I'm feeling kind of melancholy today. And everywhere I turn, I seem to be encountering things that are forcing me to think about how being gay shapes your life in lots of ways regardless of whether you want it to or not.

In today's Times Picayune, there was an article about a Louisiana Senate committee sending a bill to the Senate which would prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. The thing that struck me the most was at the end of the article. One of the deciding votes was cast by Sen. Ken Hollis from Metairie. There was a quote from him in which he spoke about his opinion being shaped by the fact that he had a gay son. He seems to love and accept his son. But...

The article ends with these 3 paragraphs:

***

Hollis said he knew at an early age his oldest son was different from his other two sons. "As he grew older, it became obvious," he said. "I remember the day he called me and said, ‘I want to visit with you, Dad.' We met and he told me he was gay.

"I hugged him and said I loved him. Two of his friends also came out. One was beaten up by his dad; the other got thrown out of the house.

"If he could change, he would," Hollis said of his son. "But I love him just as much."

***

It hurts me that even the people who defend us, even the loving father of a gay son sometimes say things that are so very wrong and so very hurtful.

Was it really necessary for him to end his statement by saying "if he could change, he would"? Does Mr Hollis truly know that his son would choose to be heterosexual given the chance?

The message I get here is that Mr. Hollis views homosexuality as a form of second class existence. That he thinks his son's life would have more value, that he could take more pride in it if his son were heterosexual.

But, he loves him even though he's a homosexual.

I don't really think that's what Mr Hollis intended, but that's what his words could convey. And that hurts me.

From a young age, a lot of us who are gay learn a lot about hurt. I know I did. I learned very early in life about the power that words have. And the pain that follows from the way that power can be wielded against you.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me." That's one of the great lies we're told as children. Words have more power than a fist could every have. One single syllable flung at you can inflict more pain than any fist.

The person I am today is a direct result of a childhood that I largely choose not to remember. What I do remember is an awful lot of hurt. A lot of time spent alone. A lot of words that hurt. And a lot of adults who either chose to ignore what was going on or who were party to it.

I'm sure Mr. Hollis didn't mean to use words that could hurt. But, it seems to me, he did. And I have to wonder what his son thought as he read them.

I do know one thing. Given the choice, I wouldn't change. I like being me. I know I'm a little different from most people. I'm an extremely solitary person. I don't trust people very easily. It's rare for me to truly consider someone to be a friend. And all of this is a result of a childhood which had a lot of hurt in it. And that hurt was a direct result of the fact that I was gay.

But... I would not change, Mr. Hollis. And I truly wonder whether your son would either.