A Matter of Conscience

In matters of conscience, the law of majority has no place. -- Mahatma Gandhi

I am glad I have a conscience. If I didn't, I would be part of the 1% of the population considered psychopathic--someone with no heart, no remorse and no conscience. It is a little scary to think there are that many conscience-less people running around in the world. But anyway...

It is my conscience that compels me to write this. The movement to deny same-sex couples the right to marry weighs heavy on my mind and heart. There is little over a week until the residents of the state of California will vote on Prop 8 and decide whether or not "only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California."

I am worried. I am worried that people cannot see that on some level, this proposition is not about gay marriage at all. It's so much bigger than that. If Prop 8 passes, we will have effectively eliminated the right of a minority group to enjoy a freedom that is enjoyed by the vast majority of the population. And if we can eliminate the rights of one minority, who's to say who's next? But more about that later.

If you know me you know that I am straight. So you might be wondering why a straight girl like me feels so compelled to speak out on this issue. Here's a little context. I was raised in a conservative, mormon family. My parents are both raging republicans. If it weren't for my friends, I am pretty sure they'd never have known an openly gay person. It's not their fault, really. It's just par for their generation and the kind of upbringing they had. But despite their religious and political leanings, they managed to raise three very liberal daughters (much to their chagrin, I think). My dad was raised in a small town in rural Oklahoma. Anadarko, self-titled, "Indian Capital of the Nation," is home to the Bureau of Indian Affairs office. My dad witnessed firsthand some of the injustices and hostility against native Americans. And as a result, he grew up always being a champion of the underdog. He has a huge heart, and it crushed him to see his friends suffer injustices because of the color of their skin. I remember as a girl when I'd walk in on him watching a sports game on TV. In some cases, I knew who he was cheering for (Oklahoma State, The Dallas Cowboys), but sometimes the teams were unrecognizable to me. When I'd ask him what team he wanted to win, he always replied, "we're cheering for the underdogs, Moll".

My mom, on the other hand, was raised with very little racial or religious diversity in Ogden, Utah. I don't know where exactly she came by it, but she always seemed to me more open minded and tolerant than other "mothers" I knew in our mormon ward. When I was 18, she gave me a book to read entitled, Goodbye, I Love You. The book is "the true story of a wife, her homosexual husband, and a love that transcended tragedy. Gerald Pearson had been honest with Carol Lynn about his homosexual past, but both of them had faith that marriage and devotion to their religion would change his orientation. Love would conquer all. Then, after eight years of apparent happiness and the birth of four children, Gerald was no longer able to deny what he considered to be his essential self. Carol Lynn was shattered, her self-esteem all but destroyed. Their divorce, however, could not erase a lifetime of love and mutual support. Carol Lynn courageously stood by her former husband's side. Even when he contracted AIDS - and came home to die."

That book changed me. I read it and re-read it. And as I did, I realized that the struggle with homosexuality was not a choice, as I had remembered hearing somewhere along the way. Rather, it was an intrinsic part of a person's identity. I could feel this man's pain coming through the pages with every word I read. There was no way he would choose that path. My heart was filled with compassion, and it wasn't too many years later that I had a chance to put that compassion into practice.

I'll spare the details, but over the course of the next decade, three dear friends, all of whom had been raised in devout mormon families and served missions for the mormon church, confided in me of their struggle with same-sex attraction. Their stories were not unlike Gerald Pearson's (except, fortunately, they had never married and had children). They were devastated and depressed and feeling isolated from the church that they loved so much. I didn't judge or counsel, I just listened. Their stories were powerful and touching and heartbreaking. And yet, they were telling their truth. This is not the life they had hoped for, but it was the path they had to follow, despite rejection by the church they loved and, in some cases, friends and family members.

Those three brave men changed me in ways I could never have imagined. Years later, I still considered them all among my closest friends. They are beautiful, happy, productive members of our society. And I fight this fight for them and with them. Someday soon I will sit, a huge smile on my face, and watch each of them marry the man they love. I can't wait.