Independence Day

      I met J. in college. He lived on the same dorm floor as I did, and we had a Tuesday morning astronomy class together. It was a casual acquaintance but friendly. He was nice, a bright smile and read science fiction books. He kept to himself, but he was carrying 18 hours of hard courses. He mostly studied all the time, but he was an okay guy.
      One day I opened the college newspaper to see a photo of him as a member of the college gay and lesbian rights organization. Shocked is not too strong a word for my reaction. I grew up in a small Oklahoma town, and we didn't have any open gays. For that matter, we didn't have any Jews, Hispanics, Muslims, Catholics, etc. Of course, I'm sure we had some, but they kept a very low profile. It wasn't a town or a school that was kind to people who were different, and I was different. I liked speech, drama, writing, science fiction and fantasy. Frankly I was lucky to get out of high school alive. I was bullied and called names almost daily. I was called "faggot" a lot. Since I knew I wasn't one, I made up my mind that probably the other guys who were called that weren't ones either. So when people would tell me that someone was gay, I just assumed they were wrong.
      This wasn't exactly an enlightened attitude, but you'd be surprised to find how well it served me. Because I refused to make that judgment as well as others based on gossip, hearsay and rumors, I made a lot of friends. And I was aware that they thought I was "accepting" and "liberal" and "wise." I lapped up that praise, even though I knew I harbored prejudices as strong as other people's. I just buried mine behind a grin and a joke.
      J. made that impossible. I wanted to remain friendly to him, but the other guys on the floor made it obvious that anyone who was seen talking to him would be branded as a homosexual and I couldn't have that. So I carefully avoided him. Made sure that I was late to the astronomy class or early. If he wanted to study for a test, I had other plans. I was very smart, very sly.
      This story doesn't end well. Sometimes stories don't.
      J. didn't change his behavior at the dorm. He didn't try to recruit anyone. He didn't make passes at anyone. He was the same as he had been before, but we couldn't see that. We didn't want to see that. I didn't want to see.
      Some nice Baptists -- guys that were my friends and that I wanted to be my friends -- decided that maybe it would be better if J. moved out of the dorm. Or maybe they simply wanted to mistreat him and gave that reason later. They had all their Bible verses and all their disgust for his sexual preference. So one night while he was gone from his room, they went in it and urinated on his bed, tore up his papers and threw his clothes into the toilet. Then they waited for him to come back.
      My dorm mate and I knew what they were doing. We sat in our room and tried to study. My dormie told me that there was nothing we could do. "He brought it on himself," he said. I felt sick. I felt afraid. I felt ashamed. But this wasn't about me.
      Finally at one in the morning, I couldn't stand not knowing. I went down the hall. His room was open. The student assistant and a couple of guys I didn't know were in the room. They were helping J. clean the mess up. J. was crying as he stripped his bed.
      The S.A. asked me if I knew who did it.
      I told him that I didn't. The lie came out quick and fast and convincing.
      Except J. had stopped and was looking at me, and his tear-filled eyes met mine and he knew the truth. I could see that he did. I could see the pain in his eyes. I could see the betrayal.
      I turned and walked back to my room.
      This story doesn't end well.
      I told myself that I do something, that I'd help J. somehow. I made a lot of bold declarations to myself. Maybe I would have done them if I had got the chance.
      But J. parents drove up the next day. They moved him out.
      The Baptists were pleased. They joked about it. I sat there while they did it. I didn't say a word.
      A year later, when they turned on me for being a different faith, I wasn't surprised. I deserved it. Silence carries its own justice.
      J. didn't return to class. The student assistant told me that he had received a hardship withdrawal. The student assistant, who had been friendly to me before, could barely bear to talk to me.
      I confronted the S.A. He was still friendly to everyone else on the floor. And he had to know some of them participated in this. Why was he still friendly to them?
      "Because I expected better of you," the S.A. told me.
      I didn't have an answer.
      I don't know what happened to J. I tried to find out a few years ago, but I had no results. But the event changed me. Made me ashamed. Made me finally start standing up what I said I believed in.
      And I guess I became a friend to gays and other outcasts. I have people who make judgments about my life because of the people I'm friendly with. I've taken hassle for being friends to gays, Mormons, New Agers, and yes, Baptists. When I think that I should keep my mouth shut, when I think that maybe it's not my fight for the freedom to be, I remember that dorm room twenty years ago. I remember J.'s eyes as I lied.
      Twenty years ago I had justifications. Twenty years ago I was just a kid. Twenty years ago I didn't know anything about life. I didn't trust God. I didn't have faith. I was very young twenty years ago.
      I hope J. has a good life now. I hope he has found friends who are brave and trustworthy and good. I hope he was able to move beyond what happened. Maybe someday he will read this. If he does, I want him to know that I'm sorry. I want him to know that I'm fighting the good fight and I won't stop, won't be silent, won't shut up, won't give up as long as I'm alive, that freedom has to belong to everyone, even those we would cast out because they're different, that Independence Day applies to everyone and we can't exclude anyone. It's only freedom if everyone shares in it.
      I hope somehow he knows that.
      I hope he can forgive me.