I recently watched the Independent
Lens documentary “The Untold Tales of Armistead Maupin.” I was reminded of
a letter written by one of the characters, Michael Tolliver, which appeared in Further Tales of the City, the third
volume of what eventually grew to nine volumes of Tales. All of the books are wonderful reading, and if you haven’t
read them, at least the first one, I encourage you to do so: they are
delightful.
Michael, when he hears his southern, conservative parents have
joined Anita Bryant’s Save the Children campaign, he is moved to write this
letter. It’s a heartfelt testament to one man’s journey of coming out and
learning to love who he is. It is the letter I wish I had had the courage to
write to my mother. Please, read this letter, and maybe share it with someone
who does not yet believe it will get better.
After the letter are two links: one is Sir Ian McKellen giving a
moving reading of the letter. Then there is link to a beautiful musical version
of the letter, performed by the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus.
Dear Mama,
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write. Every time I
try to write you and Papa I realize I'm not saying the things that are in my
heart. That would be OK, if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still
my parents and I am still your child.
I have friends who think I'm foolish to write this
letter. I hope they're wrong. I hope their doubts are based on parents who love
and trust them less than mine do. I hope especially that you'll see this as an
act of love on my part, a sign of my continuing need to share my life with you.
I wouldn't have written, I guess, if you hadn't told me about your involvement
in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that
my responsibility was to tell you the truth, that your own child is homosexual,
and that I never needed saving from anything except the cruel and ignorant
piety of people like Anita Bryant.
I'm sorry, Mama. Not for what I am, but for how you must
feel at this moment. I know what that feeling is, for I felt it for most of my
life. Revulsion, shame, disbelief -- rejection through fear of something I
knew, even as a child, was as basic to my nature as the color of my eyes.
No, Mama, I wasn't "recruited." No seasoned
homosexual ever served as my mentor. But you know what? I wish someone had. I
wish someone older than me and wiser than the people in Orlando had taken me
aside and said, "You're all right, kid. You can grow up to be a doctor or
a teacher just like anyone else. You're not crazy or sick or evil. You can
succeed and be happy and find peace with friends -- all kinds of friends -- who
don't give a damn who you go to bed with. Most of all, though, you can love and
be loved, without hating yourself for it."
But no one ever said that to me, Mama. I had to find it
out on my own, with the help of the city that has become my home. I know this
may be hard for you to believe, but San Francisco is full of men and women,
both straight and gay, who don't consider sexuality in measuring the worth of
another human being.
These aren't radicals or weirdos, Mama. They are shop
clerks and bankers and little old ladies and people who nod and smile to you
when you meet them on the bus. Their attitude is neither patronizing nor
pitying. And their message is so simple: Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like
you. Yes, it's all right for you to like me, too.
I know what you must be thinking now. You're asking
yourself: What did we do wrong? How did we let this happen? Which one of us
made him that way?
I can't answer that, Mama. In the long run, I guess I
really don't care. All I know is this: If you and Papa are responsible for the
way I am, then I thank you with all my heart, for it's the light and the joy of
my life.
I know I can't tell you what it is to be gay. But I can
tell you what it's not.
It's not hiding behind words, Mama. Like family and
decency and Christianity. It's not fearing your body, or the pleasures that God
made for it. It's not judging your neighbor, except when he's crass or unkind.
Being gay has taught me tolerance, compassion and
humility. It has shown me the limitless possibilities of living. It has given
me people whose passion and kindness and sensitivity have provided a constant
source of strength.
It has brought me into the family of man, Mama, and I
like it here. I like it.
There's not much else I can say, except that I'm the same
Michael you've always known. You just know me better now. I have never
consciously done anything to hurt you. I never will.
Please don't feel you
have to answer this right away. It's enough for me to know that I no longer
have to lie to the people who taught me to value truth.
Mary Ann sends her love.
Everything is fine at 28 Barbary Lane
Your loving son,
Michael
Sir Ian McKellen
reads the letter:
A moving and
beautiful musical version of the letter from the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus:
