“Mom, please don’t be angry.” I can honestly say I was completely stunned and blindsided by my son’s confession that he was homosexual. Ok, not completely blindsided, but it’s one of those situations that you don’t think can happen to you. It happened to that one guy at work or your neighbor across the street. “I’m not angry,” I told him, “Just give me a second to process this.” He did, and I hated that I couldn’t get my head around it fast enough. My son just stared at me in horror and shame.

I grew up in a Christian home, and I had raised my children with the Church. My family also comes from a quite conservative southern background, so my mind was fighting a lot of knee-jerk reactions. I’ve never harbored any hatred or judgment towards gay people, but that was mostly because it never personally affected me. Dealing with homosexuality and the LGBTQA+ community was always an external issue. Until now, I guess. My son is still staring at me, looking at me like I’m a bomb about to go off.

“Mom, do you see me differently?” I nodded, “Yes.” I remember that he looked miserable when I said that, but it wasn’t what he thought, and I told him so. “I see you differently now not because I’m ashamed or furious with you, but I’m honestly wondering how I didn’t notice and if I have ever said or done something that would have been hurtful to you.” He blinked, “Mom, I’m not gay because you did something wrong.” “No,” I clarified, “I mean to say I’m the one who gave birth to you, fed you, raised you, and will love you more than anyone ever could. How could I, your mother, not know something so significant?”

He didn’t respond to that, so I continued, “I guess I may have wondered about your roommate that you’ve lived with for about a year now, but I honestly thought you were just good friends.” He smirked, “Yeah, it’s a little more than that.” I couldn’t help it, I laughed, “You know we love Brandon, too, right?” He nodded, but continued to remain mute.

I leaned forward and took his hand, “I’m your mother. There is nothing on this world that will ever make me stop loving you with my entire soul. As far as you coming out, I’m just in shock. I’m not angry or disappointed. Why would I be upset about who you are? Yeah, we come from a Christian background, but Jesus says we are to love one another. You’re still as much his beloved son as you are mine.” I let that hang there a moment, and I felt the tension in the room begin to lift. “It took a lot of courage to come out to me, and I want you to know that I’m even more proud of you.”

He pulled his chair close and hugged me just like he used to do when he was little. Yeah, my son will face a lot of hardship, a lot of which will come from his extended family and even his Church family, and instead of worrying about some woman breaking his heart, I’ll be worrying about how he managed to live with his boyfriend for over a year, and I never noticed, because I’m apparently a moron!

I see my son differently not because he didn’t turn out like I expected, but because I now have someone very close to me who will be judged and affected by a lot of the anger towards the LGBTQA+ community. He will lose friends, family, and will most likely be treated like an outsider because of his sexual orientation, and it pains me that I won’t be able to protect him from any of it. When someone makes a joke about homosexuality, now I will be taking it more personally. When I hear stories about parents cutting ties with their gay children, my soul will weep and empathize with their children. I will now be taking a firmer and compassionate stand for the LGBTQA+ community, and it’s all because my son came out to me.

Also, when he came out to his father, my husband insisted he always knew. I asked why he never would have told me, and he insisted that it was because he was cleverer and more observant, letting my poor brain figure it out for myself. I told him where he could shove his clever brain. My teenage daughter is thrilled and has been talking about boys for the last hour with him.

So, to my friends, family, church, and coworkers, my son is gay, and I love him more than ever and couldn’t be more proud of him. You can try to berate and be hateful towards him, but just know that he has an entire community of people who love and support him. And before any of you try to bring religion into this, “Let he who has not sinned throw the first stone.” The Church may be divided about homosexuality, but I firmly believe that God blessed me with MY son, and I will not condemn him or call him a mistake. God has decreed that my son is gay, and I will continue to be a spiritual role model to him and teach him about Jesus’s love. I’m not God, so I will not claim to know how he thinks, but my son is a precious gift, and I will not spend a moment doubting God’s design.

If you are a member of the LGBTQA+ community reading this, I’m sorry for how religion has hurt you. Not just Christians, but every person claiming to know love and forgiveness, but treating you with hate and contempt. And if you have been ousted by your family, I’m so so sorry, and you have my deepest love and sympathy. As a mother, I will say that those people are out of your life for a reason, and you’re better off without them. Sometimes God has a better family for you than the one you’re born into. You are loved. You are important. God loves you more than life itself, and He made you just the way you are.

Lastly, I’m sorry and please forgive me for my apathy and preconcieved notions of the LGBTQA+ community. I’m sorry for being one of those judgemental and immature people who thought I had you figured out. You are precious and a human being just like me. Please forgive this stupid woman, and I hope every happiness and blessing on your life. God bless and know that you are loved.

I don’t understand it a lot of the time. One minute I’m fine and the next I’m just, not. It steals my motivation, my drive, my passion. It takes me away from my family and friends. Isolates me from everyone and everything. It drags my life through the mud and ruins anything good and right. All for what? What is benefiting from my misery? What did I do to warrant this? I just want it to stop. The only way I know how to describe it is that it hurts to exist. It hurts to live my own life. I feel like I’m not living anymore, like I’m just going through the motions of my everyday life, as a shell of my former self. So, if I haven’t been acting like myself lately, it’s because I’m not. I’m sorry.

To who it may concern,

On May 27th, 1989, I was born in Tennessee to my 15-year-old mom who was raped by a guy twice her age. I was placed in the system for adoption, because my mom's parents refused to let their daughter keep me. My mom's name is Sara, and she died in 2005 in a car wreck on the way to a friend's house. That's all I know about her. Her parents pretended that they didn't know who I was when I went to see them back in 2015. I'm pretty sure I have siblings, but i don't know who or where they are.

I spent my childhood hopping from one foster home to another across the tri-state area and spending a year in an orphanage so I could finish my High School diploma when my foster parents moved. Plenty of people cared for me, teaching me how to behave, how to count, how to read, how to tie my shoes, and everything they could so I would have a relatively normal life. When I was 5, a family came to visit me several times and got my hopes up that I would be adopted. They ended up adopting a girl who was a few years younger than me. It hurt, but everybody would rather adopt a baby. Less baggage, I suppose. I broke a mirror that night. My foster parents sent me back to the social worker.

School was okay, but I hated to participate in sports and clubs. Everyone was always having their moms and dads picking them up while I had to wait for the city bus. Parents day was the worst. I did participate in the Christmas play in middle school, and my foster parents told me how proud they were of my performance, but a part of me was still angry at the other kids who had their real families there. I don't think I participated in anything else after that.

In high school, I was an asshole, just like every other teenager. I disobeyed my fosters, went out with random people every night, and I'd usually come home smelling like cigarettes and still buzzed. Foster homes traded me like a baseball card , no one wanting to take on the responsibility of a "troubled" teenager. Ha! I could care less about smoking, drinking, or the people I hung out with doing God knows what, I just wanted to show everyone how little I cared and that no one had control of me anymore. I was free. I was just another stupid teenager who thought he had the world figured out.

I landed in a foster home with a single mom. I didn't care. I knew she would be calling the social worker in a week. I actually made it a game to see how quickly I would be transferred. I came home late, I yelled at her, I skipped class constantly, I smoked, I drank, I broke stuff, and I even set a fire in the backyard, and she never called the social worker. I started to get mad at her, because I knew she was playing at something. She had to be one of those freaks who enjoys punishment, and I knew I had to get away from her. I ran away and stayed at a friends house. Well, someone she knew must have seen me, because she showed up at the doorstep a few days later.

I remember the car ride home specifically, because not a single word was said. I yelled and cussed at her, trying to get some kind of reaction out of her, but she just sat there and took it. When we got back to the house, she told me to go up to my room, but I was headed that way anyway. I slammed the door behind me hard enough to crack it and locked it, turning my music up as high as it would go.

She gave me a couple hours to cool off, because she came and knocked on my door. I ignored and she went away eventually. She came back again, and knocked, saying she had food for me. I yelled at her to go away, but she stayed at the door. Giving up, I threw open the door, grabbed the food, and laid back down on my bed, ignoring her with all my might.

She came in and moved a pile of laundry on a chair and asked me, "Do you want to stay here?" I told her through a mouth of food, "No, but it doesn't matter. You call the social worker, yet." She shook her head no. That jarred me pretty hard, but I didn't let it show, "How come? You a sick freak who collects kids." She actually laughed a little, "No. I just really want you to stay. But if you want to leave, I'll respect your decision." I glowered at her. I knew it was a trick, so I didn't respond. Then she told me something I would always remember, "You're a person, Darren. I'm not going to give up just because you're angry at me. I was really worried when you left, and I missed a few days of work to find you." I scoffed, "So?" "So," she said firmly, "I'm not going to call the social worker. We're going to work this out together if you would like to stay. I'm not giving up on you." "Everyone else does," I was angry when my voice cracked.

She stood up and walked out the door, "Let's wait until the morning, and tell me then what you'd like to do." I stayed up all night that night. I didn't really think about anything in particular, but I was just trying to figure out if she was serious or not. The next morning, I walked downstairs to see her drinking coffee at the table. I walked up to her and could hardly talk above a whisper as she looked up at me, "I'd like to stay." She smiled big and patted the seat next to her as she poured me a mug of coffee, "I'm glad, Darren." And we sat like that for a long time, just two people sipping coffee.

I got busted for running away, losing all my game consoles, had to be home by 5 o'clock every day, and she personally checked every bit of homework I had. I fought with her and tried to shake her resolve, even trying to sneak out again, but she caught me, earning me an hour long lecture about personal responsibility. I tried to be angry like I used to be, but I actually kind of enjoyed being in trouble. Since I was stuggling so much in English, she helped me find a tutor. I hated this until I found out the tutor turned out to be this super cute girl from the year before me. I slowly stopped spending time with the people I used to run around with, except for a few who I still talk to ocassionally. I spent more time at home with my foster mom, and I found out eventually that she was single because her ex-husband used to beat her. This made me way angrier than it was supposed to for some reason.

My tutor, Lilly, and I started dating in the summer, and I met her family. It was kind of awkward at first, but I found out later that Lilly had been nice enough to tell them I was a foster, so the topic of family never came up. It was actually kind of nice to have dinner with them.

Like I said, I spent a year in an orphanage to finish up High School. My foster mom hated this so much, but the state board said that unless she had a permanent residence in the state, she wasn't able to have me live with her. The year went by very fast, though. Through the week, I would hang out with Lily and study for graduation. Then on the weekends, my foster mom would rent a hotel near the orphanage and spend the entire weekend with me. Every Friday after school, she was there in her ugly white SUV to pick me up. I graduated in 2008, and as I walked across the stage for my diploma, I heard Lilly's parents and my foster mom screaming for me like lunatics. It was humiliating and the best thing in the entire world to have them cheering for me.

Lilly went to school to become an English teacher for high schoolers, and I still haven't figured out what I want to do with my life, yet. I really like math and computers, but I don't really want to work in an office for the rest of my life. I might try to start my own business, but I'm not quite there, yet. A year ago, Lilly and I had our first baby, a little girl we named after my foster mom, Kaitlyn. My foster mom has fought relentlessly to adopt me to be her legal son, but it's a bit harder for adults for some reason. It's in the process, though!

So, that's my story. My biological mother was raped, I spent the majority of my life hopping from one house to another, cycled through eight different schools, and never felt like I had any purpose or place in the world until I was a full grown adult. I have a family, though, and even though I didn't grow up in a "normal" family, born of two people who loved each other, were married, or even consesually had sex, I'm still a person! I'm a human being just like all of you, and it's a beautiful thing that an individual can walk through the firey pits of hell in a shit hole life, but come out stronger and capable of living a whole and happy life.

People will always judge you for being different to them, but that doesn't devalue you as a person or make you somehow "less" than someone else. So, the next time you come across someone who says they are a child of rape, you'll know better than to cringe, bak away, or treat them any different than any other human being. We're people, damnit! And I love my life, warts and all.

Sincerely,

Darren White "Soon to be Arlen"

I want to die knowing I made a difference in the universe, however small. The entire world doesn’t have to know my name for me to be satisfied, I just want to know that I did something worthwhile that someone somewhere will appreciate even when I’m long gone. Everyone has a part in this world, a role they were born to play, and I want to die knowing that I fulfilled my purpose, that I contributed my two cents to world history, so that things can be better even if I’m not around to see it.

I’m on and off. I should be on, but I have off, but I’m putting in an effort. full force. Spending hours Putting time. each day, multiple hours. I want to learn something. I need to start. I really want to start asking for help. I have a hard time asking for help. I always felt like I can’t. I don’t have the right. But I think the problem is I have the same problem. Should I drop or should I keep going? Should I break? Sometimes I feel. Other times I don’t. I need… I need… I need... more. I need… family... friends...help. They're not gonna judge me? They just want to help me? Especially, me. My little brother- all the things he does- brings me joy. I moved away, I miss him. But moving...one step closer... improving who I am. Who I wanna be. My little brother- see that I am trying- see I am trying for you and myself.

This piece was inspired by a video my brother posted. Feel free to comment and critique him: https://youtu.be/BOxDTrWnKdU i am sure he'd enjoy the feedback. He's got an artist soul just like the rest of us. I just hope he can nurture it.

Your lost in a smoky room

You can’t see and no one can reach you

Voices are heard asking if you’re okay

You hear yourself say “I’m okay”

Asking if you want to go out

“Maybe next time” you say

The longing on your face because you want to scream Help!

But your trapped

You see yourself cry and you cry too

Because no one can help you

It’s a horrible dream you can’t wake up from

Then you see yourself talking to someone

You are crying but the smoke starts to clear

Weeks go by and a family member hugs you

You feel the warmth of the hug

And hug them tighter

Every day you take a pill to keep the fog away

A gentle smile grace your lips

Cause you have found your way through the fog

In my covers I play dead

Morbid scenarios in my head

Crippling depression weighs on me

What gets me up... I have to pee

Good question.

I don’t know.

My body runs on automatic.

Go through the motions if only to make everyone think I’m okay.

Okay.

What defines okay?

For me okay means I get up in the morning.

For my mom and dad it means I don’t feel bad.

Or I don’t cut.

But I have a different definition.

If I’m okay, I will get out of bed in the morning.

I never lie when I say I’m okay

I just bend the truth.

What gets me up when I know I only face pain?

What gets me up when I can’t?

Nothing,

Except for my automatic programming.

I have never liked to cry in front of people, I hated showing weakness..

When I was younger that didn't seem to be a problem at all.

When you are happy you don't have to worry about other's seeing you cry.

Because you don't cry. Now, this is a struggle for me.

So far, I seem happy, I look like I have everything figured out.

When I am the opposite, I am broken, torn, and dead inside.

But I still don't cry though, I keep my mask up, hiding any true feelings.

I wear a smile while I am frowning inside, hiding all the pain from them.

They think that they know me so well, I am clearly open like a book.

They couldn't be more wrong, they haven't even read the first page of me.

Because behind closed doors, in my bedroom, the bathroom, whenever I am alone.

My weaknesses come out to play and there I am with tears streaming down my face.

I lose the mask and look in the mirror, wondering how I got to this point.

From an adorable, pure, happy child to a hideous, scarred, depressed teenager.