The Warm Fire of Mama Dragons

A recent Idaho State Journal headline read, “Mama Dragon, Debbie Glenn, to Speak at ISU.” Debbie Glenn has become somewhat of an accidental advocate since learning that her son Tyler is gay. (Tyler is the lead singer of the multi-platinum, Provo-based band, Neon Trees.)  She will be speaking this Thursday, February 16 from 4-6pm in the Wood River Suites of the Student Union Building. 

The term “Mama Dragon” was born out of a 2012 blog by Meg Abhau when she described her feelings after her own 13-year-old son came out as gay: 

“I have always been a mother bear. Once I found out about Jon, that didn’t seem a fierce enough title. There is a whole new level of protection that has come over me. I now call myself a Mama Dragon. I could literally breathe fire if someone hurt my son. Dragons have talons, scales, claws, fangs and they can fly. I will use all of these resources if someone were to hurt Jon. So, we are circling our wagons around him, but I know we can’t protect him from everything. And as a Mama Dragon, that is the hardest part of this. I don’t know what the future holds. I just know that there will be love.”

Mama Dragons formed because they fiercely love their LGBT children.

I remember reading this blog almost five years ago. It was one of the first lengthy and widely shared testimonies on the topic that I had seen from a Mormon mother. Anyone can type opinions from behind the veil of a computer screen or anonymous username, but this woman was using her real name, her son’s real name and she was sharing her faith and love openly and unapologetically.

The Mama Dragons have grown from that blog. They have a website at mamadragons.org, a Board of Directors and satellite groups around the country to connect and strengthen mothers seeking to support their gay and transgender children. The group began with women in the LDS church but now encompasses members of all faiths as well as people without a religious affiliation. I have wondered if my mother would have sought the camaraderie of Mama Dragons if she were alive today. Sadly, I don’t think so.

I’ve written numerous columns about my mom’s love, support, wit and wonderful outlook on life, but upon hearing I was gay, her first comment to her straight-A, high-achieving and good-natured kid was, “I’m disgusted, humiliated and embarrassed.” Those words burned. I was 18 and remember thinking, “Gee, Mom. Good thing you raised me with the confidence to handle your hurt.” 

My own hurt swirled after that, and I can’t explain how my young heart and mind were able to reconcile it with compassion. Mom’s dreams of a handsome son-in-law were destroyed. Stigmas stifled her ability to see a promising future for me. It took years, her terminal illness and imminent death to even broach talking about this part of me. It’s not only today’s kids who are benefitting from the Mama Dragon’s, but yesteryear’s kids are too.  

Debbie Glenn’s upcoming talk has been in the works since last September. Pocatello’s Trinity Episcopal Church has a committee dedicated to LGBT issues and during a meeting last fall, one of the church members brought up the Mama Dragons.  She’s related to Debbie Glenn through marriage and asked if having her come to Pocatello to talk about the Mama Dragons, her experiences with her son and her LDS faith would be a good idea. 

I about jumped out of my chair. “Yes!  Yes, it would be a good idea!  Call the ISU Gender Resource Center and see if we can work on this together.”  Mrs. Glenn’s willingness to publicly share her struggles and personal uncertainties along with her love and support of her son are healing for me. Kids need moms who will do this. Parents of LGBT children need other parents who will do this.

People are complex. “Intersectionality” is a term I’ve encountered lately in news articles and dialogue among friends.  People are not defined by a single chosen or inherent label.  We possess many identities and to fully understand individual experiences, elements of each identity must be examined.  Mrs. Glenn’s intersections as a mother, an LDS woman, and having a son who is gay will likely lead to a testimony about complex human issues she’s faced in the last few years. 

Make-believe dragons seem to possess an innate fire and courage simply because they are dragons, but real-life mamas can have them, too. Fire doesn’t have to burn. Fire can be soothing and warm. Fire can invite conversation and stories. Fire is energy, and I welcome the warm fire of the Mama Dragons this week. 

 

For more information, see www.mamadragons.org

Maddness, Dreams and Accolades: In Memory of John S. Wright

I’m throwing in the white flag and putting my bikes away for 2016. With a self-diagnosis of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), those last few rides are bittersweet. I’ve felt like a teen without a phone charger watching my battery die. One of my last rides was on the Shady Side Greenway trail through the Ross Park disc golf course. There’s a bench along the pavement south of the Veteran’s Memorial that says “In Memory of John S. Wright.” I usually cruise by my friend’s bench, but on this day shortly after the election, I stopped and thought for a bit.

I met John in the spring of 2000 at Bartz Field. He was a tall train conductor in his 50’s who loved to run. We became part of the “Dog Park Pack” after a dozen or so of us kept showing up at the same time in the evening.  We watched our crazy canines chase. We alerted each other when Mutt-mitts were needed, and as time passed we took snacks and drinks to watch the sunset together while our dogs danced. 

One summer night before the ISU softball field was built, an LDS youth group left some ice blocks on the old sledding hill. John had never heard of ice blocking—getting large blocks of ice and riding them down a grassy hill like a sled—but after I explained it, he beamed and yelled, “let’s go!”

John’s grin is as memorable as his long-legged stride. He beat me to the blocks, so I watched from the base.  He giggled with glee as he bounced down the hill barely keeping his balance. The sun was near setting, so the field was a glowing open space for people and dogs to feel free.  

This is my portrait of John before he had a stroke in 2002. Smiling, strong and free to move. 

After his stroke, John lost a lot of mobility on his left side. He could no longer run or even drive, but he could shuffle-walk with a cane.  His short term memory was compromised along with his “filter;” John’s thoughts flew out of his mouth. John and I had similar political and philosophical views, so I got a kick out of his concise and spontaneous post-stroke musings.

Every time I saw John, he complimented me like we hadn’t met for ages. “Billie, I sure like your hair! My, you have a great athletic build. Have you been working out?”  He had seen me play rugby once and held on to that. Whenever the Dog Park Pack got together for a potluck, birthday or game of Apples to Apples, John’s accolades flew as free as he used to run.

 

The last time I saw John, we went to lunch at Buddy’s. As we started the five-block drive back to his house, he blurted “Billie, do you ever dream that you can still run?”  

I experienced an injury that prevented me from running, and John considered this to be something we had in common. I wove through the college neighborhood to extend our talk, and told him I only day dreamed about it. When we got to his house with his good hand on the door handle, he said wistfully, “Man, I dream about it a lot. And it’s so great because I’ll be running so fast and free and then I wake up and I can’t do any of that.”  

I was speechless. What could I say? I simply said, “Wow. That must be maddening.” 

He chuckled. “That’s exactly the word! Maddening!”  He nodded for a minute taking in the new-to-him expression and smiled. “Guess, I’ll just keep hoping that the madness goes away one day. Thanks for lunch Billie, Let’s do it again.”  

I didn’t get to have another lunch with John, but I took comfort that he didn’t experience that madness much longer—or the madness I’ve felt over the past few months.

As I sat on John’s bench a couple weeks ago, I pulled up his 2009 obituary on my phone to refresh my memory.  John was known for “his sweet and adventurous spirit, his generosity and welcoming nature, and his curiosity about the world around him. John loved to engage people in conversations, sometimes perfect strangers, to learn more about their lives and backgrounds. He also had an unusual degree of tolerance for views other than his own, and went out of his way to listen to and respect others' viewpoints.”

John’s ability or tendency to say exactly what was on his mind wasn’t nearly as remarkable as his mind itself.  His mind held joy, kindness and reverence for mankind—as did his dreams and accolades, even in the midst of his madness. Kind minds lead to kind words. Rational minds lead to rational words. We need more minds like John’s right now.  At least, I do.

John was such a character and a delight.

Call it what it is!

Last Wednesday as I was settling into bed for the night, I scrolled through Facebook on my phone. Six books are on my nightstand, but I’m consistently drawn into the worm holes of social media when my brain should be shutting down for the day. The Idaho State Journal shared a link to a news story with the following post:

“A former Blackfoot High School girls’ soccer coach will serve at least one year in prison after she pleaded guilty to having a sexual relationship with an underage player. “  

I’m not numb to the content of the story, but I have to address the journalistic language. “[H]aving a sexual relationship”?  That word choice sure implies consent when the victim isn't of legal age to give it. How about “sexual misconduct"? Or "sexual abuse? Call it what it is!

Perhaps it's because my mother was a child protection worker or perhaps it's because I’ve grown up to be an intelligent and reasonable person who thinks any kind of sexual misconduct like this should be called out for being exactly what it is. Misconduct. Abuse. Rape. Taglines and phrases like "having a sexual relationship" or "the coach and student had an affair" infuriate me almost as much as the offense itself. 

I’m not a survivor of child sexual or physical abuse, but I endured a childhood overwhelmed by it. I was guilted into gratitude in checkout lines when I’d ask for a candy bar and the “no” was couched in a reminder of kids who had it worse. I hunkered down in the backseat of a state car one night when Mom was on call and needed to remove a toddler with second degree burns from his home. He was scalded with hot bath water for having “an accident.” I accompanied Mom on trips to transport siblings from foster homes to visit their biological parents, and I waited in hospital waiting rooms while rape kits were performed on children. I was never tall enough to reach the TV and was stuck watching grown up shows. I was stuck in a grown up show. 

One time while I was in college, I listened as mom beat herself up on the phone when a man who had been in her caseload years before called.  He called from many states away to ask where he could get help because he was starting to see himself engage in the same type of emotional and physical abuse with his own son that his biological father had with him. Through the course of the conversation, he also told her of sexual abuse during his adolescence from his foster and later adoptive father. After his real father had been so terribly physically abusive, the young man was understandably confused about boundaries and what a healthy love looks like, so he never told anyone. He hadn’t intended to share his story of sexual abuse that night, but that’s where their conversation went. Mom could scarcely summon words to help direct him while she replayed her unwitting interactions years ago with the abuser. He seemed like a nice man.

It doesn’t take a PhD in counseling or psychology to hear me talk about my window to child sexual abuse and watching it take its toll on my Mom to ask—do I hold such a disdain for predators and abuse for what they do to kids? Or for what they do to the adults (read: moms) trying to uncover, stop, prosecute, and counsel after the abuse? 

After I saw the ISJ’s posting Wednesday, commented on it, and shared the story on my own feed with commentary mirroring this, I got a message from a childhood friend thanking me for speaking out. My friend disclosed that they experienced sexual abuse as a child from an esteemed authority figure and, after years of silence, has only recently been able to experience healing.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, people like my friend feel victimized all over again.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, we risk becoming desensitized to the seriousness and prevalence of it. In cases like that of the ex-soccer coach, it’s also critical to use accurate language because it highlights that sexual predators aren’t just scary men lurking in dark alleys. They can be coaches, teachers, church leaders, relatives, people running for office… anyone of any gender. 

I’m going to keep asking (demanding) that the Idaho State Journal headlines, taglines and accounts of sexual crimes call them what they are. The first step in stopping sexual violence and abuse is recognizing it. We can’t do that until we call it what it is.

What I Needed to Hear This Week

Last Sunday morning I met a friend at the boarded-up gas station on Bannock Highway. We biked a 43 mile round trip trek to McCammon. The workout took four hours as we visited, stopped for snacks and took in the green hills that cradle our valley in June. I saw headlines about a shooting in Orlando before the ride, but it wasn’t until I was home and reaching for ibuprofen that the monstrous nature of the attack became clear.

I’m getting married to a wonderful woman this September. She’s beautiful and smart and loves everything about me. OK, almost everything.  We took our engagement pictures this week up Cusic Creek amidst the lush wildflowers, and last Sunday morning while I was biking to McCammon oblivious to the desecration in Orlando, the photos started coming in on my phone.

I expected to have the usual engagement questions last Sunday afternoon: How’s my hair? Do I have a double chin? Do you think people can tell I’ve gained 25 pounds in the last six months as I’ve struggled to balance my diet and exercise plan in this prelude to step-parenthood? 

But instead, we asked each other: Do we really want to announce this in the paper? Are you sure we’ll be safe at an outdoor, highly populated, public reception? Does the newspaper always print the names of marriage licenses? Our wedding planning was interrupted with severe and immediate concerns for safety.

I’ve heard people say “It doesn’t matter that the victims were gay”, and in one sense, I appreciate that LGBT people are included in the general classification of humanity and any loss of life is tragic. On the other hand, it matters very much to me that the victims were gay because it highlights why many of us still live in fear.  When any group you belong to is targeted, it takes on a different element of meaning.

As I went back and forth between news stories and engagement pictures last Sunday, I didn’t need to hear that my hair was fine, my chin was singular and the extra weight looks good on me. I needed to hear much, much more. 

I needed to hear Pocatello Mayor Brian Blad speak at the vigil at Caldwell Park acknowledging our humanity, and I needed to hear the local Muslim Iman offer the kind words and prayers that he did.

I received an email from Idaho U.S. Attorney Wendy Olson. I met Ms. Olson at a community conversation at City Hall a few weeks ago. After an hour long conversation on building community trust between residents and the Pocatello Police Department, a sign-in sheet was passed around to gather emails and phone numbers. I didn’t expect her to use my email address for a personal correspondence in which she began “I am reaching out to check in on members and supporters of the LGBTQ community in various parts of Idaho in light of yesterday’s horrific events at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. While any words I have are insufficient to describe the magnitude of the horror in Orlando, please know that the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Idaho stands ready to support all LGBTQ persons in Idaho.” I didn’t realize until after I read those words, but I needed to hear them this week.

I also had an exchange with Pocatello Police Chief Scott Marchand. He asked for ideas and discussed ways to build, maintain and strengthen the Police Department’s relationship with the LGBT community. He also noted plans to have officers at the Pocatello Pride event for both community interaction and to add a touch of security so people can enjoy the event. I needed to hear that this week.

Some of the most poignant words I needed to hear this week came in a speech from a self-proclaimed “balding, youngish, middle-aged, straight, white, male, Republican politician with all of the expectations and privileges that come with those labels.”  Utah LT Gov Spencer Cox choked on a heartfelt apology for his past treatment of LGBT individuals; talked of his anger, sadness and confusion over the attack—words I’ve used to describe my own feelings; and he called for “less politics and more kindness.” Great words for any audience.

I know actions are needed in response to the many facets of the Orlando shooting, but actions begin with thoughts and words, and perhaps my favorite words that spilled out on social media were inspired by a stranger’s viral post.

“I love you. I want you to be alive. I will stand with you.” It doesn’t get more basic or simple than that. I don’t like to blanketly speak for others, but I’ll go ahead and say that LGBT people needed to hear that this week.