The Scarecrow Planted in My Heart Optimism and Faith and the Murder of Matthew Shepard -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Matthew Shepard was born in the bicentennial year of our independence. His murderers beat him, tortured him, bashed in his skull, and crucified him--lashing him to a split-rail fence in the near-freezing night of Wyoming--the Equality State. When morning came the people who discovered him were horrified to learn the scarecrow they found was barely recognizable as a human being. The men who discarded him hadn't recognized him as human either, before stripping him of his inalienable rights. Intolerance and hate crimes are festering sores on American society. Some will blame the victims, however. This lie that disfigures innocence and hope and leaves them tied up and left for dead on the side of the road. This lie, often profanely attributed to the Almighty, is repeated until violence is legitimized in some quarters. Matthew Shepard couldn't possibly defend himself against two larger men, their vehicle, and their assault weapon. At 5-foot-2 and 105 pounds, the core American ideal of playing fair and picking on someone your own size gave way to Might Makes Right. Matthew might have exercised poor judgment in ever getting near these two brutes, but the consequence of a bad decision or being deceived is not death--a consequence many governments reject. Murder is one of the top ten proscribed crimes in the Bible, and illegal in all 50 states. So why do the murderers of gay men and lesbians so often walk away little or no jail time? Why are these stolen lives so deeply discounted in this society, and why does straight America allow it? Why is there no national law against hate crimes? Matthew Shepard's blood cries out from the ground and asks you what the outcome of our poor judgement will be, if we do not do something lasting and meaningful beyond the successful prosecution of these two men? What are you going to do now? What are you going to do when your children, your students, your future young neighbors and friends, the people who will care for you in your old age, ask you, "What did YOU do?" There is no need to wait for that far-off day. One diagnosis of part of the problem is the solipsistic nature of America, our parochial worry about acquisition. As we buy that next upgrade do we wonder about the emptiness that will fill the Shepards' house tonight and every night hereafter? What is it that will propel you outside your front door, and into the far greater realm of social justice? What are you going to tell your children about gay people and homophobia? Will you even bring it up, or wait until they ask? Is that boy that just learned how to walk, or the girl just born last week and sucking at your breast, gay already? Are you prepared to encourage it? Are you still prepared to be protective with your entire being now? In the Summer of 1977, Matthew was eight months old, I was in camp. It had been a place I enjoyed it until that year, when my being different posed a threat and the taunts began. On visiting day, a former friend of many summers announced to me that evening, "I told my parents there was a kid in my bunk who's queer and I asked what I should do and they said, `Oh, don't talk to him.' " I had never even met them; that's the last thing I remember him saying to me. What threat did I pose at thirteen years old? How did I become the scarecrow? Little did I know then that I'd be endangered further, that one day literally loving my fellow man would make me a potential murder victim, everyday, here and abroad. That bitter initiation 21 years ago was not sufficient preparation for the full range of irrational, unthinking intolerance I would face for making love more than an abstraction. Graduating to the working world, coming out to my co-workers was inevitable, but I still have to endure a lot of insensitivity. I'm accused of "having no sense of humor." Having to hear jokes about "four gay guys at the funeral parlor picking up their lovers' ashes" is simply not funny. Having to put myself on the line while my superiors do nothing to speak out intensifies the completeness of isolation. The insensitivity from people who say they support you leads to a reluctance of coming out to new people we meet. God has placed us in your lives in a very real way, not an objectified one. We do not need to be seen with a distanced mixture of pity, fear, and even loathing. We are made in God's image, but we all look different. So what does God look like then, the face in the mirror or the one across the street? Perhaps the best way to praise God is to start praising each other a lot more. It is time to do more. Letter writing campaigns and demonstrations are great, but the strongest weapon in your arsenal is your mouth. Perhaps it means saying "stop" when the crude fag jokes at work are heard, and making a big fat "gay" deal about it. Join just one social justice organization, if only for a year. Voting this year and every year is also vital. Ask any black South African and she'll tell you just how lucky you are. Even that horribly backward country, once liberated, put gay rights into its constitution. A century of apartheid taught them something about caring for The Other. Years from now shall you have lived life as a witness or as a participant? Act on the desire that things should be different. Make *yourself* different. The death of Matthew Shepard has brought this to the fore. The ferocity of the attack upon him is mitigated only by the global outpouring it has elicited. The Information Age cries for interactivity and action, not the passive sadness that characterizes these tragic events. Here is what you must ask yourself: Am I a member of a community and a society, or is my life limited to these four walls, the things in it, and the route of my daily life? As for me, I am an optimist, the way Matthew Shepard was when he decided to go to the University of Wyoming, and when he decided to stick it out despite previous incidents. I am also an optimist the way Anne Frank was, waiting for a better day while up in her attic hiding place during the world's very darkest hour. I am an optimist like my grandfather's cousin, who was forced to burn the bodies in ovens at Auschwitz, but who later testified against and saw the punishment of one of his monstrous torturers. I am an optimist like the people of Sarajevo in 1992, who held a beauty pageant, despite every single thing in their lives crumbling around them. I am an optimist like Nelson Mandela, who sat in that cell for years, and who became President of that brave nation which actively seeks to reconcile the victims and the perpetrators. I am an optimist like that student in Tiananmen Square, facing the tank, convinced it won't hurt him. I am an optimist in a world where some are able to weep for others while others hate them for this special gift. Finally, you must ask yourselves why all the optimists have been crying this week. Will you comfort and join them? Will they become your scarecrows? You must have an answer for these questions? We are *all* in trouble if you don't, because we're pounding on the doors of your hearts, and your silence will no longer do. --17 October 1998 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright (c) 1998, Seth J. Bookey, New York, NY 10021, sethbook@panix.com