BMC Address 2005

By Jim Vaughn
The speech was given at the BMC luncheon on Tuesday, July 5, 2005
in the Sky Rooms at the Prairie Building during
Annual Conference in Peoria, Illinois.

Just so we are all at the same place in this space, I have never spoken in front of a group before. The doors are locked; armed guards are posted outside to prevent your escape. There are no refunds.

Carissa Fralin graciously reminded me to not mumble. Thank you, Carissa. I will try to speak slowly and clearly.

Carol Wise asked me to speak here today, and for some reason (I'm not sure why), I agreed. I tried to think of what words of wit or wisdom, encouragement or enlightenment I could bring to you.

A wise person once said that in order to know where you're going, you have to know where you've been. Where we've been is retained, for the most part, in memory. Some of our memory is at the cellular level - retained in our cells. We don't have to think about how high to raise our feet when we walk up stairs, and we can usually find our mouths with a fork or a spoon. The rest of our memory is scattered through our brains.

We have individual memory, and corporate memory. The Jewish people as a group have more knowledge of the holocaust than I do. The Vietnamese remember more about the war there than I do. As a denomination, we should have some corporate knowledge of our rich Brethren heritage.

Most of us have some experiences that occur in early life that fortunately we cannot recall. My Mother (hi, mom) tells a story about me that I don't remember. I was about 13 months old at the time. We lived in a small village out on the vast Canadian prairie. It was winter time, right around Christmas. Due to the extreme cold, and wind, condensation would freeze on the inside of the windows. Mom asked my older brother where I was - he replied, "Mary is in the bedroom eating ice." Apparently, I was doing my very first drag number as the Virgin Mary - scraping frozen condensation off the inside of the window pane. Not a very Mary like thing to do, but I was too young to know the difference. 43 years would pass before I would find my way to the wig and shoe stores on F Street in Washington DC for some proper drag attire.

At this point, you should be wondering what we were doing in Canada. My father pastored two churches in Irricana, a small village about 40 miles north east of Calgary. I grew up in the church of the Brethren (well, not right in it, we lived in the parsonage). Both Mom and Dad attended Bethany. They had a calling to enter the mission field, and Canada just wasn't enough. We returned to the states where they learned Chinese at Cornell University. About the time they had learned enough to order from a menu, or maybe get directions, the government closed China.

Still feeling led to be missionaries, we proceeded to Costa Rica to the language school - this time it was Spanish. After six months there (Spanish is evidently a bit easier to learn than Chinese), it was on to Buenos Aires, Argentina. We lived there at a troubled time. Evita died a couple years before we got there, and Juan Peron was being ousted by the military Junta while we were there. About two and a half years, and two brothers later, we returned to the US.

After a year or so back in the US, we got settled in Northern Virginia. My parents soon became involved with a relatively new church - the Arlington Church of the Brethren. I remember helping lay floor tile in the newly constructed building. The Church that I grew up in seemed to me to be about peace and justice. As a child and a young teenager, I walked miles (well, it sure seemed like miles) in front of the White House - first for civil rights, and then for peace. My older brother and I spent many Saturdays with the Friends at Quaker House in DC helping with their peace mailings.

I never dreamed that years later I would become marginalized by the church for something I had no control over. My sexual orientation, part of the very core of my being as a human, would be reason enough to keep me (and others like me) from participating fully in the church. I never once thought that the church that taught me about peace and justice would have no justice left for me, or for my gay brothers and sisters. What happened? Where did my church go?

My story is the story of thousands of gay men and lesbians. I knew from a very early age that I was different. I had no name for that difference, no way to express that difference. I knew, even in elementary school, that I liked boys better than girls. The other guys must have somehow known it also - even then I was called a sissy and a queer. By the time I was in high school, although I dated a few women, my primary attraction was to other guys. I managed by then, to act tough enough that I didn't attract too much attention to myself.

When I went to college, I still tried dating women, telling myself that my attraction for men was just a phase - that if I continued to date women, at some point my attraction to men would fade, or be replaced by an attraction to women. I spent a lot time and energy trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I prayed, begged, wheedled, cajoled, and pleaded with God to make me a normal heterosexual. Nothing happened. Nothing helped. I had occasional fleeting thoughts of suicide, but never felt strongly enough to even attempt to act on them. In late June of 1968, the Stonewall riots took place in New York. In the summer of 1968, nothing was happening in my life but confusion. Why had this happened to me? What had I done to deserve this? "The phase" would last another 15 years!

I don't know what it's like for younger men coming out today, but I can tell you that getting to the point where I could accept my sexuality was a long, hard road. Seems as though at least some of today's youth have it a lot easier. I grew up in a heterosexual family, in a primarily heterosexual society, and attended a heterosexual church. I grew up thinking that I would get married, have a wife, two children, and two cars in the garage and be just like everyone else. The inner turmoil that was caused by my "difference" was an extremely disruptive force in my life for a number of years.

Having to repaint that picture of the perfect family - of a wife, two kids, two cars in the garage and a "normal life" was very difficult. I had to grieve the loss of the life I always thought I would lead. I didn't come out until 1983 at the age of 33. What a relief! A great weight was finally lifted from me. Finally, I was free to be my real self.

I clearly remember the late spring day that Scott, a friend from work, and I went to Great Falls, VA, climbed out on the rocks above the Potomac River, and talked. Scott looked at me and said, Jim, repeat after me, "I am gay". I didn't say anything. Scott said, "Jim, you know you're gay, you have to say, "I am gay". Scott knew the healing those words would bring once I said them. I finally managed to get the words out, then looked at Scott and asked, "What do I do now?" I didn't have a clue. What I did know at that very moment was that the years of torment were over. I no longer had that question spinning around in my head like a stuck record - why me, why me, why me?

Scott took me to several gay bars in Washington, DC. Strange to think that a young man with a Brethren background would walk into a gay bar and instantly feel at home. I hate to point out the obvious, but we feel at home where we are accepted, not where we are rejected. There was a level of comfort that I hadn't found any where else.

A couple of months later I attended my first gay pride day with Scott. It was awesome. All the out and proud men and women either in the parade or watching from the sidewalk. Thousands of supportive, cheering people lined the parade route. Scott and I started at the back of the parade and walked through the parade to the front. The PFLAG contingent got the loudest applause. There's something about parents who have the strength, the daring, the boldness to walk down a public street, in a Gay Pride parade, in front of God and everyone, in support of their gay child, that makes you want to cheer.

At that time, pride day in DC was fairly small - sort of a community celebration - it had a small town feel. Most of the vendors were local groups. Late in the afternoon, another friend and I decided to walk around and look at all the booths. When I came upon the Brethren/Mennonite Council booth, you could have literally knocked me over with a feather. I was shocked and amazed!!! It hadn't occurred to me there were other gay Brethren, much less gay Mennonites. I put my name and address on the mailing list, not knowing what to expect.

When I got the mailing about the next board meeting, I decided to go. In the early years of BMC, the board was loosely composed of anyone who showed up at meetings. I remember my first trip to Martin Rock's office where board meetings usually took place. When I got close enough to the room where the meeting was being held to actually hear people talking, I couldn't decide whether to go in, or run away. I finally got up the courage to go in. Some of the guys I met through BMC in the early to mid 80's are still as family to me.

The Brethren Mennonite/Council became an important part of my life. I attended board meetings regularly, and served on the board for several years. After years of minimal growth, BMC finally started to find its stride. A proper board was formed, and our first convention was held in 1986. I'm amazed at what BMC has been able to accomplish in a relatively short time.

Although I had attended Annual Conference from time to time with my parents as a child, I started attending AC regularly in 1984. I've been coming back ever since. In the mid to late 80's, I had some hope for the denomination. Annual Conference sponsored "dialog rooms" for a few years - but that didn't last long. It was at one of the dialog rooms that some woman stuck her head in the door, looked at me and said "you shouldn't be here. You don't belong in the Church of the Brethren, and you don't belong at Annual Conference." She then turned and bolted. I'm sure she thought she was a good Christian. I won't tell you what I thought. After the dialog rooms, we had a couple of "sanctioned" luncheons - and then later we had a five year moratorium on the "homosexual issue".

I had considered leaving the denomination a number of times, but for some reason, never did. Why stick around where you're not wanted? I think the woman who said to me "you don't belong here" strengthened my resolve. I wasn't going anywhere. I would show this nameless woman, and anyone like her that I was going to be at Annual Conference year, after year, after year. As I kept coming back, something happened. I started meeting some really cool people.

I started spending time with people who had no apparent problem with my sexuality. People who welcomed me, who accepted me unconditionally. These people helped restore my wounded soul. The anger I had felt toward the church for turning its back on me slowly faded. Although my anger hasn't totally disappeared, it has dissipated to the point that it's not my reason for being.

Thank you for letting me share part of my story with you today.

Jim Vaughn
Peoria, Illinois
July 5, 2005