Story #10: Dear Jackie

Colleen Mundy
Dr. Tony Barnstone
ENGL 302
March 17, 2009
Story #10


Dear Jackie,
I know you get a lot of letters like this. Horror stories and what not, right? Stories of loss and death, hate and horrible, life ruining things. Things that take people years to talk about. Things that change relationships and cut strings. Well, I know you get a lot of these kinds of letters. And I know that people all beg you to read them on your show and get their stories heard, but I think my story is a little bit different. See, my story has what other stories don’t. My story, though it may be just as heartbreaking as the next, has hope. My story goes like this.
I am a twin. Or at least I used to be. I don’t know yet if I still consider myself a twin since my twin is dead. Let me explain. In order for you to understand, though, you need to know me and my twin. His name was Gabriel. We were identical twins and when I say identical I mean identical. He liked his hair long, like mine, was a little bit thinner and shorter than the other boys our age, and he was just a tad feminine, so he really did look like me. We had the same mannerisms, the same quirks and facial expressions, and we liked all the same things. But liking boys was the one that led to Gabriel’s death.
Our parents raised us to be ourselves and stay true to our hearts; all that cliché crap that Gabe and I realized was bullshit when he came out of the closet. My brother was my life. Twins have that special kind of bond, you know? So when my father disgraced him and my mother couldn’t look at him for shame, they unknowingly disowned me, too. They were so ashamed of Gabe going against “God’s word” and “what God wanted” that we moved. It doesn’t matter where we came from or where we ended up, it was just the fact that we moved. It was the fact that my parents couldn’t bear their friends’ looks and opinions about their “faggot son.”
So we moved. And my parents lectured and preached and begged and guilt tripped my brother in attempts to “turn him back.” They forced him to see shrinks and preachers, took him to professionals who dealt with “problems” such as his, and practically locked him in church one day. None of it worked. It couldn’t work. But my parents just didn't understand. So they stopped talking to Gabe altogether. They turned me into the mediator to pass the salad at dinner and tell Gabe no, of course he couldn’t go out tonight. They were probably afraid he was going to some gay terrorist group meeting where they were planning to bomb a church or something. But they never noted the fact that every Sunday, Gabe was still sitting next to me in church. He still sang the hymns and said the prayers and he still believed in God, even though my parents proclaimed that He hated Gabe.
I don’t know how he took it all. The church thing was definitely the worst, though. That’s what Gabe and my parents fought the most about. Because my parents knew, for a fact, of course, that God didn't want Gabe to be gay. Other people could be gay, fine, but not Gabe. Not their son. No, God wanted him to stop being difficult, find a nice girl, and move on with his life. And no matter how Gabe tried to make them understand, they still thought it was a choice. Like Gabe woke up one morning and said, “How am I going to piss off my parents today? Oh, I know. I think I’ll be gay.” They couldn’t appreciate the fact that for the first time in a long time, Gabe was happy. That’s all that should have mattered, especially with all the crap they fed us growing up about follow your heart. I guess what they really meant was follow your heart as long as it follows the Bible. Because of course the Bible clearly states that it is a sin for one Gabriel Michael Henderson to be, gasp, gay.
I’m hoping that Gabe’s suicide makes the statement on the world that it failed to make on my parents. That’s why I want you to read my letter on the air. I want people to recognize what their hate is doing to the world and to the people who live in it. I want them to realize the power of their hate and how wide the ripples of it go. You would think that finding Gabriel hung up on the cross in the church would have told my parents something. But they just thought he was weak. Like he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, change so there was nothing left for him to do. What struck me the most was that they never cried. Between the two of them, they never shed a tear. I thought that the rosary dangling from Gabe’s hand when they found him would have done something. Hit some dead nerve in them and wake them up. After all, Gabe was still their son. But the rosary did nothing. They never cried. Not even at the funeral. I’m almost surprised they even had one.
But more than realizing what hate can do, I want people to realize what love can do. And I want people that are still in the closet, or suffering from just coming out, to know that there is hope. There is always hope. The day after we found Gabriel, I found his letter to me in my dresser drawer and that’s what he said. He said he was sorry for leaving me, but he had to. He had to leave for more than just him. He had to leave for my parents. Because one day they will realize what they lost and one day they will miss him. He had to leave to make a statement to the world, which is what I’m trying to help him do. He had to leave because no one should have to live with that kind of hate in their own home. But he told me not worry about him because he’s with God now, talking about how to help people see the bigger picture. He told me never to lose hope.
My parents go on with life almost as if Gabe never existed. They still ask me to pass the salad at dinner and we sit in the same order at church, like nothing had happened. But I know Gabriel was right. One day they will realize what they’ve done. One day they will realize that their son is gone. But until then I’m still here. And after everything that happened with Gabriel, I think you will understand when I tell you that I’m afraid to tell my parents that Gabe and I had more in common than they thought. That it wasn’t Gabe who needed to find a nice girl. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents what I never even got to tell Gabe. I think you understand now why I’m afraid to tell my parents that I’m gay, too.

Marissa Renee Henderson
R.I.P. Gabriel