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I didn’t realize the real reason for the party was for Bea to find a way to invite Ken and me over the next day to launch my conversion therapy.
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I just didn’t know how to separate the parts I needed from the parts I didn’t.ĭays before moving in with my first boyfriend, Ken, friends of my parents threw a dinner party to celebrate our new life together, and Bea attended. The thing was, I truly needed and wanted therapy. Years later, I discovered each was undergoing conversion therapy, and I was there like a freak in a sideshow, modeling the “before” they were each trying to leave behind while she helped them achieve their heteronormative “after.” Once, she invited me over to meet a boy and girl my age under the guise of a casual social gathering. It totally escaped me that behind her funny stories, she was studying me like a lab rat. She was also one of the most fascinating, funny and entertaining people I’d ever encountered, a bubbly confection of Charo and Dr. Bea was a therapist, and even more so than my parents, deeply religious. I met Bea the summer before my senior year of college. My parents met Ecuadorian expats Bea and her husband Carlos while flirting with learning Spanish, hoping to become missionaries somewhere. Enter Bea, the architect of my conversion therapy. Sham counselors and therapists in private practice can be just as dangerous. Most people hear “conversion therapy” and think of organizations like Exodus International. I chose a national stage to exit my closet, never to reenter it. I’d already come out officially, attending the first-ever National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights at 19 one of the proudest, most transformative events of my life. Our already-dysfunctional family was both broken and broken open by her death. She was 24 and I was 21, just finishing my junior year of college. My adult conversion therapy was triggered when my sister Nikki died unexpectedly following an epileptic seizure. I renounced the Straight White Male Patriarchy even before I knew those words. It was also a perfect introduction to the cruelty and bullying to come in school and in real life every time our community is trotted out to be demonized (for example, by Ron DeSantis and his “ Don’t Say Gay bill ,” etc.).
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What it really made me was full of anger, afraid of straights and fiercely distrustful of authority figures and organized religion.
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As my father hetero-splained, the discipline there would “cut the apron strings,” i.e., make me not gay. The childhood campaign to make me a Real Boy included forced work as a dairy farm hand when I was 6, military summer camp at 10, and spending sixth grade exiled to Nazareth Hall Catholic Military school. It was cold comfort, but at Ieast I finally knew there were others out there like me, even if we could never be happy. I learned the label for what I was when I snuck into my father’s bathroom to read the 1969 bestseller “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex: But Were Afraid to Ask.” I devoured every lurid detail about these so-called “homosexuals” and the tragic, furtive lives they were doomed to lead. I was a bright-eyed, precocious, singing, dancing dervish with no interest in sports, Hot Wheels or toy guns. My well-intentioned parents, homophobic before that word even hit Indiana, didn’t know what to do with me.