I was introduced to Jehovah's Witnesses by my godmother at age 10. She'd started studying the Bible with an Elder's wife and took some of us with her to the Kingdom Hall. I was fully aware spiritually even at that tender age and what I heard from these people was music to my ears, and it gave me a feeling of hope such as I'd never known before. That was in 5th grade, the year I befriended Michael, who would later betray that friendship.
In sixth grade, Michael and I diligently studied the Bible using the Getting the Most out of Your Youth book. One of the chapters of that book dealt with homosexuality and how wrong and immoral such a lifestyle is to God. This was the first big wall I'd run into regarding the feelings growing inside me, and Michael was there to help me win this battle, which was tantamount to a war against me and Satan, good and evil—a war that would rage non-stop for the next 30 years.
About this time, I discovered, thanks to Michael's mother, the 1975 Yearbook of Jehovah's Witnesses which dealt at great length the moral battle the Witnesses waged in Germany against Hitler's regime during WWI. The stand they took of civil disobedience (i.e., refusing to say, "Heil, Hitler" or involve themselves in any capacity with his political engine, though it meant thousands would die in concentration camps alongside Jews, homosexuals and others. The latter were slaughtered for who they were; the Witnesses for what they stood for. (This has been recognized and championed by historians the world over.))
The following year, my friendship with Michael continued unabated. We even shared a locker together, for a short time. For, as our friendship grew stronger, my godmother's new-found intolerance suddenly appeared on the scene.
After she stopped studying the Bible with the Witnesses, she became very opposed to my association with Michael and my desire to become a Witness. On one occassion that has stuck firmly in my mind ever since, she found and threw out my Watchtower books and magazines, including the Yearbook I'd borrowed from Michael's mom—as well as my Bible. At that, I grew thoroughly incensed and that night, I snuck out of the house and across the road to the dumpster and retrieved my books—and began to hate my godmother even more, who'd blasphemously disposed of a holy Bible and Bible-based nourishment. It was then that the lessons I'd learned from that Yearbook began to come into play.
I began to view Ginny as a Hitler-figure, and myself as a martyr, who would resist until his last breath. Ginny made me get my own locker at school: "Do not come home [from school one day] until you have your own locker." She also said once, "You can be a Witness all you want when you turn eighteen, but while you're living under my roof, you will not be a part of that cult. Michael is to you what Jim Jones was to Johannesburg! They're a cult!"
I complied with the locker demand, but my determination to worship my God, Jehovah, would never be quenched and my voice would never be silent! I had my own "concentration camp scenario" and I would die before I complied with her wishes!
I was only twelve, but I'd found a hope, a future and full spiritual life ahead of me and nothing would interfere with my achieving that goal!
However, all the while my sexual orientation was striving to assert itself. I was convinced that my homosexualtiy was a direct result of my childhood—no father figure to speak of and dominant women in control of every aspect of my life, to the point that, to this day the idea of being intimate with a woman is utterly repulsive to me.
For the next twenty years or so I believed this: it wasn't my fault and I was not born this way. That's what I told each of my counselors/shrinks over the years, that I did not want to hear, "Just accept yourself for who you are and give up on this rigid belief structure." That's exactly what the Witnesses said they would say, so I looked upon such advice as demonic propaganda designed to draw me away from Jehovah.
There were many struggles throughout my teen years, but when I turned eighteen I did exactly as I'd promised and moved out. The response I received when I told my godmother only served to strengthen my resolve: "You're just doing this to spite me!" She didn't get it. You see, both of my older brothers had stayed at home until at least the age of 20; I was the first to assert my independence at the earliest possible moment.
Oddly enough, the first place I moved into was a house owned by two gay guys. I'd only had one or two encounters up to then, but this move opened up a lot of new doors—gay-bar doors, to be exact, but that's another story...
That brings us back to 1981, when I would experience homophobic bigotry from the very ones who were supposed to care for my "soul." This will be the subject of Part IV.
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