It Gets Better Read online

  The thing is, Aiden wasn’t unpopular by any means. He was basically friends with everyone who accepted him as Aiden. The entire time I knew him, he’d always had a girlfriend or a girl chasing after him. He had a group of younger kids he was friends with that he looked out for and who treated him as a big brother. At his memorial service, they ran out of room on the benches and there were rows of people standing in the back of the room. Almost everyone who spoke at Aiden’s memorial said that he was the one person that had always listened and never judged.

  My favorite photo of him hangs on my wall, as well as a drawing he gave me a year ago. Our friend, Maddie Hook, took the picture of him a few days before his death. He looks so happy in it. He’d started to grow a little facial hair because of the testosterone treatment and I remember he was so proud of that. I wish Aiden was here to see all the videos and read all these stories so he might see it would get better. I know that there are a lot of people out there like Aiden who are amazing and beautiful and loved; and many like him, who can’t see any of this about themselves because they have to deal with so much hate every day.

  One of the most frustrating things for me after his death was that, outside of his friends and family, no one knew what had happened to Aiden. There was no media coverage; no one was outraged that this boy, who I had loved, had been harassed until he couldn’t take it anymore. That was the worst part. It felt like no one really cared. And then I saw this project and the thousands of videos people were making. So I guess I just want to say thank you to everyone who made a video, shared one, watched one. Thank you for caring.

  Ava is a junior in high school in Maryland. She’s an active member in her school’s Gay-Straight Alliance.

  A MESSAGE FROM JOHN BERRY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Hello. I am John Berry, director of the United States Office of Personnel Management. To all youth out there who are in a tough place right now—know this—it gets better.

  I was lucky—I was never bullied. But I was afraid of who I was. I was afraid God wouldn’t love me. I was afraid my parents wouldn’t love me. I was afraid I couldn’t be successful in politics. Now I know God does love me, more than I could ever have imagined. And God made me just the way I am—and God doesn’t make junk.

  My parents, whom I was walling out from my own fear, loved me all the more. But it wasn’t easy. My dad, a Marine sergeant who went to Mass every day, asked me when I came out to him not to bring my partner over to the house. Ten years later, when my partner was dying from AIDS, my dad held him in his arms and told him, “I love you like my own son.”

  Things do get better.

  And as to my career fears? I am the highest-ranking openly gay man in United States history. I have stood on the North Pole and the South Pole. I have managed 40 percent of United States law enforcement, including the Secret Service, and the Park Service, and I’ve even been director of the National Zoo.

  You can be whatever you want. You can love whomever you want. But only if you first love yourself. Trust me—it’s worth it. It gets better.

  Live. Love. Live.

  John Berry serves as director of the United States Office of Personnel Management, where President Obama appointed him to modernize the federal government into a twenty-first-century workforce. John has a passion for service, and his federal career has taken him to both the North and South Poles, seen him manage more than 40 percent of federal law enforcement—including the Secret Service—and to the Obama administration, where he is responsible for setting employment policies for 1.9 million federal civilian employees. At this time, he currently serves as the highest-ranking openly gay federal official in history.

  THE SHOW MUST GO ON

  by Kyle Dean Massey

  NEW YORK, NY

  I grew up in Arkansas in the ’80s and ’90s and took dance lessons so, as you can imagine, I was endlessly made fun of. But I loved dancing. I loved it so much.

  And I eventually quit.

  By the time I was eleven or twelve, right around puberty, the teasing and bullying just got so bad that I actually gave up dancing. In retrospect I wish that I had had the courage to keep doing it. Don’t ever let anybody talk you out of doing something that you love because it makes you feel different.

  I didn’t start dancing again until I was eighteen years old and on my way to college. It took time for me to realize that being “different” is actually a good thing.

  There were no gay people in my town at all, at least none that I knew about. And I was led to believe that it was subversive or wrong or evil to be gay. There was no outlet. I was made to believe that I was odd and weird and different to the point where it was just debilitating. I was so consumed with being gay then. It was on my mind constantly. I was always thinking, “If I walk this way, or talk this way, or dress this way . . . will people think I’m gay?”

  Today it’s such a nonissue. I never think about it. It hardly ever crosses my mind. Except for when things come up in the news about a gay kid killing himself. And then I can’t help but identify with those people and remember what it was like at that age and how I went through the same things.

  By the time my senior year of high school started, I was done. I asked my parents if I could skip it and go to college instead. I was desperate to get out of there. People always say, “Your high school years are the best years of your life.” Uh-uh. I mean, how depressing is that? Like, it’s all downhill from eighteen? I’m telling you: The best years are yet to come. And while all that bullying takes a toll, and it’s so hard when it’s happening, if you give it time, it will get better. It will. Everything you have endured makes you a much stronger person in the end. And although I ended up not skipping my last year of high school, once I got to college, things quickly changed for the better

  I know there are a lot of people out there who are in their high school drama productions or take dance classes or do other things that boys aren’t supposed to do. And I know there are girls out there who do things that girls aren’t supposed to do. And, let me tell you, keep doing them. Because one day you could end up on Broadway like me; you could be dancing on Broadway.

  Kyle Dean Massey is a Broadway actor best known for his starring roles in Wicked, Next to Normal, Xanadu, and Altar Boyz. He is originally from Arkansas and currently lives with his boyfriend in New York City.

  DEAR UNCLE RONNIE

  by randy roberts potts

  DALLAS, TX

  My uncle, Ronald David Roberts, was born in 1945, the oldest son of the late televangelist, Oral Roberts, my grandfather. My uncle Ronnie, like me, was gay. He wrote in letters, published after his death, that he came out in high school, but only to close friends and family, including his father. His father, Oral Roberts, was the first televangelist, and likely the most famous faith healer since Jesus Christ, with a worldwide audience in the hundreds of millions. He did not want a gay son. Oral’s anti-homosexual rants were so vehement that they can still be found on YouTube, forty years later. In his thirties, six months after getting divorced and coming out, my uncle Ronnie died, on June 10, 1982, by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the heart.

  I’m gay, too. And my mother, like her father, does not want a gay son. My mother made a point to tell me, only a year ago, at my grandfather’s funeral, in front of four thousand people, that hell does exist and I’m going there. My uncle and I were raised in a world dominated by Evangelicals who taught, and still teach, that the fires of hell await all gay men and women. This is the Evangelical “Christian” legacy for gays like my uncle and me: Threats. Bullying. Damnation. Death.

  But for me, and many others, the story doesn’t end here. Five years ago, when I was divorced and came out, I found myself, like my uncle Ronnie, in Oklahoma, in my thirties, and terrified of losing my children because I was gay. I was regularly called a faggot, both by strangers and by my ex-wife, and, like my uncle before me, reached a point of despair. Suicide among gay men and women in Evangelical communities is still prevale
nt. Evangelicals may not be killing gays outright—the police report suggests my uncle killed himself. However, while the Evangelical community might not pull the trigger when one of their gay members commits suicide, they provide the ammunition.

  When I came out, I started writing a letter to my uncle Ronnie, a letter meant for me, for my uncle, and for friends I have who are still closeted—terrified their family will reject them. Five years later, I’m still writing this letter—it’s become a way for me to record this experience.

  It all started for me one summer afternoon when I was twentyseven years old and I stood in my kitchen and said to myself, out loud, that I was gay. It was the most liberating feeling I’ve ever had, and for the next three days I was on top of the world. But then reality came crashing down on me—I was married, with children, and I didn’t know what being gay would mean in terms of my family, my wife, my children. It was a horrible place to be. It took a few more years of being scared to death, and going to two different therapists, before I finally decided that the best thing for everyone involved was for me to get divorced and come out. I had been suicidal for years, and I eventually realized that my children needed a father who wanted to live, who looked forward to tomorrow, and the only way I could be that man was to get divorced and come out.

  That’s when I started writing my letter to my uncle because I felt like he was the only one who would understand. My parents didn’t understand, most of my friends didn’t understand—it was something I didn’t know how to explain, so I started writing.

  Coming out was TERRIFYING. I remember going to gay bars and standing against the wall like a thirteen-year-old kid at a middle school dance. I was awkward and shy and didn’t have a clue how to talk to people. I drank a lot; it would take two or three drinks just to get the courage to step away from the wall and actually talk to people. And the feeling of talking to a guy who seemed to like me was great, and scary, and nerve-wracking, and amazing, all at the same time. I’d spent my whole life aching to find a nice guy who wanted to hold my hand so the first time I went on a date and held a guy’s hand was AMAZING. I’d never felt happier.

  But I was living in Oklahoma at the time, and someone driving by yelled “faggots!” at us. A couple weeks later I was in line at a bar with my boyfriend and two tough guys in front of us said they hoped “no fucking fags” came into their bar tonight. My boyfriend and I were both over six feet tall, so I tapped one of the guys on the shoulder and said, “Hey, you’re looking at two fags right now. What do you want to do about it?”

  I had never been in a fight in my whole life, but I was ready. I wanted a black eye. I wanted everybody to know I was out, that I was a fag, that I was ready to fight for the right to be who I was. The owner, Edna, leaned over the bar and said, “Nobody’s gonna fight about something that stupid in my bar! Free round for the four of you as soon as you hug each other. Do it! Now!” And so we all awkwardly hugged each other and drank tequila together.

  Even a year after coming out, I can’t say things had really gotten better. My ex-wife was still calling me a fag in front of my children, and screaming all the time. So I eventually took her to court for that and other custody violations, spending $50,000 I didn’t have. But it was worth it—she hasn’t called me a faggot since, and my children haven’t heard their mother or new stepfather talk disparagingly of gays in their presence either. My ex-wife and I share our children equally, and the kids are doing great. We get along just fine now.

  And me, I’m doing great. Finally. I’ve had a lot of different boyfriends. I’ve fallen in love a couple times. I’ve felt that wonderful, giddy feeling you get when someone you like likes you back, and the gut-crushing feeling you get when that same someone lets you go. I’m finally not desperate anymore. I’m just me, happy and gay, but not defined by my sexuality. The best thing about coming out has been to watch myself go from someone terrified of being gay, to someone willing to fight for my right to be openly gay, to, finally, just another guy living his life who happens to be gay. That’s the best thing of all. I had to fight hard for it, but it finally happened—the freedom to just be myself, no apologies, no fighting, no drama. The day I thought would never come finally snuck up on me and surprised me. My grandfather was famous for telling people, “Something good is going to happen to you!” And, it’s strange to admit it, but he was right.

  That’s what I’d like to tell my uncle Ronnie today: It really does get better.

  randy roberts potts is the gay grandson of televangelist Oral Roberts. He has worked with juvenile delinquents on the East Coast, was a social worker in Oklahoma City, and spent five years as a middle school English teacher.

  MY OFFICE WALL

  by Trevor Corneil, MD

  VANCOUVER, BC

  Not only does it get better, it can get pretty fabulous. I have a husband named Leyton and a dog named Blakelee. My life is happy and full. I get to play the piano and build Star Wars LEGO with my nephew Cameron. I have another nephew, baby Benjamin. He’s not big enough to build Star Wars LEGO yet. But he will be soon enough. There’s our best friend, Shelley, a teacher and a lesbian (now you know, kids!), and the rest of our urban family. We all go for sushi every Friday night after school or work. So have I always been this happy?

  Absolutely not. Let’s go back to grade seven, junior high, in a place called Calgary, Alberta—redneck central. There were these people—kind of like boogeymen—they were called homosexuals, gays, fags . . . and they did nasty things to nice people. The problem was that deep down inside I had this feeling that I might be one of them. But I was a nice person. None of this made any sense. Jump forward to high school: 2,499 straight people, apparently, and me. Alone. Isolated. Obsessed with the captain of the volleyball team. But to hit on him, that was a death sentence. Slice and dice.

  My solution was to study, study, study, so that I could be a medical doctor. I just wanted to be able to say, when someone called me a fag, “F-you, I’m a doctor.”

  Jump forward to 2010. I am a medical doctor. For many more reasons than—well—that! I went to university for thirteen years learning biology, medical sciences, epidemiology, primary care, and finally, public health. Sure I wobbled in and out of the closet along the way. But I didn’t fall down. I now have five degrees hanging on my office wall. Every once in a while, a colleague or patient will ask why I bother showing them off. If only my “F-you” wall could speak!

  Now I spend my time finding, supporting, and creating access to health care for marginalized populations, including lesbian, gay, and transgender persons. I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of what I do. Sometimes I look back and I’m shocked that I got here. But I did. I worked hard. I built self-esteem. I built an identity. How? A huge desire to survive, and the right people around to support me. Leyton is one of the people I was lucky to find along the way.

  But most important, I just hung in there. If there’s one thing I ask you to do, it’s to hang in there. It will get better.

  Dr. Trevor Corneil is a comfortably out clinical professor at the University of British Columbia, and a medical director for the Vancouver Coastal Health Authority. He sees patients at Three Bridges Community Health Centre, a free public clinic in downtown Vancouver. Dr. Corneil runs a mentor group for queer medical students, where members support each other as they negotiate the “medical closet.”

  KEEP ON LIVIN’

  by JD Samson

  Look up to the sky sky sky

  Take back your own tonight.

  You’ll find more than you see

  It’s time now now get ready.

  So you can taste that sweet sweet cake and

  Feel the warm water in a lake (y’know)

  What about that nice cool breeze and

  Hear the buzzing of the bumble bees

  Just live beyond those neighborhood lives and

  Go past that yard outside,

  Push through their greatest fears and

  live past your memories tears

&
nbsp; You don’t need to scratch inside just please

  Hold onto your pride.

  So don’t let them bring you down and

  Don’t let them push you around cuz

  Those are your arms, that is your heart and

  No no they can’t tear you apart

  They can’t take it away now. Cuz

  This is your time this is your life and

  This is your time this is your life and

  This is your time this is your life and

  This is your time this is your life

  Keep on livin’!

  These are the lyrics to the Le Tigre song Keep on Livin’, written by JD Samson in 2001. Used by permission of the author.

  JD Samson is one-third of the electronic feminist punk band and performance project, Le Tigre. In 2007, MEN begun as the DJ/ Remix team of JD Samson and Johanna Fateman of the band Le Tigre. Eventually, MEN became a live band focusing on the energy of live performance and the radical potential of dance music, with lyrics speaking to issues such as wartime economies, sexual compromise, and demanding liberties. MEN’s debut full-length record will be out February 2011 through IAMSOUND Records. JD Samson has DJ’ed internationally since 2001 throughout many different party scenes and music genres and is currently touring as a solo DJ and live with MEN.