---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Mon, 19 Jul 1999 02:56:05 -0400 (EDT)
From: Tina M. Wood ac245@osfn.org
Subject: Long article: Mass. groups help gay teens cope (fwd)

This was in the Sunday Providence (RI) Journal; not sure what section. Note that the contact email address at the end is incomplete, but you can send letters to the editor at letters@projo.com.

7.18.99 00:12:13
Mass. groups help gay teens cope

By JULIE GOODMAN
Journal Staff Writer

It is a cool weekday evening in downtown Fall River. In a two-story brick building, ten young adults lounge around a small, private room where pamphlets on sexual health and support groups line the walls.

One of the teenagers is brooding over a dilemma everyone in the room faces: He is gay and wonders if he should tell his high school classmates.

Diana Rice, a 15-year-old high school student, says she doesn't care if people call her names, if they insult her, if they make fun of her, and neither should he.

``That doesn't bother me because I'm not going to let it,'' she says, her eyebrows furrowed. ``If someone's going to mess with you -- look who you've got, who has got your back.''

``They can't control your life,'' says Miffle Rodriguez, 17, who is sitting nearby. ``Every single person in this room -- they're going to be there for you.''

Soul-bearing of this sort occurs every week when gay teenagers from Fall River, New Bedford, Westport and Wareham gather here under state auspices.

They talk being called ``queer,'' ``sissy,'' ``faggot.'' They gripe, joke, and sometimes talk about anything but being gay.

Gatherings like this have become commonplace in Massachusetts in the seven years since the state launched an innovative effort to bring isolated gay teens together into state-funded support groups.

In 1992, then Gov. William Weld, acting on the urging of gay activists, created the Governor's Commission on Gay and Lesbian Youth, the first such commission of its kind in the country.

The 12-member, volunteer body recruited a high school student, a college student, a parent of a gay child, an educator and a mental-health professional. They used about half a million dollars in government funds to organize rallies, workshops, hearings, school faculty training sessions and youth groups that aim to reach students who feel alone.

The commission also formed gay/straight alliances, groups based in public high schools where straight students learn about stereotypes about homosexuality and the risks gay students face.

While these school-based groups also exist in other states, including Rhode Island, none are funded by the government, according to Massachusetts officials.

Massachusetts also claims to have nearly half of the 400 alliances in the country. They now number over 180 in high schools throughout the Bay State; the commission is insisting the remaining 170 public secondary schools follow suit.

Over the last few years, Seekonk, Attleboro, Westport, Taunton and Fall River have joined the list of communities with gay youth groups or high school alliances trying to create safe, comfortable environments.

``There's really been what can only be described as a miraculous change for the climate of gay and lesbian youth in Massachusetts,'' said David LaFontaine, who heads the governor's commission.

Others, however, believe that what the state has done through the 1990s is more scandalous than miraculous.

``It's troubling to say the least,'' said David Amaral, the director of the Christian Coalition for Southeastern Massachusetts. His organization is collaborating with the Parents' Rights Coalition, a statewide group that opposes the teaching of sexuality in the public schools.

``I think the whole problem and the primary question is why is the government, be it local, state or federal, involved in the sexuality of children? That's the question that parents better ask,'' Amaral said.

Calling the effort a ``crash course in homosexual, political activism,'' the two groups say they don't want their tax dollars funding the education of ``perverse lifestyles.'' The state's true goal, they say, is to convert students to homosexuals. ``You teach reading, writing and arithmetic, but so much more is brought in now under the guise of what I call social conditioning,'' Amaral said.

TEENAGE YEARS are difficult for most, but can be especially hard for students who find themselves outside the hetrosexual mainstream.

The governor's commission estimates that there are at least 15,000 gay and lesbian high school students in Massachusetts.

Gay, lesbian and bisexual youth are five times more likely to attempt suicide than their straight peers, according to a 1997 youth risk behavior survey from the state Department of Education.

They are five times more likely to miss school because they feel unsafe, and four times more likely to be threatened or injured at school. The state's numbers show gay youth use more drugs, engage in more fights, and surprisingly, have higher pregnancy rates.

They also frequently become the targets of hatred. Last year, 145 incidents of anti-gay violence and harassment in the state were reported to Boston's Fenway Community Health Center.

Diana Rice, who has just finished her freshman year of high school, joined the gay youth movement a year ago, after weathering bouts of depression and heavy drinking as she grappled with her sexuality.

An accomplished athlete, she has been involved with sports since she was five years old. She became a ``sports queen'' when she entered Wareham High School. Basketball relieved stress. Soccer helped her forget the day's unpleasant moments. Winning brought an unconditional high.

Three years ago, when she was 12, Diana started to feel unhappy, but didn't know why. She went to parties where she sometimes drank herself into oblivion. In a desperate attempt to feel accepted, she dated older men, some twice her age. She contemplated shooting herself in the head. The drinking continued and a friend eventually urged her to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.

``I was totally in my own little world and my friends totally didn't know what was going on, and they were like, `Where did my friend go? She was such a nice person. Where did she go?' '' Diana said.

When she was 13, Diana attended a party with the 26-year-old man she was dating. She was arrested when the police showed up and caught her drinking alcohol. She was put on probation and a heavy depression settled over her. Its only outward sign was the angry, distant demeanor she showed her family.

``We had to deal with, why is she always so unhappy?'' said her mother, Gail Rice. ``And why is she so angry? She wanted to move out of the house at one point, didn't feel comfortable living in the house.''

Diana sensed she was gay, but didn't want to admit it. Instead, she turned to alcohol and buried her sexuality. ``I drank most of my younger years and blocked that out because I knew there was something different. And I just didn't want to deal with it. I just drank and that solved everything.

``I've always gone against the grain and I've never let anyone know that I can hurt because I've always got to be the tough one. And it was like so hard, especially trying to keep up with that and knowing that you feel different from everybody else.''

Diana eventually told her family she was gay, but until a year ago, when she began attending the meetings in Fall River, she felt desperately alone. ``Now, I'm in this group and I see all kinds of gay people and I realize there's more,'' Diana said.

``I realize I'm not the only one.''

STATE OFFICIALS have been trying to make the coming out passage easier for teens like Diana. So far, Massachusetts has spent $4.5 million over seven years to educate people on gay and lesbian issues and increase understanding in high schools, as well as some colleges. It has been a collaboration among education and health officials, and Gov. Paul Cellucci, who continued the effort begun by Gov. Weld, a fellow Republican.

In 1993, Massachusetts became the first state to amend the public school anti-discrimination law to include sexual orientation as a protected category. Now, gay students who want to prosecute their harassers have an easier time, and officials are urging students and their families to use the law by reporting physical and verbal abuse.

The youth groups are intended to provide what the law cannot: a schedule of educational and social events including movie nights, book chats and picnics. Some events are very public, such as the gay youth rallies where teens march through downtown Boston. Others are more private, like a gay prom.

Students receive pamphlets on how to come out of the closet, how to eradicate prejudice and how to form a youth group. To combat AIDS, organizers dole out bags of condoms and information on sexually transmitted diseases.

Confidentiality is assured; judgments left at the door.

``STRIKE A POSE. Vogue, vogue!''

It is the Spring Fling Dance, a springtime ball, and a throng of teenagers are milling about the Red Cross/City Year building in the South End of Boston. Colored lights wash over the crowd. Smoke streaks the air. Teenagers abandon their corners and fill the dance floor.

The dance is one of many organized by the Boston Alliance of Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Youth, one of the groups funded by the commission. The Boston alliance, which operates out of a Beacon Street office, also receives funding from corporate and private sponsors.

For a $3 door fee, gay youth and their straight friends can attend the alcohol-free event.

Young men wear platform shoes, wigs and skirts, and some are using water-filled condoms to create the appearance of a bosom. For some, this is an initiation into the gay social world.

Harry Barlow is dressed in a white tank top and a black leather jacket, and projects movie-star allure. The bleached blond tips of his hair are perfectly geled, showcasing his quadruple-pierced ear. He catches the eyes of some young men, who privately discuss how attractive they think he is. Harry, 17, wears a small troll around his neck, a symbol of when he used to feel ugly.

Here, he's free, Harry says with a smile.

``Guys can dance with guys, girls can dance with girls. Guys can dress up as girls.''

Harry, who just finished his sophomore year at Wareham High School, puffs on a cigarette outside the building. He has been out of the closet for two years now, and recalls the people who had the most difficulty with his revelation. They weren't the students, but the school teachers and administrators in his small town, who, he says, circulated hurtful rumors about him.

``That's sad, isn't it?'' he says.

Like Diana, Harry's early teens were difficult. He was 14 or 15 when he first ran away from home. He dated an older man and was frequently truant from school. A court ordered him to a residential center for troubled youth for more than a year. He passed the time playing solitaire, listening to his Walkman and writing poetry. But he felt trapped and attempted to run away four more times.

It was a period made even more difficult by the normal growing pains of adolescence. His face broke out. He gained weight. Filled with insecurity, he spent hours dawdling before the mirror, worrying about his appearance. Painfully shy and self-conscious, he lifted weights for hours at a time and developed an awkward habit of hiding his face with his hands.

``I was just like so alone. I felt so disgusted with myself and I was always like, `You're fat. You're gay. Who's going to want to hang out with someone like you?' ''

``Ninety percent of my life was in my room. For years, it was darkness.''

Inside, on the dance floor, Shannon's ``Let The Music Play'' is on, and Miffle Rodriguez, sporting a New York Yankees baseball cap that shadows her soft brown eyes, is cruising the dance floor.

The mood changes as Lauryn Hill's soothing voice sings, ``You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you . . .'' and the bass shakes the room. The lights dim, night air blows in from an open window.

Miffle and a young woman are swaying to the music; their darkened silhouette contrasts with the colored lights. As Hill sings ``I need you baby, if it's quite all right, I need you baby,'' the two tip their heads together.

Miffle is still embracing the young woman as a conga line forms, and soon their image is lost in the train of dancers.

The dance is one of many social gatherings Miffle has attended over the last few years with gay friends. Miffle, who just completed her junior year at Durfee, joined the same youth group Harry and Diana attend. But she didn't discover that haven until after she pulled through the most angry period in her life.

At age 13, several years before she joined the group, Miffle felt confused and bitter. Her mother was often the target of her unpredictable anger. Disputes over dirty dishes or a messy room would erupt into loud duels, ending with Miffle retreating to her bedroom.

Around that time, Miffle had been dating a boy from school for a year and a half, until he began dating a friend of hers.

``And that's when the thoughts started going through my head and I was like, `Oh God.' I was like, `Oh my God,' '' Miffle said. She discussed her feelings of homosexuality with a friend, who suggested it was a phase or a desire to experiment.

A few months later, Miffle decided to broach the subject with her mother. But like so many of their interactions, it came out in an argument instead.

``How can you do this?'' her mother, Nilda Harrington, said one night, waving a $2,000 phone bill, largely from calls Miffle had placed to her friends. Her mother, whose family is Puerto Rican, railed. Spanish curse words flew from her mouth.

``Well,'' Miffle shouted, ``maybe it's because I'm gay!''

There was a pause. Her mother looked like she wanted to cry. But instead, she came back with a verbal blow that left Miffle even more confused.

``Yeah?,'' she shot back. ``I don't care if you're purple!''

After that day, though, her mother would periodically ask, ``Are you sure?'' And several months later, when Miffle answered ``yes'' for about the fifth or so time, she believed her daughter.

At a loss as to what to do, Harrington sent her daughter to a therapist.

``I have to be honest with you, it killed me,'' she said. ``It totally devastated me to know that my own daughter is gay. It's like, no parent wants to hear that. But, I thought about it -- well, I can deal with this. I couldn't deal with her telling me, `Mom, I'm addicted to drugs.' I know that I couldn't deal with. So, you get to the point where it's like, okay, yeah, it hurts, but it's okay.''

Although he has always been supportive, Miffle's stepfather, who has helped raise her since she was an infant, was crushed by the news, she said.

``I remember saying when I was little, `Daddy, I can't wait until I get married, you can walk me down the aisle. blah, blah, blah.' Then all of a sudden, I come out and tell my parents I'm gay.''

MIFFLE, HARRY and Diana have grown to know one another at the Fall River gathering, one of 11 across the state.

Carlos Pavao, a long-time Fall River resident who is a graduate of Brandeis University and has a master's from Columbia University, served as the adult adviser for the state-funded gay youth group which meets weekly at a Fall River social service agency.

Pavao has personal experience with the difficulties of growing up gay in Southeastern Massachusetts.

Such groups are a luxury he was denied growing up in Fall River, he said.

``I'm amazed that the youth now, when they go out, that they have normal relationships, that they build friendships and they act like youth, you know? . . . I didn't have that.''

``My biggest hope is that they consider themselves normal, that they can build friendships . . . that they can be teenagers, and they can be healthy teenagers.''

Two years ago, Pavao, who worked as a social service agency educational coordinator, decided he wanted to help gay teenagers.

With $5,000 from the governor's commission and the state Department of Public Health, he funded brochures, posters, office supplies, travel expenses and his own stipend. A local agency donated space.

As the group's adviser, he posted fliers and contacted the media to publicize the weekly meetings. For several months, no one showed. But as Pavao, 29, continued to contact schools, therapists and social service agencies, word spread and the group began to form.

Now, anywhere from 6 to 17 people attend the weekly meetings, which usually last an hour and a half.

The teenagers use that time to commiserate over immature high school students and emotionally scarring slurs. Young men talk about how to appear straight, while fending off female suitors. Young women tell of how they are weary of being mistaken for males. They listen to guest speakers who offer information on everything from maintaining healthy relationships to dealing with a police officer who doesn't believe same-sex rape is a crime.

They gossip, they talk about family, dating and sports. They discuss harassment in school, in church, in public. Punctuated by temper flare-ups and giggle fits, they reveal a classroom fight, a bad grade, a first kiss. Is homosexuality inherited or acquired? Does bisexuality really exist? How many gay people are there in the world? A young, closeted man fears his voice will slip into upper octaves, another is shocked to see one of his classmates at a gay bar.

Some also participate in the gay/straight alliances at their schools. Those meetings, which usually draw a small, loyal following of gay and straight students, show videos on high suicide rates among gay youth, bring in guest speakers and organize student panels in class, assemblies or after school meetings.

LaFontaine, the head of the governor's commission, citing incidents of abuse and harassment at schools across the state, says Southeastern Massachusetts has a long way to go in the schools.

``Whether there's 100 gay students in a high school or 10, it doesn't really matter. All the students have a right to attend school and not be called names. They should be able to go to class and not be humiliated,'' he said.

He is critical of schools that have not formed gay/straight alliances, such as Durfee in Fall River, one of the largest schools in the state. The school administration is being irresponsible, he says. ``Their school is in denial and the students are being hurt because of it.''

Durfee Principal Albert Attar said he does not see the urgency in starting an alliance because a school counselor is available for all students who are having problems. ``They know where to go to and they are told up front by the staff and myself,'' he said.

Attar said he is not aware of any specific problems gay students face at his school. ``It's not a major issue, so why should we make it a major issue? Why make something an issue that isn't a major issue?''

While Harry and Diana regularly attended alliance meetings at Wareham High School this year, Miffle has been trying to start an alliance at Durfee. Her classmates and some of her teachers are supportive, she says, and she eventually won love and respect from her friends after she came out of the closet.

But she hasn't forgotten the times when students threw food at her or wrote anti-gay slurs about her on the walls. Nor will she forget the time two security guards ushered her into the school cafeteria to protect her from the insults and badgering that had become unbearable.

Diana, who often brings her stories of rejection and rehabilitation to the youth group, says her family has begun to heal. But she still battles her Catholic parish, the public, and sometimes, students at her school.

She is weary of the way her religion teachers rail against homosexuality. And she finds the perceptions the general public holds of gay people equally disturbing. ``All gay people that are women, they're all dyke and bulldogs and everything and that's not true at all. You should see some of my friends who are gay. Total feminine, lipstick, the long nails and everything. You'd be surprised.''

She is sick of the ``dyke'' names hurled at her when she strolls through the mall with her girlfriend, and the way women steer children away from them. She is unnerved by the way a room falls silent when she kisses her girlfriend.

``I honestly forget that I'm gay at times. I honestly just don't even think about it. You just get so used to it and you think it's so normal. It feels normal to me and everybody else is like, `Oh my god, it's two girls,' and sometimes I forget.''

With more than a year of state custody and court-mandated therapy sessions behind him, Harry's depression has virtually disappeared and sometimes, his mother says he's just lucky to be alive.

Harry thinks about how his life would be different if he were straight. He probably never would have been held back a grade, nor would he be in the special education classes he's in now.

``I'd be normal,'' he said.

Although he won't forget the lowest point of his life, he has learned to draw from the companionship of others in the Fall River group, which he has been attending for about seven months now.

For him, the support groups are a new sanctuary for safety and camaraderie.

``It's like where I belong,'' he said. ``It's where I fit in.''

Harry is more honest with people, he says, and is no longer the ``shady'' person he used to be. He has some measure of comfort with his identity, but now, it is the simple things he craves most.

``I just like to go to the mall and hold hands and stuff like that,'' he says.

But mindful of society's potential to gay-bash, he has yet to hold a male's hand in public.

``It still has a long way to go yet,'' he says. ``I'm not satisfied yet -- not by far.''

ON THAT COOL May evening, back in the Fall River brick building where the 10 teenagers are gathered, the conversation has shifted. This time, they are talking about Miffle's plans for the Durfee High School junior prom. She does not want to take anyone from her school, she says. She wants to take someone to ``just chill with.'' Harry agreed to be her date.

``Am I going to be straight?'' he asks. He is not going to wear a dress, he says.

Miffle is still talking about the limousine. It will come to Harry's house first. Miffle's hair would be done professionally, her fingernails painted red, her red dress would have a split up the side. She has red satin shoes and Harry better not spill anything on them.

Pavao laughs and jokes that he would like to be around to witness ``the good night kiss.''

Here, in the group, no one disputes the fact there is still work to be done. It is not only the work of society, but their own as well.

As individuals, they are still adjusting to a complex new world beyond the closet.

Harry frowns and asks his question again.

``Are we going to be boyfriend, girlfriend or a lesbian and a gay guy?''

It is something he needs to know.

Julie Goodman can be contacted by E-mail at PJBNEWS.COM.