Essere una persona LGBT+ in Wyoming dopo la crocifissione di Matthew Shepard

Ness Cleary's testimony published on the siteBelieve Out Loud(United States), freely translated by the volunteers of the Gionata Project

We human beings are always looking for our history, often comparing it with that of others. This is my story.

I speak for myself, not for all LGBT people. I live in the wide open space of Wyoming, in a small town called Lander. I am the youngest and only girl of three children. As a child, my parents always protected me from anything they deemed a threat to my soul. Yet I remember the events of October 7, 1998, when Matthew Shepard he was killed and left hanging from a fence.

I was nine years old then and I didn't understand the whole story, I was too young, but I remember the sadness I felt for him and his family. Everyone seemed to know that young man's name, but instead of simply calling him "Matthew Shepard," they always called him "the gay Matthew Shepard".

And if that wasn't enough, they added: "the gay guy hanging on the fence." Even at the time, I had no idea what any of this really meant. I just remember not liking how they labeled him without really knowing his story. Although many people had positive memories of him, it was the fact that he was gay and that he had died “crucified” on a fence that dominated the conversation.

Growing up, I became very good friends with Matthew Shepard's cousin.

We spent a lot of time sitting together on the bus that took us to school. I talked with her about the things that usually interest children: playing, drawing, school. One day I asked her about her cousin. I saw his eyes fill with tears and his words tremble. I don't remember much about that conversation, but I remember that his reaction struck me deeply: he loved his cousin so much and missed him terribly.

Around that time, my cousin was also forced to come out. My family didn't know how to react and the result was some very unpleasant words. Even then I couldn't understand why everyone was so upset. “Why can't two people just love each other?” I remember asking once. They told me it was a shame.

As children we were taught that love is love and hate is hate. So why is it wrong to love someone, but okay to hate someone for their sexual orientation? This is a question I've had with me for years.

As time went on, that question became increasingly difficult to understand.

I would hear about crimes, like police officers stealing drugs from evidence vaults for personal use, and it would always be covered up, while pointing fingers at LGBT people, portraying them as immoral. Around that time I started to feel “confused” sexually. I began to question my sexual identity and what it would mean for my life.

Fast forward to two summers ago, when I met the most amazing woman I had ever met. Her name is Stephanie, and she was the one who motivated me to come out. When I told my family I was a lesbian, chaos erupted. They told me it was just a phase and that I would soon realize I was wrong. I lost many friends, some of whom I had known since kindergarten, who started badmouthing me around town using terrible, hateful words.

Around that time, Stephanie and I began a relationship that our mothers asked us to keep secret. Since we were both close to our mothers, we respected their wishes: only close friends and family knew that we were not simply roommates. Stephanie and I know well why our mothers made this request.

The fear of ending up like Matthew Shepard is a risk that all of us who live in a homosexual relationship among the heterosexuals of little Wyoming run.

Wyoming is the closest place to the Old West that still exists in the United States. People still have guns by their beds, dogs at their doors, and sturdy dressers. They do not tolerate being deceived, betrayed or manipulated. Sometimes they don't find out the whole truth until they have already acted out of revenge.

So, for my girlfriend and I, keeping our relationship a secret is often the best option. Yet, knowing we have to keep our love locked inside is a burning wound. It's like I have one foot out of the closet, but the rest of me stays in. I live somewhere between being true to myself and lying to society. I fight against this reality every day.

The friends who have remained close to me do not half understand this lifestyle. They think I should shout my love from the highest roof. But what they don't understand is the hatred that comes with it: the nasty looks, the biting comments, the discrimination. When I explain it to them, they always ask me why I don't leave. But my answer is always the same: “This is my house. I won't abandon my home."

My concern is that my family lives in fear for my life. I don't want my mother to have to live in fear of receiving a call telling her I've been hurt or in danger. Being a lesbian and living in Wyoming has been the toughest challenge of my life. Some family members have paved the way for love for me, making my journey a little easier, but it's still a difficult battle.

Even though my friends want to help make Wyoming a more welcoming place for LGBT+ people, I ask them not to put me in danger by talking about my love life.

I don't think this situation will ever change in my lifetime, but I hope and pray that there will be no more separation in love for future generations. My town, Lander, held its first Pride Picnic this summer. I was terrified and excited to participate, over 250 people came, more than I could have ever imagined. It was my first Pride event, and I was happy to experience it in my city. Knowing that a place that once chased away LGBT+ now supports them, and that was incredible.

The path to freedom has never been easy, but now I see it as possible.

The road is becoming clearer and more passable. Many of us in the LGBT community feel like home to Wyoming, and we don't want to leave. Slowly, but surely, we are coming ever closer to conquering the freedom of love.

And it all started thanks to an incredible man: Matthew Shepard.

Original text: Being Gay In A Post-Matthew Shepard Wyoming