In the First Person - April 2006

APRIL 26, 2006

A CAMPUS ECHO PUBLICATION

FEATURE WRITING

six real-life stories from the lives of nccu students Mom, dad, let’s talk

BY ARIEL GERMAIN ECHO STAFF REPORTER

Just taking pics

BY CARLA AARON-LOPEZ ECHO PRODUCTION MANAGER

knew I was different when I was in high school, but I was afraid to speak my feelings and thoughts for fear of social rejection. So I suppressed them.

I stayed with Bradley Horne for four and half long years. My mom loved him dearly and my relationship with him equaled freedom to do whatever I wanted to do and to go where I wanted to go. But during the intimate moments I shared with Bradley, my thoughts wandered. Why weren’t these moments fulfilling? Where did I really want to be? Who did I really want to be with?

As I headed to N. C. Central University, excitement filled my veins. I was going to school 12 hours from home. I was going to be a student-athlete and I was free to be me — or to discover who “me” was. Bradley and I were still officially a couple, but the feelings I had in high school were beginning to overwhelm me.

And then it happened. I met the one person who understood my desires and was willing to hold my hand through my fears.

She told me it was okay. She told me that the only way to be completely happy and true to myself was to let my feelings become reality. I was nervous — I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But I knew there was no turning back after I agreed to go home with her after leaving North Carolina A&T’s homecoming festivities.

The next morning I felt like Celie to Shug Avery the morning Shug kissed her for the first time in The Color Purple. As Celie put it, “Shug was honey and I was like a bumblebee.” From that day on, my life changed and I was a new person, discovering what I was looking for.

But I was not complete. I was still hiding my thoughts, feelings and fears from my best friend, my mom. I knew she was the one I needed to talk to if I was to feel complete and comfortable. So one day after practice in November 2002, my freshman year at NCCU, I called her.

“Hey mom, I really need to talk to you about something,” I opened timidly.

“What’s up, sweet pea?” she asked. (Sweet pea had been my nickname since I bought her her first bottle of sweet pea body spray from Bath & Body Works.

The nickname has made me smile ever since.)

“Mom I’m gay.”

Silence.

“Hello? Mom?” “Yes sweet pea, I’m here,” she said. “Are you sure this is not some phase you’re going through? How do you know you are gay?”

“I am sure and it’s not a phase, mom. It has been in me for a long time, I just never said anything.”

“Well, you are still my daughter and I love you,” she said. “I just want you to be happy. I love you.”

But my “coming out” has not been that easy when it comes to the rest of my family. One of my aunts constantly tries to hook

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his whole photography thing was an accident.

I just wanted to get a boy out of my mind. I wanted him gone and I needed something new to do with my life besides think and dream about him.

All this was in September 2003, when I was diagnosed with kidney stones. He helped me get through it because he’s a nice boy. Nothing like Midwestern black boys raised in North Carolina — wonderful manners, dirty minds and m o u t h s .

I guess you could say he was the one who helped me get interested in photography. I wanted a camera because he had one. We took turns with his — a Sony Mini-DV hand-held. It filmed little movies and took photo stills. It even took pictures at night or in the dark – pictures that came out in strange neon greens and midnight blacks.

One weekend in October, I told him I liked him. He turned me down flat. I was crushed.

Seriously crushed. We were two art juniors and both of us eccentric but he turned me down for another high yellow girl from out of state.

His rejection burned me deep inside. It drove me insane. I figured, I’ll do something he’s doing and get better at it.

Photography.

What he didn’t know was that I had just been diagnosed with clinical depression and my emotions were beyond haywire. I took it out on him some, but I took it out more on the cameras I began to borrow from my department.

By the middle of November, I had embarked on something new. I hated myself and my body image. But I had that little camera from the art department. I borrowed it for one weekend and it felt like magic.

I could take pictures of myself.

Hell, it was easy with the Sony camera. All I had to do was turn the video window around to face me. Click. Picture taken. Erase, if I didn’t like it.

When that weekend ended, I was so proud I showed my teacher, Ms. Chicquor. Well, she isn’t an easy critic, but the first thing she told me was, “The photos are absolutely aesthetically pleasing.” Got damn it. I was on to something.

Homecoming came and I changed cameras, from the Sony to an Echo found at the office of the Campus Echo. I didn’t have money for any of the events hosted on campus and I needed a way to continue to keep my mind off the “boy.” I was still thinking about him, even though he had turned me down flat cold.

Now the real history begins.

A Campus Echo photographer, Mike Feimster, gave me a quick tutorial on using a Canon EOS 10D camera.

“Here’s the aperture setting.

Don’t f—- with it. Just take the pictures. I’ve set the camera for you,” Feimster said.

He was a pretty brown boy

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Stories written by students in Feature Writing for Magazines and Newspapers, taught by Dr. Lisa Carl

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Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, MARCH 8, 2006

THE DAY MY GRANDPARENTS DIED Shinese Anderson adjusts to a life without her beloved grandparents

BY SHINESE ANDERSON CONTRIBUTING WRITER

eath affects on people in ways that cannot easily be understood. I take death hard but I always find a way to change that pain around.

The phone startled me awake at 7:30 a.m. on April 22, 2001. Something about my mother’s voice on the phone gave me a clue that something wasn’t right.

When I ran into my mother’s room, I saw the tears in her eyes.

“Mom, what’s the matter?”

“Your grandparents have been in a car accident. But don’t worry because we don’t know the full details,” she reassured me.

But I knew something was wrong. I finished getting dressed for school, trying with all my might not to think about the accident or about my grandparents.

But the thought of them and their beautiful lives kept running through my mind. I also was trying not to cry and to be strong.

Less than five minutes went by before the phone rang again. This time the call ended with a terrifying scream.

When I ran in, my mother was on the floor. She cried out, “No, no—she’s gone and she’s not coming back.”

Seeing my mother on the floor crying was enough to send my heart into overdrive. In all my 14 years I had never seen my mother the way she was at that moment.

I fell beside her, my knees locked, my throat

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clinched. I saw only blackness and pain.

After getting ourselves together, we packed our clothes and drove four hours from Washington, DC to North Carolina, the longest ride ever. The whole ride, all I could think about was my grandmother. She was my best friend and my heart.

I thought of the summers I’d spent with her.

The funeral was the hardest thing to endure because it was a double funeral. I could hardly breathe throughout the ceremony; I felt like a piece of my heart had been cut out of my body.

The stories of her childhood, the laughs and jokes that she told stuck with me and made our bond even stronger.

Once, she nursed my behind back together after one of the yard dogs got impatient with my teasing, chased me and bit my butt.

She thought it was hilarious. I did not; but later we laughed together about it.

When we arrived, I was in for another shock: my Aunt Josephine, the youngest of ten children, told us my grandfather had died also. Walking into their house was hard.

When I saw my grandfather’s favorite chair, I felt I could not go on any longer.

All my memories of my grandfather came alive.

I did not have too many memories of him – my grandfather was a quiet man. His quietness did not stop him from taking care of his family or from his favorite pastime, hunting.

He got the highest respect from his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren: one look from granddaddy and you knew what you were doing was wrong and you needed to stop immediately.

Although Aunt Josephine had announced that my grandfather had died, he was actually alive and on a breathing machine -- but the doctors said he was a vegetable.

The family’s decision to pull the plug was unanimous; everyone knew that even if he did pull through, he would not last long without grandma.

They were inseparable, married for more than 50 years.

Their union continues even today — they died and were buried together.

Throughout the week, as we made funeral arrangements, our family realized how much my grandparents had been loved and appreciated around town.

People came with food, money and many gifts.

The funeral was the hardest thing to endure because it was a double funeral. I could hardly breathe throughout the ceremony; I felt like a piece of my heart had been cut out of my body.

Because of the impact of the crash, my grandfather had a veil over his face. We could not touch him because his head was so

swollen.

When I saw my grandmother lying in the coffin, I could not control myself or hold myself up. My mother had to be strong for me; she had to talk me through it and let me know that was not as bad as it seemed. I could hardly breathe. My body was weak and I could not control my emotions.

Even though I had a hard time dealing with my grandparents’ deaths, now I realize that they are in a better place, a place where they can rejoice and be glad all day, every day.

My grandmother does not have to wake up every morning with body aches.

She does not have to go to dialysis twice a week. She does not have to endure suffering and hardship anymore. Now my grandfather can hunt all he wants.

I have found a way to find the good in their deaths It sounds weird, but there is always a bright side to death.

As I recovered from the trauma of my grandparents’ deaths, I made a promise to them both. I promised that I would be a success in life; that I would make something of my life and not be a bum on the street. I promised that I would always make them proud.

I have not broken my promise yet and I do not think I ever will.

One’s perspective on death can always be changed. Think about the pain and suffering that the dead person would endure had they stayed on earth, and the happiness that they will encounter in heaven.

Heaven will always be better.

Shinese Anderson promised herself, after her grandparents died, that she would honor their memory by making something out of her life.

CARLA AARON-LOPEZ/Echo Production Manager

FIGHTING FOR AIR At six Arika Jones found out she had asthma and has been living with it ever since

BY ARIKA C. JONES CONTRIBUTING WRITER

magine waking up and not being able to breathe. Imagine that you’re a small child, alone in her room, panicking, unable to call out. This, for me, is asthma.

Doctors describe asthma as a chronic lung disease in which air passages tighten.

Symptoms of asthma, which often arises from allergies, include labored breathing, chest constriction and coughing.

I was five years old when my first asthma attack occurred, but I wasn’t diagnosed until I was six. When the doctor told me I had it, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “I don’t have want to have asthma and I’m not going to have it!”

The doctor, unfazed, said, “Baby, you will be fine because I have all these medications here just for you.” Seeing the smile on my mother’s face, I felt relieved.

Still, I ended up spending many of my childhood summer days inside — my mom was afraid that engaging in “horseplay” would cause an asthma attack. Finally my grandmother told my mother, “You must let that child play,” and she agreed.

My second encounter with asthma occurred the following winter. Again I woke up not being able to breathe. I jumped right out of bed and ran into my mother’s room. The next thing I remember I was being rushed to the emergency room. I thought I was going to die.

At the hospital, the doctor plugged me into a breathing machine, and after five minutes and five deep breaths I felt better.

Asthma medications,

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such as inhalers filled with Albuterol, and devices such as breathing machines, are so readily available these days that people think this common breathing disorder is under control. In reality, medications do help — but many people suffering from asthma attacks aren’t able to pull out their inhalers in time, causing a potentially fatal emergency.

Asthma is especially hard on children. In 1996, the prevalence among

American children was more than 6 percent, according to a study by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. One-third of children grow out of asthma by age eighteen.

The mortality rate for asthma has increased over the last several decades, particularly for African Americans. In 1998, the mortality rate for blacks, ages 534, was about 17 percent, up from 7.5 percent in 1979; for whites ages 5-34, the mortal-

ity rate was about 4 percent in 1998, up from 1 percent in 1980.

Edward Jones, 65, pastor of Reaching the World for Christ Ministries in Goldsboro, NC, said, “Asthma has always been a problem in my life. I had asthma growing up. I grew out of it, and got it again when I was 65.”

Jones, who is my grandfather, believes that I inherited the disease from his side of the family. Nevertheless,

he didn’t let his condition get him down.

“I had a good childhood and did not let asthma get the best of me,” he said. Jones’ adult relapse into asthma occurred after having surgery. Allergies and dust mites can also cause relapses. Jones said he now carries his inhaler with him everywhere.

Wanda Jackson, 45, a hairdresser in Goldsboro, said, “Now that my daughter has asthma, I wish more

I ended up spending many of my childhood summer days inside — my mom was afraid that engaging in “horseplay” would cause an asthma attack.

When Arika Chemelle Jones has an asthma attack her inhaler is a lifesaver.

CARLA AARON-LOPEZ/Echo Production Manager

people would take the disease seriously.”

Jackson said she never had asthma but her father had it growing up and she believes her daughter inherited the disease from him. Jackson said, “I hate seeing my daughter playing with her friends and she is not able to keep up with them because she has asthma.

“As soon as I found out my daughter had asthma I ran out and purchased any medications I could find,” Jackson said. She hopes her 16-year-old daughter will outgrow the disease.

“When my daughter has an asthma attack, I will beat it down with a stick,” she said.

Amanda Strickland, 24, an at-home mom in Goldsboro whose three children are asthma-free, said asthma is an overlooked disease. “I am glad that none of my children has asthma,” she said. “I guess that was a blessing from God.” Strickland knows a woman who died of asthma last year, and that, other than asthma, the woman had no other health problems. One night the woman had an asthma attack while driving her car and she could not find her inhaler.

Strickland said people with asthma never know when they are going to have an attack—and that is the scary part. She believes that if the mortality rate for asthma keeps rising, one day someone may find a cure.

I have been dealing with asthma on and off for years.

I am controlling my asthma by visiting the doctor when the seasons change and whenever I have an asthma attack.

Asthma is a disease that is not taken seriously enough. Until we find a cure, asthmatics, be safe.

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Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26, 2006

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BLESSED WITH BREASTS? Chronic back pain forced one student into the operating room

BY ANGELA HAILE CONTRIBUTING WRITER

s women, we are gifted with many things: the ability to bear children, to carry purses and to flaunt our curves. However, last summer, when I underwent breast-reduction surgery, one of my gifts was altered.

Therefore, I learned to live without — sort of.

Big breasts run on my father’s side. My mother never understood why I had “those huge things.” I began wearing a training bra at age seven; by 13 I was wearing a 40D. Nine years later, they had ballooned to a 44DD. When you’ve lived with large breasts your whole life, you are slow to realize that they are causing problems.

So, when I kept getting migraines, or when my back hurt after doing housework, or when none of my blouses fit right, I didn’t imagine that the problem stemmed from over-large breasts. Some Advil, a few back massages and extra-large blouses should do the trick, I thought.

But they didn’t.

So, after talking to my doctor and a couple of friends who had had the surgery, I agreed to see a plastic surgeon.

I met with Dr. Rhett C. High of Raleigh Plastic Surgery Center and talked to him about my concerns.

He assured me that he was one of the best and that I was a prime candidate. Since I was only 22, he said, my body would bounce back quickly after surgery and I would look and feel better than before.

Unfortunately, his office staff told me that while my insurance company was very liberal, since I had not been to the chiropractor with back problems or to the doctor on a regular basis, getting approval for the surgery would probably be harder.

“Most insurance companies don’t spend money on people who rarely go to the doctor,” the finance clerk told me. “Your insurance company would rather spend thousands of dollars once for someone who costs them thousands of dollars a month than for someone who costs them nothing at all.”

To my surprise, in April Dr. High’s office finally called me back

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A year ago, Angela Haile’s health insurance paid for her $9,500 breast reduction.

CARLA AARON-LOPEZ/Echo Production Manager

When I kept getting migraines, or when my back hurt after doing housework, or when none of my blouses fit right, I didn’t imagine that the problem stemmed from over-large breasts.

and told me I had been approved.

My insurance would pay for the entire $9,500 surgery! I was excited about it, but nervous about going under the knife and sad about losing a part of me, all at the same time.

I scheduled my surgery for June so that I would be out of school (I was a rising senior at N.C. Central University) and would have to take

only a week off from work to recover.

June 14, 2005, the morning of my surgery, I woke up at 7 and prepared for my big day. I wore sweat pants and a button-up shirt since I wouldn’t be able to lift my arms after surgery. I checked into Rex Hospital in Raleigh at 10 a.m. My mom went with me while I changed into a gown and got an IV inserted

and blood work done.

Then the anesthesiologist came and gave me a shot to knock me out.

By the time I was wheeled to the operating table I was out cold. The last thing I remember is being put on a tiny table in a bright white room with lots of friendly people in pale blue scrubs looking down at me.

When I woke up in the recovery

room I was in pain. The nurse had already given me a dose of Percocet. She asked me what level my pain was at, five being the highest. I said three. “You said your pain was at three thirty minutes ago,” she said.

The nurse then gave me more Percocet and some saltines. That may sound like nothing, but trying to eat crackers after being out for six hours with a tube down your throat is not easy. They tasted like ashes and with no saliva to wash them down I had to depend on Diet Coke.

The pain was bad, but not unbearable. I was given a surgical bra to keep the gauze and bandages in place. The day after surgery, I had to change the bloody gauze. The next day I took a shower and let the water run over my breasts. It didn’t hurt, but the sight of the stitches around my nipples, under my breasts and down the middle of them really grossed me out. After a couple of weeks, though, I got used to it.

I returned to work after a week and had follow-up visits with my doctor every two weeks. After six weeks they took out my stitches, and while this didn’t hurt, having stitches removed from my nipples was uncomfortable. After nine weeks, the rest of my sutures were removed and I was good to go.

My breast-reduction surgery was free and virtually painless. Today, except for a little discomfort from the scar tissue and a few minor scars, I’m fine. The best part is, I haven’t had one migraine, my back problems have gone away and all of my old blouses fit. Plus, I can buy pretty bras in a 36D! Do I have any regrets? Not one.

My scars make me feel alive and give my body character and a uniqueness that I didn’t possess before. I can wear medium-sized shirts and coats and can even get away with showing a little cleavage without looking trashy.

My breasts are perky and stand up on their own and I can actually run on my treadmill without having them bounce up and down painfully. I feel more feminine and, ironically, more complete.

I guess with everything comes give and take. Having a part of my gift taken gave me a bit more selfconfidence — which is not a bad trade.

MUSIC: MY LOVE, MY LIFE Music eases Lance Downs’ coming of age

BY LANCE

DOWNS

CONTRIBUTING WRITER

am music. Music is me. What do I mean when I say this? I mean that music lives within and through me.

I inhabit a wide range of melodies. I escape through my headphones, which vibrate my eardrums to become the soundtrack of my days.

Music is the core of everything I do. I walk, write, dance, draw, eat, sleep and think to music. I probably was conceived to an accompaniment of sound.

I can remember back to when I would carry around a cassette/radio player, listening to Michael Jackson, whose 1995 album “HiStory: Past, Present, and Future” was my very first musical purchase.

That began my love for dancing; I taught myself moves in front of my mother’s bathroom mirror.

As time progressed, so did my technology and the kinds of music I listened to.

In the sixth grade, I saved my allowance for four months just to buy a portable CD player.

With this investment came a transition in what I listened to.

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Lance Downs says his appreciation of music spans all genres from hip hop to Maroon 5.

CARLA AARON-LOPEZ/Echo Production Manager

My new tastes required something more intense and thought-provoking, which changed my musical

I inhabit a wide range of melodies. I escape through my headphones, which vibrate my eardrums to become the soundtrack of my days.

selection from pop R&B to rap/hip hop. I listened to such artists as Tupac Shakur, Outkast, and Nas. Nowadays, I don’t limit myself to rap and R&B. I have opened my mind to a plethora of music, ranging from soul to rock/alternative to jazz to reggae — even to some techno/club music.

Always changing with the times, I traded in my once-beloved CD player for my new favorite, an Ipod, which no one ever sees me without.

It’s literally attached to my hip — the hip of my jeans, that is.

The variety of music I love describes my individuality. I’m a non-conformer. I never been a person to fall in line with what everyone else was doing. Someone could easily get a sense of that by viewing my playlist.

For example: What young African American male at an HBCU do you know who would blast ColdPlay, Prince, Maroon 5 and Mos Def in his dorm with pride, for everyone to hear?

Not many other than me — and those are not even the most “unusual” bands I play.

Music is the art around which my entire existence revolves.

I honestly don’t see what I would do without it in my life. To me, music is like a best friend. It has been there with me through times of joy and times of heartache and confusion.

My methods of obtaining my means of existence have changed; as I see it, those methods have grown and matured as I have.

Music provokes the way I move, the way I feel, and at times the way I think.

To me, music is more than just some beats set to a melody with wordplay.

It is my admiration, my love, my life.

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AARON-LOPEZ CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 from Harlem, New York and he gave me his camera. I still use that camera. It’s all mine on borrowed time.

I clicked away at homecoming but my photos weren’t that great. Bad cropping, horrible colors, blurred, messy bodies. That camera was too much for me. Something inside my head, besides the Zoloft I was on, told me I needed to learn more.

Come December, I took that big body camera on a test drive into a new set of photographs of myself in Rush Hall dormitory. I took time to collect as many emotions as possible in one weekend, in order to better understand myself. I had studied Pablo Picasso’s blue period, when every painting was a spectrum of blues, projecting the depression Picasso was going through at the time.

I put everything into those pictures that weekend.

I dug out make-up I hadn’t worn in months. I wore hats I had left trashed in the bottom of my closet. I wore different personas to disguise how truly unhappy I was with myself.

My smiles covered my frowns. The expensive, longunworn make-up covered up bags of endless sleepless nights. All night and all day, I clicked and clicked away, changing the lens and the set-up of my dorm room “studio.” This experience created something new inside me.

I felt a tinge of happiness that wanted to grow.

It took me a while to get it together personally and on a camera. The pictures I took that weekend were just the beginning. Since they were digital photographs, I edited them in a program called Adobe Photoshop. I had my first exhibit, called “Hotel Room Shadow,” in the art department in February

2004. Tinted in heavy blues, the photos showed ten different people but just one me — a chameleon. A selfportrait during a dark period, shadowed like walls in mysterious hotel rooms.

Learning how to use that large-ass Canon gave me enough strength to get over that damn boy and forget that I was depressed about anything at all. Hell, I had too

Learning how to use that large-ass Canon gave me enough strength to get over that damn boy and forget that I was depressed about anything at all. Hell, I had too much creating to do.

much creating to do. I studied more about the inner workings of the camera so I could do camera tricks without having to digitally alter the photos: slow down the shutter speed. Open up the aperture setting. Use a 35mm lens to incorporate a background. Use a flash to turn nasty beige dorm walls pristine white.

I’m not an expert yet, but I’m well on my way. I can control my medium much better now than I could three years ago. I’m a rock star in my photographs now, living out my dreams as another girl. My personas reflect my personality. The depressed artist.

The drugged-out rock star. The sex symbol. The hood rat from Inglewood, California.

My friends began to catch on after a while. They wanted to be different people, too. Sheena, the cheer-

leader, became a Victoria’s Secret model. The writer, Antonio, became a quiet movie star. The photographer, Aaron Daye, became a sex-crazed husband to Tia, a lonely wife.

However, recently I’ve embarked on a new journey.

The real me. The Carla people see every day: confused, lonely, silly and dark. I still get depressed from time to time. And the boy? Well, he’s forgotten and forgiven.

We’re better friends now since there is distance between us — we hang out once every North Carolina blue moon.

All the things I’ve learned about life I’ve learned through photography. I’ve learned how to concentrate better on my homework because I had to concentrate while taking photographs in extreme situations — a Bon Vivant Fashion show or homecoming concert. I’ve learned focus because I’ve had to to pay attention to my camera settings, in order to achieve better photos. All of this is just the tip of the iceberg. I don’t just take pictures of myself. I take candid shots of my friends. I experiment with small digital cameras and specialty cameras ordered through websites like Lomography.com.

My world has been created and modified to the sound of a shutter opening and closing. I barely blink my eyes for fear of missing a great shot.

Once I was a painter who saw everything in brushstrokes. Now the world looks much clearer in photo stills of the beautiful brown people I see every day. Even m y s e l f .

No more depression. No more unfocused dreams. An accident helped me find myself and a better place in this life. A place to finally grow.

After depression and disappointment, Aaron Lopez turned to the camera to explore her feelings.

CARLA AARON-LOPEZ/Echo Production Manager

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Ariel Germain’s mother took her announcement in stride, but her aunt still tries to set her up with her old boyfriend.

me up with my ex-boyfriend or with young guys from her job. When I try to talk about my girlfriend of almost two years, she changes the subject.

Apparently, this reaction is not unusual. I’ve heard horror stories from gay and lesbian friends who decided to be open with their families about their sexuality. Many of those cases ended in tragedy.

Many parents told their children their homosexuality was nothing more than a phase, or that they needed to go to church and get the devil washed out of their bodies.

Very few parents took their child for who he or she was and continued to love him or her, as my mom has.

Curious to hear the “coming out” stories of my fellow Eagles, I began with History freshman Lydia Coplin.

Coplin has been openly gay since high school, when she lived in Charlotte with her grandmother.

“I remember when rumors got to my grandmother that I was gay,” said Coplin. “I was so scared that I just told her the kids at school just didn’t like me.

“I went through high school saying that my girlfriends were study partners,” she said.

“I even rigged my door so if she came in the room I could hear and not get caught making out.”

Coplin described many of the lies she told her grandmother and how each one hurt her heart. She even brought a boy home when her grandmother asked her about having a boyfriend.

“But the lies ended my senior year when I was accepted to North Carolina Central University and my grandmother said I could go,” she said. “I told her the truth the night before I was to leave for school.”

Coplin’s grandmother was

less than supportive, to say the least.

“I didn’t raise no lady loving pervert! What kind of demonic heifer are you?”

Coplin’s grandmother asked.

“You will go to that school but I don’t know how you will get there. Goodnight.”

Recalling that night,

Many parents told their children their homosexuality was nothing more than a phase, or that they needed to go to church and get the devil washed out of their bodies.

Coplin said, “I cried for hours and hours. I called my girlfriend and her mother took me to school the next day.”

Nowadays, she said, “I talk to my grandmother but she doesn’t allow me in her home so I stay with my girlfriend’s family.”

I cried after speaking to Coplin. I never knew family could be so cruel.

Slightly reluctant to interview others, I talked with undecided junior Andrew Harris from Atlanta.

Asked how long he has been gay, Harris said, “all my life, honey, and proud of it!

“Girl, I didn’t have to come out to my parents — it was just so visible,” he said, “but I did anyway for clarification.

His sister and mother responded with understanding and love. “They said they knew something was up when I wanted to be a cheerleader,” said Harris, giggling.

Harris told me about shopping with his sister and

her friends and how his sister always had his back when someone called him names.

But the fairy tale ended once his father was involved.

“My dad is one of those manly men. He fishes, hunts and all that manly stuff,” said Harris. “So when I told him, he didn’t speak to me for a good week and a half.”

Finally, Harris’ dad called him into the living room.

“He asked me why and how I could do this to him,” Harris recalled. “He even asked me if I was molested or raped by another boy, like in the movies.

“I told him that I was happy and that no one had sexually assaulted me and that I would appreciate for him to just take me as I am.”

Harris’ relationship with his father has improved somewhat since then.

“My father has never accepted me for who I am, but he has gotten better,” said Harris. “[Now] he talks to me like an adult and is very proud of my grades.”

Outside of ridicule and scorn from one’s family, many people who come out are denied membership in national organizations such as sororities and fraternities.

Undecided sophomore Monique Peterson described her fear of holding her girlfriend’s hand in public because her sorority would not accept her as a lesbian.

Is this true? I cannot believe that women of such history, pride and community devotion would turn down a worthy candidate because of her sexual orientation.

Coming to terms with who I am has been a struggle.

Writing and publishing this article has placed a cloud over my head that I hope will recede.

But I hope this article will strengthen awareness in the organization I have recently joined.