everyone to become an ally. All you have to do is take the first step. Stan and I will be there, waiting for you.”

“And Montford,” Stan said quietly. “Montford will always be there, too.”

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

*This post was first published on Medium, on the platform Prism & Pen.

A Boy Came Out To Me In Elementary School

“Zeke” never lost an argument. 

Whatever anyone said, his answer was the same: “So what!” Any attempts at reason, at fairness, at negotiation were met with the same in-your-face “So what!” Nothing was ever resolved, no progress ever made. Eventually, his classmates gave up and Zeke’s tyranny snowballed.

His strategy worked so well that he launched himself on an intensified So What binge. We were in our final year of elementary school and the entire grade caved under his reign. Who was first in line at the drinking fountain? Who grabbed everyone’s favorite bean bag chair during reading time? Who claimed the best paints in art class? 

Zeke. Always Zeke. 

We all tiptoed around him and as we grew meeker, he grew louder. He became obsessed with Superman, quoted the comic strip at every opportunity, wore a cape to school. 

Standing behind him as we lined up for recess, I asked why he never cared what anyone said or felt. I waited for the expected So What! Instead, he surprised me. “Not caring is my superpower,” he answered with a strikingly un-Zeke-like sincerity. 

“I care,” I said quietly.  

He walked toward the handball court and tossed one word over his shoulder: “Kryptonite” — the fictional material from Superman’s birth planet that sapped his strength and turned him into a pathetic blob of helplessness.  

Our teacher gradually realized that all was not well in her classroom. She sat us down for a firm discussion and walked us through a new set of rules. Zeke was extremely displeased. As expected, he challenged every boundary, his least favorite being You Have To Be Fair. In the wake of his lost dictatorship, he staged several failed coups. Our teacher calmly took away the crayons he snatched from another boy. He shoved our star athlete at recess and was sidelined from the kickball game. Step by step, he learned that So What! had stopped working. Our classroom evolved into a community.

I remember my surprise when Zeke and I reached for the same set of paints in art class. Reflexively, I backed away. To my astonishment, he pushed the box toward me.

“Your turn,” he muttered, eyes on his shoes.

I looked around, expecting to see our teacher glowering at him. Instead, she was helping a student on the other side of the room. I shrugged at Zeke. “Want to share?”

He nodded shyly and I noticed he was no longer wearing his Superman cape. During our next art class, he rushed to sit next to me and we became art buddies.

“You’re nice,” he said a few weeks later as we both dipped our brushes into a carton of stop-in-your-tracks electric blue. 

“You’re funny,” I answered. 

“Really?” 

“Your imitations of cartoons are funny.” 

“Thank you,” in a perfect Donald Duck voice.  

I studied our six cartons of paint. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Bright blue,” sounding exactly like Mickey Mouse. 

“Mine, too.”

About a month later, we were each given a brick of clay. We grinned, realizing we both wore identical bright blue t-shirts.

“I like your shirt,” he said.

“I like yours better.”

“Do you like me?” almost inaudible.

“Yeah.”

“I like you but I don’t like-like you.”

“Well yeah duh!” It would be a few years before I like-liked a boy and the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

But Zeke was trying to tell me something different. “I like-like boys, not girls.”

“Oh. Okay.” I studied the dog I had sculpted, trying to figure out why it looked like a meatball with a tail.

“Okay? Really okay?”

“Yeah.” I added paws to my meatball. “Okay.”

“You…I mean…you know what I’m talking about?”

I looked at him and nodded. “Lots of my parents’ friends are g—” I saw the alarm on his face and interrupted myself. “Yeah okay.”

On our graduation day, I proudly wore a white dress with scattered pink roses and white patent leather dress-shoes. After the ceremony, I joined my classmates and we signed each other’s yearbooks. Zeke stood at the center. He had become popular, often surrounded at lunchtime while he kept the entire class in hysterics with his cartoon imitations. I caught his eye and he reached for my yearbook. In the upper right corner of the back page, he wrote two words: “I care.” He pulled a bright blue marker out of his blazer pocket and signed his name. He shoved the marker into my hand, muttered “g’bye,” and rushed away. 

The next morning I woke up, looked at my diploma and smiled. Usually, I read in bed for a while on summer mornings. This time, I jumped up and went to the breakfast table with an armful of supplies. An hour later, my mother found me. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Painting.” I reached for the brightest blue I owned.

“Is that a new marker?” pointing to Zeke’s gift which I had placed next to my paints.

I nodded. “Graduation present.”

“Why are you painting instead of reading?”

The words were out of my mouth before I knew they were coming. “Because he cares.”

*All identifying information about “Zeke,”  including his name and the place where we met, has been changed.

This was first published on Medium, by Prism & Pen.

I’m With You: A Moment On Castro Street

From the early 1980s until the early 1990s, my husband and I lived in San Francisco, in a wonderful Victorian cottage near Castro Street. Our little home had the original stained glass window (slightly cracked), a wacky off-kilter cabinet built into the dining room, and no closets. The previous owner had constructed (without a permit) a rickety sunroom where I read articles and wrote papers. I loved every inch of our tiny piece of San Francisco’s architectural history. 

When I stepped into that house, I was in my twenties, entering young adulthood. I shopped at the corner market, a family-owned store the size of our living room. I learned the precise time to show up, just as the baguettes were delivered, still steaming warm in their wrappings. I walked two blocks to a bakery with the finest Irish soda bread I’d ever tasted, a family recipe handed down through generations. Our next door neighbors were an older couple, and we spoke regularly over the picket fence dividing our property, tending our gardens in the San Francisco fog. As I shouldered my way through the ups and downs of psychology grad school, my neighborhood was my sanctuary and I loved my new community.

I also loved Castro Street.

When I had a free hour or two, when I needed to settle down after a monstrous exam, when I wanted to think through a term paper — I’d walk over and explore. The Castro was an area where gay men could stroll holding hands, not needing to pretend they were strangers when they had lived together for years. It was also an area where a woman could walk alone, safe and comfortable. 

One day I found myself on a vibrant block, standing in front of Harvey Milk’s camera store. The Mayor of Castro Street was no longer alive, but his heartbeat was strangely present. I turned still. I breathed deeply, reached out, gently touched the storefront. I realized tears were in my eyes and gave myself a mental shake. Crying in public wasn’t on my color wheel.

I was suddenly aware that a man was standing next to me. He reached out slowly, careful not to startle me, and put his hand on the building next to mine. His hand was large, the color of light caramel. His fingers were long and bony, with a few stray dark hairs. His nails were clipped short. I looked up at him and saw tears in his eyes as well. He said simply, “I’m with you.” 

We stood side by side, looking at our two hands. For just an instant our hands clasped. We smiled quietly and continued walking in opposite directions. I never saw him again. 

Today, decades later, the foundation of my homeland is under attack as we try to maintain our grip on the truths we thought were self evident. LGBTQ+ history now includes Don’t Say Gay, banned books, gender-affirming care blocked, a gag order on discussing same-sex parents in schools, bullying that too many people encourage and enable.

Sometimes the hatred and rage feel insurmountable.

Then I think of Harvey Milk — charismatic, courageous, a trailblazer. He also had a temper, and he’d be furious if I allowed myself to buckle. People’s voices have been taken away, their basic rights denied. So I’m writing my voice.

Going forward, I’ll hold close to my heart, tightly in my open hand, Harvey Milk’s legacy. I’ll remember the proud, harsh, enriched, brutal, beautiful history of the LGBTQ+ community. When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll think of standing outside a modest camera store on Castro Street, of a man’s hand next to mine, two strangers clasping hands in solidarity. I’ll remember the exact timbre of his voice when he said to me, “I’m with you.”

And I’m with you.

*This was first published on Medium, by Prism & Pen.

Barbie Gets A Haircut

Tightwire, a novel by Amy Kaufman Burk

Characters: Caroline: a child, a psychologist-to-be, growing up in a film industry family Leah: Caroline’s mother Derrick: Caroline’s older brother

Chapter 14 “Haircut”

Leah lounged on the floor of her daughter’s room. Caroline sat on her bed, giving a glaringly blonde Barbie a trim.

“Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

“Her hair hangs down past her butt. She looks absurd.” Caroline lined up the scissors and snipped. “She’ll look prettier when she’s more real.”

“When I was a girl, I always wanted blonde curls like Shirley Temple.”

“Why?”

“That’s what was considered prettiest at the time.”

“But that makes no sense. You have straight dark hair. Why did you care about the millions of strangers who worshipped Shirley Temple? Didn’t you want to just be you?”

“I guess not,” Lean answered slowly.

“You must have been a sad girl.” Caroline glanced at her mother. “I only want to be me. My hair’s mine. Like my signature.”

“I never liked my signature,” Leah admitted. “Too flowery.”

“Dad told me he doesn’t like his signature either. He has the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. He once told me he can’t read his own name when he writes it. And you always write your name wrong.”

“I do?”

“You always write Mrs., never Doctor.”

Leah laughed nervously.

“Do you and Dad have identity problems?” Caroline asked delicately.

This time Leah’s laughter was genuine. “We’re fine, but thanks for checking.”

“Are you and Dad sad adults? Or did you grow out of it?”

Leah stared at her daughter. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Well, when you were a kid, you didn’t want to be you. That’s pretty sad. And Dad’s parents gave him away. I mean, I know it was because they were poor, and his uncle was rich. But I’ve met his uncle, and he’s brainless. Sweet, but lost without a trace. Dad must have been sad. And now you have a signature you don’t like, and Dad can’t even read his own name, and you don’t use your title. A signature makes you who you are. I just wondered if you still don’t know who you are, because that could make someone sad, and…”

“We’re both fine,” Leah cut in.

“Good. I always wondered.” She became quiet, concentrating to cut a straight line. Two inches of neon gold cascaded to the floor.

“Nice haircut,” Leah firmly changed the subject.

“It’s the least I can do for her. I can’t change her legs or her boobs.”

“Caroline!”

“It’s true, Mom! If she had a real body like this, she’d be eight feet tall. Her boobs are so big, she couldn’t balance to walk. She’d topple right over. She’d need to see Dr. Davenport.”

“That’s true, but…wait a minute. How do you know about Dr. Davenport?”

Caroline grinned. “Plastic surgeon for the stars. Implants, reductions, enhancements, lifts tucks. You name it, he does it. Everyone has room for improvement.”

Leah stared at her daughter. “That’s exactly what Millie Charlemagne said when she came for dinner, nearly a year ago, when she finished filming Dad’s picture.”

Caroline nodded, starting on Barbie’s bangs. “She gave me this doll, and Derrick the Battleship game. She brought you a bouquet the size of a small planet. I think she wants Dad to recommend her for the lead in his next picture.”

“Do you remember everything anyone ever says? Every word?”

“Of course,” Caroline glanced up. “Doesn’t everyone?” 

Forbidding Words (And Why It Won’t Work)

Years ago, Allison and Kenny, entered my psychotherapy office, massively uncomfortable. Haltingly, they explained that they had a daughter, Dina, who was 6-years-old. Dina had been adopted at birth, but Allison and Kenny had never told her. They made this decision because Kenny had a low sperm count, which both parents experienced as a source of shame. The adoption was a family secret because they never wanted their daughter to ask why they didn’t have biological children. Adoption was this family’s forbidden word.

I asked what brought them into treatment now and they admitted that tension between them had skyrocketed in the past week. They were “fighting about everything” (Allison)… “well, maybe not everything” (Kenny)…and silence ensued. I asked if the silence contained forbidden words and they both began to cry.

“Something weird” (Allison) was happening with Dina. A new student, Andrea, had transferred into Dina’s first grade class and the two girls were immediately inseparable. A week ago, Andrea’s parents had brought cupcakes for the class to celebrate Andrea’s adoption day. After the cupcakes, Dina and Andrea ran outside for recess, jumped on the swings and began singing a tune they composed on the spot. When Dina arrived home that afternoon, she proudly sang her creation. To her parents’ horror, the song’s title was I’m Adopted. Most upsetting was the chorus:

Andrea’s adopted!

Dina’s adopted!

We’re both adopted!

Yeah!

Since then, Dina had been playing with her dolls, telling them they were her adopted sisters, and “worst of all” (Kenny) asking her parents if she could celebrate her own adoption day. They had no idea how Dina even knew the meaning of the word adoption, which had never, not once, been uttered in their household.

What went wrong with Allison and Kenny’s Forbidden-Word-Strategy? In their daughter’s presence, they had never said Montana or foxtrot or wombat— and Dina remained entirely uninterested in any of those words. Why was she suddenly drawn to the one unspoken word that mattered? Because ADOPTION was the forbidden topic. Montana, foxtrot and wombat held no emotional voltage while ADOPTION sparked an entire power grid.

Our country is in the throes of an epidemic of FORBIDDEN. Don’t Say Gay. Or trans. Or menstruation. Don’t teach our country’s history of gender inequality or racial bigotry. In Tennessee, Justin Pearson and Justin Jones (two lawmakers, both Black men) were voted out, punishment for participating in an event promoting gun safety. Instead of being deleted, Rep. Pearson and Rep. Jones have become icons, national news, owning a level of power neither had before their colleagues tried to negate them. Within a few days, they were back at their jobs, supported every step of the way by Rep. Gloria Johnson (white, much older, female, also targeted but not voted out). The Tennessee Three have become the voices of the people, by the people, for the people in a platform they might never have achieved if they hadn’t been treated as forbidden.

Human brains are quirky and emotions don’t follow orders from superior officers, especially if the orders don’t make sense. Forbidding speech doesn’t make words go away and unspoken words don’t make issues disappear. Ironically, forbidding words (or books, or issues, or people) gives them an elevated status. But it also causes incalculable emotional damage to the many who are negated and unable to reclaim their voices.

Several years ago, in the wake of a child’s song, Allison and Kenny protected their daughter from that damage. They lifted their adoption ban. They sorted out their feelings about Kenny’s sperm count. Layer by layer, they unpacked the emotions attached to the previous six years of secrecy. In Allison’s words, “Adoption is big. It’s important. But we accidentally made it big and important in all the wrong ways.”

Allison and Kenny also consulted with a child therapist and told Dina about the adoption. The gag order was lifted and the conversation remained open. Dina met with her own therapist for a short while, but the doctor quickly concluded that the child was fine and the family was on track.

Throughout Dina’s years in elementary school, Allison and Kenny brought cupcakes for their family’s adoption day. Now, decades later, they continue to celebrate the day their daughter completed their family. In high school, Dina and Andrea formed a band. Their signature song (played at multiple school functions) was a rewrite of “I’m Adopted,” renamed “I’m Me”. Dina grew up to become a psychologist and Andrea teaches music theory at a small college. Both are happily married with two children, one biological and one adopted. They remain close friends.

Every year, both families celebrate their adoption day.

*All identifying information about Allison, Kenny, Dina and Andrea (including their names) has been changed to respect their privacy.

Passover 2023

This evening, the sun will set and Passover will begin. The story of Passover, told through a Seder, is about the emancipation of the Jews, and the importance of freedom for all people. During the Seder, we raise our voices, in speech and in song, against persecution and in support of the human spirit. The story includes the ten plagues people faced: blood, frogs, bugs, wild animals, pestilence, boils, hail, locusts, darkness, death of firstborns. A Seder is a celebration with family and friends, gathered for a fine meal including traditional foods. But the story also respects and acknowledges the plagues, because the path to emancipation is often uphill and harsh.

Today our country suffers from our own set of plagues. While COVID is among them, we’re dealing with a myriad of different kinds of plagues. Many are not even recognized as plagues, but gun violence, white supremacy, anti-semitism and violence against the LGBTQ+ community are as dangerous as the plagues that will be acknowledged in tonight’s Seder. Strangely and sadly, on this particular day during Passover 2023, we also have a former president indicted on multiple counts, and millions of MAGA folks supporting his I-Can-Run-Rampant-And-You-Can’t-Stop-Me mindset.

As a psychologist of 20+ years and as a person of 60+ years, I’ve seen both the human capacity to cause terrible injury, and the human capacity to heal from terrible injury. Our country is at a crucial juncture. Too many have lost their moorings, swept into currents of power at the expense of decency, driven by rage rather than by common sense, caught in pack mentality and losing the ability to think as an individual. They don’t seem to realize that MAGA is another plague, causing damage not only to others, but also to themselves.

I look forward to the day when a corrupt president’s election and indictments are a chapter in our country’s history, when equality and acceptance are the norm rather than the exception, when the plague of indecency is under control. For this evening, I wish you all — every belief system, every gender identity, every sexuality, every racial heritage — a safe and happy Passover. May we join together, from our separate places, uniting against our plagues, so we can celebrate our emancipation.

Next year in Jerusalem.

Stop Targeting LGBTQ+

In a small town in the Midwest, a ninth grader named “Sally” came out to his parents as transgender. He was born with a body people assumed was female, and with the gender identity of a boy. He was anxious when he told his parents, but they were supportive. They figured it out together, every step of the way. His confidence grew. For the first time, he felt steady, knowing he belonged in his own skin. He liked his name, which was part of his identity, but chose to shorten “Sally” to “Sal.” He felt validated every time he heard “him” or “he” tossed in his direction.

In a rural farming area of South Carolina, a 13-year-old boy named “Lisa” put on a dress to go to school. Lisa knows he’s a boy, but nobody else does. He goes to church every Sunday and prays to wake up in a world where everyone understands his gender and supports him as a boy. He spends every day confused, scared, off balance, hiding his core self. Recently, bullies have targeted him. He dreads going to school, going home, going to church. Nowhere feels safe.

In Maine, an 8th-grade boy named Phil pulls on jeans and his favorite sweatshirt. He’s cisgender and straight. Recently, he grew four inches and isn’t yet comfortable with his new height. It hasn’t crossed his mind to be uncomfortable with his gender identity or his sexuality, and he’s too young to understand his inherent privilege. His best friend since kindergarten, Jeremy, came out as gay last weekend as they sipped soda, watching a movie in Phil’s den. Phil told Jeremy it was “cool,” as they devoured popcorn and hot dogs. Phil asked Jeremy if he told his parents; Jeremy said it was “awkward, but they were okay about it.” Then they talked about a matter of huge import. Phil has a crush on Pamela. Jeremy has a crush on Jon. Miraculously, both were assigned to work on a science project with their secret objects of desire. Neither could muster the courage to talk about anything personal to Pamela and Jon, so now they brainstormed ways to broaden the conversation. Finally, they concluded that was too much, too fast. Maybe, possibly, they could get ice cream together after school, to talk about their science projects. Probably not, but they could dream.

Sal’s biggest worry when he transitioned was losing his friends. But his social group, a mixture of boys and girls, accepted him as the same person they had known since kindergarten. Some other students whispered, but they followed his friends’ example and faster than Sal had hoped, it was no big deal. The teachers and administrators were aware of Sal’s transition, and were ready to protect him if necessary. The only “necessary” turned out to be a handful of alarmed parents, who met with the principal, who calmed them down.

Lisa’s biggest worry…well, he has many big worries. He worries his secret will be discovered. He worries he’ll go to Hell. He worries his parents will hate him. His loneliness is searing. He goes through his day, hiding in plain sight, always afraid.

Phil and Jeremy strategized, and decided to face their challenge together. They debated, brainstormed, and hatched a plan. After school, in a stroke of spectacular luck, the two friends walked out of their last class with their lab partners. Phil (as planned) said to Jeremy, “Wanna get ice cream?” Jeremy (as planned) answered, “Sure.” Then as though the idea just struck, Phil turned to Pamela and Jon and asked, “You guys want some, too?” Everyone agreed. They walked together, talking about their teachers and the morning assembly. Then something amazing happened. It turned out Phil and Pamela both liked chocolate ice cream best, while Jeremy and Jon preferred mint chip. Their bonds were established, and everyone smiled shyly. Phil and Jeremy exchanged incredulous glances. Dreams really can come true.

The gender spectrum is complex, nuanced and layered — just like the spectrum of any aspect of being human. Sal’s parents provided a strong role model for helping their son deal with identity issues — gender or otherwise. They listened as Sal explained his gender and at the same time, they remained sensitive to him as a whole person, responsive to the many facets of his coalescing identity. They were caring, supportive, loving. Jeremy found support from both his family and best friend, which helped him move forward with healthy adolescent development. Lisa, alone and unsupported, will have a much more jagged path.

The Trump Era has catapulted the United States into an un-united state. Many people seem to believe that LGBTQ+ children and adolescents are fundamentally different from cis straight children and adolescents. These people have lost track of the common ground that everyone shares. All kids and adolescents — and I mean ALL — need to feel safe physically and emotionally. They all need acceptance and support. They all need their core selves validated and respected. They all need love.

And let’s keep in mind that some of the finest words in the English language have no specified gender, no particular sexuality — which makes them every gender and every sexuality. Parent. Child. Adolescent. Teacher. Principal. Supporter. Friend.

Ice cream.

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

My Country Needs Therapy

I was a young therapist, still in training, when a family walked into my office — father (“Deke”), son (“Ian”, age 12) and step-mother (“Lucy”). On their intake form, Deke and Lucy stated that the problem was Ian’s temper, that he yelled and threw things. When we met for the first time, the adults politely shook hands. Ian stomped to the farthest chair and glared at me, an obvious So What Are You Going To Do Now? challenge. Within twenty minutes, Deke and Lucy were bellowing at each other about a disagreement involving dirty dishes. I called a TIME OUT when Lucy threatened to throw her purse at Deke. Ian watched closely, sat rigid, said nothing.

Clearly, screaming and throwing things was not an Ian-Issue, but a Family-Issue. The challenge was how to break the cycle of screaming without listening, of turning a disagreement into a mine-field. Having only a few months of experience with patients, my confidence was low, and I doubted I’d be able to help this family get ahead of their own self-destructive impulses.

They proved me wrong.

They never missed a session, determined to find a better way. Ian turned out to be extremely articulate, wickedly funny, and a gifted artist. Deke was the first to gain access to his own tears, and showed his family the emotional value of being able to cry. Lucy realized that her anger came from many sources, often mistakenly focussed on her husband and step-son. She modeled a healthy use of insight, and they all followed her example. They learned to call their own TIME OUTs. They began to work with each other, instead of against each other.

I wonder if the United States can follow their example.

My homeland has taken several catastrophically wrong turns. Citizens are devolving, turning against each other. Insurrection. Banned books. Don’t Say Gay. Bathroom bills. Gun violence. Assaults. LGBTQ+ rights under attack. Racism. Anti-semitism. Women’s rights gutted. Voting rights kicked in the teeth. The list goes on.

Even as we deal with the aftermath of Donald Trump and Mike Pence’s four years in the Oval Office, we’ve emerged with the painful knowledge of what We The People can become. We’re standing face to face with our worst selves. The MAGA mindset is alive and well — and extremely dangerous.

A rough road lies ahead. We don’t have to like all of our teammates, but we do have to work as a team. In this age of division, we’ve become obsessed with our differences. We’ve built emotional, political and socio-cultural walls which have exacerbated old problems and created new ones. Too many walls lead to the threat of isolation, and many people have lost track of our potential common ground — basic decency, factual truth, the love of our country. We need enough empathy for each other — just enough — to recover our self-evident truths. If we’re going to reclaim our inalienable rights, equally for all, then we need to work with each other, not against each other.

If it takes a village to raise children, then it also takes a village to navigate adulthood. As I try to help, I’ll keep in mind that I’m lucky to have three role models: Ian, Lucy and Deke. I’ll think of the strength and tenderness they found under their layers of rage. I’ll remember their unshakable bond hidden under their divisiveness. I’ll feel their fierce commitment to finding a healthier way, their refusal to give up hope. Then I’ll step forward, into the pain and the beauty of my troubled country, and write for a better tomorrow.

*All identifying information about “Ian,” “Lucy” and “Deke” has been changed to respect their privacy.

A Nerd On The Girls Basketball Team

Hollywood High School (HHS) was a new frontier. Students spoke over forty languages. No single racial heritage comprised a majority. The economic spectrum stretched from the wealthy homes in the Hollywood Hills to kids living on the streets. Gangs strutted, loud and tough. We spoke different words, ate different foods, wore different clothes, brought different customs into our classrooms.

The year was 1973, and I had transferred from an all-girls prep academy where the students were mainly white, often wealthy, and 100% college-bound. My previous school was gorgeous — lush lawns, tennis courts, swimming pool, state of the art science labs. Although I loved the academics, I felt increasingly restless. I longed for a wider playing field that was more inclusive and diverse. When I insisted on transferring to HHS, my parents were horrified.

On my first day of school, I barely spoke, looking around, eyes wide. Three thousand students shouted in 40+ languages. I was told by my guidance counselor that less than 50% went on to any sort of “higher education” (which included manager training at fast-food restaurants). A permanent layer of crud covered every surface in the classrooms. The lawn in front of the school was parched. The asphalt in our quad was crumbling. Sometimes we had enough books for our classes, sometimes not.

Hollywood High School’s name added an unusual layer of complexity. When adolescents run away, they need a destination. Looking at photos of Hollywood’s red carpet, a teen from a damaged home would never imagine these people ever experienced pain, fear, deprivation. My high school had a significant population of runaway teens. Although disappointed in the gritty reality that quickly replaced the glossy red carpet dream, these students created their own social support network. They signed each other’s field trip permission slips, shared clothing, kept a running discourse on available jobs. My high school provided a community of street kids’ peer foster care.

Hollywood High was a trial-by-fire education, in and out of the classroom. In a learning environment with this degree of diversity, the expected adolescent judgments (also known as the cool crowd) fell away. We came together in an awkward, clunky, Un-united Nations. As a bookish white girl from a large home overlooking the city, I knew within five minutes that churning out A’s wouldn’t be enough. I had no idea how to navigate my way, but even as I floundered, I knew I was in the right place.

During my daily “free period,” I initially took my math homework to the ragged lawn. But I was immediately approached by two men who wanted something I didn’t understand. Both wore heavy gold chains and 3-piece suits, one glittery silver lamé. Both carried beepers, hair slick with tonic, gaudy rings. Although I felt uneasy and strangely angry, I had no idea why. To their credit, they quickly realized that my skills were much too limited in their area of expertise, and we amicably parted ways. It would be years before I understood the near-miss transaction that took place. Such was daily life at Hollywood High.

Still, the encounter left me with a vague anxiety about sitting on the lawn, so I offered to tutor students in math and English, which gave me a classroom during my free periods. Suddenly, to my complete shock, being a nerd was viewed as valuable. I remember the first time a student approached me at lunch, asking for help with math, and it hit me: nobody in my new school judged me for being a brain in overdrive. I began to understand that openness and acceptance were more than abstract concepts for the greater good. They were powerful, empowering, and founded on diversity. Those teens who approached me for tutoring gave me more than they’d ever know.

As a young nerd hitting her stride, I never expected that the biggest influence on my high school years would be the girls basketball team. I was not at all athletic, and joining a sports team had never before crossed my mind. But my new P.E. teacher knew the basketball team needed girls, and she astutely recognized that I needed a team. She sent me to talk to the coach. At practice after school that afternoon, a girl approached, introduced herself, and kindly taught me the meaning of a “zone defense.” She missed the next three practices and was kicked off the team. It turned out she took a job after school. Her family needed money for food. I understood why the team struggled to find enough girls.

Some of the team’s behavior was startling to a prep-school escapee. They cussed with impressive fluency — their language percussive and unprintable — brazenly uninhibited in front of our coach. They crashed into each other as they scrimmaged, and pounded forward with no apology. I obediently did the drills, following instructions, not speaking a word, drawn to their rugged charisma. They were hilariously unholy and the adolescent in me, hidden under layers of mannerly convention and astronomic grades, began to shake off the shackles.

Through the first few weeks, I tiptoed through our scrimmages. Then at the beginning of week three, one of our terrific athletes knocked into me as she ran past. After she scored a basket, she came straight back, hand raised for a high five as she mouthed, “Sorry.” In that moment, I realized my teammates understood their physicality was new to me. I also realized that in spite of my fair skin, blonde hair, polished exterior — I was much tougher than I looked. From deep within, something began to shift.

The turning point in my relationship to the team came after we had won a game at a school known for its violence. The losing team was livid, and their coach warned us not to walk to our bus until a police escort arrived. My teammates banded together, ready for a brawl, each girl picking her target. While they seemed to relish the idea of a battle, I was literally shaking. I wanted the team members’ acceptance so much I could taste it, but I had never thrown a punch in my life. I looked at my hands, and wondered if I had it in me to use my fists as weapons. In that instant, I knew that I couldn’t, and I broke into a full body sweat. I was about to let down my team in their moment of crisis, no doubt while suffering a terrible injury at best, and an excruciating death at worst. I tried to hide my terror, because my teammates verbally eviscerated “cowards.” Then our toughest girl sat next to me, and (to my absolute astonishment) took my hand for a brief second. She grinned harshly, but her voice was soft. She told me that the team knew I “wasn’t used to this sort of thing.” She hit my shoulder lightly, said they’d protect me, and jumped up to punch the air.

A police officer arrived and no violence broke out.

On the bus ride back to Hollywood, the girls asked about my previous school. I described our uniforms — white button-down shirt, gray skirt, knee socks, penny loafers, gold cotton cardigan — and we laughed together at their abject horror. I described the mansions I had visited, some filled with furniture covered in plastic. One girl shook her head, “That’s no fun.” Another added, “That’s no home.” They asked why I left and I answered honestly. I loved my classes, some of my teachers were truly gifted and I missed my friends. But I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

They wondered if I ever wished I could go back. I thought carefully. I had just dodged a melee and barely escaped with my limbs intact. I glanced around our bus — young faces, different shades of pink, brown and gold. Most would graduate high school, a few would disappear. Some would go on to college, some not. Our coach, who was the school’s dance teacher and knew zero about basketball, sat at the front of the bus — lounging in the tutu she wore to every practice and game.

Do you miss it?” the girl repeated.

“I’m okay at Hollywood High,” I answered quietly.

We were all moved, bonded. The moment lasted two seconds. Then one of the girls began singing at the top of her lungs, a song of her own creation, about a series of X-rated acts entirely unknown to me. The rest of the team shouted approval, tossed in their own verses, hormone driven improv.

I grinned. I’m sure they thought I was beaming my approval of their raunchy lyrics. But they were wrong. I smiled because something within me stirred and reached for the light — a quiet confidence, a core validation.

I belonged.

Legally Blonde, Purebloods And Mudbloods

Since 2001 when the film Legally Blonde was released, we’ve come a long way. The United States has a female vice-president who is Black and Asian American. A high school classmate — female and Black — is president of a liberal arts college. Yep, we’ve come a long way. 

Or have we?

In Legally Blonde, Elle Woods (played by the talented Reese Witherspoon) is a perky sorority princess, excessively enamored of the color pink. On the night she expects Warner (her fraternity prince boyfriend) to serve up a diamond, he instead dumps her over dinner in an ultra-fancy restaurant. With the other diners looking on askance, she breaks into sobs, sounding like an agitated bernedoodle. She shuts herself in her room for several days — eating bonbons, barely speaking, neglecting her hair and nails. Then she hatches a plan. She (and her equally perky chihuahua) follow Warner to Harvard Law School with the intention of (not being a lawyer but rather) winning back her coveted (albeit lunkhead) ex. This is all supposed to be funny. Elle’s yappy sobs — her alarmingly pink outfits — her perfect hair — and most of all, the idea of a pretty sorority babe going to Harvard. It’s a joke.

Or is it?

From this angle, the film is deeply offensive. Something’s got to give, or more accurately — something’s got to bend and snap. So lets’ do another take, from a different camera angle.

Elle Woods was born and raised to be a brainless ornament on a handsome man’s arm. As she grew, her natural beauty propelled the process forward. The “problem” is she also grew up strong, bright, quick with words and movingly kind. Throughout the film, Witherspoon manages to give a spark to Elle’s most vapid moments, a dignity to her most absurd reactions. As she shops for a dress for her (soon to be failed) engagement dinner, the sales clerk tries to sell her a sub-par product for an over-the-top price. Elle shows no fear as she eloquently puts the woman in her place. She is — there’s no way around it — savvy, tough, clever. As an outsider at Harvard (too dressed up, pen with fluffy pink feather, heart shaped note pad), Elle is immediately ostracized. Interestingly, having spent her college years neck-deep in sorority pretensions, she sees right through Harvard’s Ivy pretensions and — even more interestingly — figures how to navigate a successful path in her new environment.

Reese Witherspoon’s talent — along with a gifted team both on camera and behind the scenes— rocketed this potential train-wreck into a near-cult success. But even now, looking back 20+ years later, I wonder what many men see when they look at a professional woman who happens to be as gorgeous as Elle Woods. Do they see the potential for success, a brain waiting to be tapped, a rising talent — or do they still see an invitation (which actually exists only in their heads) to trade sex for career advancement? Do they see a serious professional or do they see the Bend And Snap Maneuver?

The what?

“Bend And Snap” is “a little maneuver mother taught me in junior high” (Elle): 

Step 1: drop something on the floor (oops!)

Step 2: BEND to retrieve the item (butt sticking out perkily)

Step 3: SNAP back to a standing position (elbows bent, hands at your shoulders, boobs shoved as far forward as possible without risking spinal injury)

What’s wrong with the famous Bend And Snap Scene? Plenty. A bit later, however, the film took me by surprise. One of Elle’s friends finds herself gifted with the perfect Bend And Snap Opportunity. Following Elle’s instructions, she drops a pen (so cute, too adorable). Her love interest bends to pick it up, just as she bends over as well. She snaps back up, cracks his face, breaks his nose…and they fall in love. The film repeatedly invites the viewer to join in a stereotypic mindset, and then debunks its own stereotypes.

Or does it?

Although the film challenges its own gender stereotypes, it unfortunately does no such thing with its stereotypes about gay men and lesbian women. The one and only self-proclaimed lesbian in Elle’s Harvard class is caustic and obnoxious. The film’s only significant role of a gay man is a defendant’s pool boy, who dresses in sequins, lies under oath, and is pegged as gay because he knows who designed Elle’s glorious shoes. 

This film holds a lot of talent, but the issues shouldn’t be ignored. We humans are trapped in a never-ending hunt for a convenient group to target. JK Rowling (author of the Harry Potter series) wrote a wonderful portrayal of “Purebloods” (100% wizard DNA) and their contempt for “Mudbloods” (who carry “Muggle” DNA). Years later, she revealed her contempt for transgender women, who are apparently her own personal Mudbloods. 

I’ve watched Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, whose credentials are impeccable, face a series of attacks from the GOP. These senators demonstrate spectacular talent at modeling a When-I-Go-Low-Then-I-Go-Lower mentality. Their focus, through their ranting, seems to be that Judge Jackson is a Black woman and worse, she’s brilliant, strong and decent to the bone. Are these the new character-markers for Mudbloods in our government? 

We also have an ongoing crusade against the LGBTQ+ spectrum. Choose your poison: DON’T SAY GAY, bathroom bills, banning books. And while we’re riding the wave of oppression, let’s not forget voting rights, which we certainly can’t endorse. I mean, c’mon, it would be unacceptable if They The People (largely of color) might cast their votes differently from We The Purebloods (predominantly white, whiter, whitest). 

Folks, honestly, we have more productive options. We have an eminently qualified person joining the highest court in the land, making history as the first Black woman on the Supreme Court. We have a democracy based on the right to vote. We have classrooms where all children could be equal, if we endorse just a sprinkling of humanity. We have an LGBTQ+ spectrum of folks who enrich our lives every day. We have books with diverse viewpoints to open our world. 

Even if pieces of Legally Blonde need a rewrite, it’s far beyond time to follow Elle Woods’ example. We need to drop-kick our assumptions, enable others to bring forward their strengths, wear shocking-pink if we choose. 

Most of all, we need to bend the Pureblood-vs.-Mudblood mentality until it snaps.