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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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1994-03-25
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<text id=93TT2028>
<title>
July 19, 1993: Coming Out in the Country
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
July 19, 1993 Whose Little Girl Is This?
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
SOCIETY, Page 35
Coming Out in the Country
</hdr>
<body>
<p>Visibility remains perilous for gays and lesbians in rural America
</p>
<p>By KEVIN FEDARKO--With reporting by Adam Biegel/Atlanta, Dan Cray/Los Angeles, Julie
R. Grace/Chicago, and Erik Meers/New York
</p>
<p> The Rev. Lois Van Leer lives in a secluded region of Oregon.
"We have three acres outside the city," she says of the home
she shares with her partner Karune Neustadt near the small college
town of Corvallis. But people know her--and know how to find
her. Ever since the youth minister of Corvallis' First Congregational
Church came out as a lesbian and an advocate for homosexual
rights, she has regularly received death threats. "We're very
visible, and the police chief said these death threats were
some of the ugliest things she's ever heard in her life. When
people talk about coming after you with baseball bats and putting
you in your grave, it's very frightening." Neighbors have also
spread rumors that she and her partner are witches. A Fundamentalist
Christian living nearby has accused the couple of performing
animal sacrifices on his lawn. But Van Leer is adamant about
being "out" in the countryside. "You just have to decide that
if you don't speak out now, it'll only get worse."
</p>
<p> Gay life has always been seen as a phenomenon of the big city,
a place where homosexual men and women can gather and find safety
in numbers. But civil rights activism has led many to reveal
their existence in the countryside, hoping to change the minds
of their neighbors and bring the movement home. That also involves
tremendous risks. Says Rod Harrington, a gay farmer in northwest
Missouri: "The idea in rural America is that gays and lesbians
exist--we just don't want to know about them." And while the
grass-roots strategy may win friends and influence neighbors,
it can also bring about taunts, threats and injury--if not
worse.
</p>
<p> "I've thought about leaving," says Donna Taylor, a lesbian who
lives in Talent, Oregon. And she has had good reason to want
to. More than 20 years ago, before she came out, she was raped
by an acquaintance "who knew enough about me to know I was a
lesbian. The man said he was going to teach me how to act like
a woman if it killed me." Taylor is still subjected to rude
remarks on street corners. Tomatoes have been mashed inside
her mailbox. Her partner's daughter has been harassed. But Taylor
will not change her life--nor will she leave. "All of my family
lives in the area. I feel I have the right to live in my own
hometown. But I also realize there's a danger in that."
</p>
<p> Prominence does not mean protection. In Melbourne, Iowa, a town
of some 700, part-time mayor Bill Crews announced that he was
homosexual and took part in April's gay civil rights march in
Washington, D.C. Declared Crews: "I am marching to put a face
on gay America." When he got home, he discovered that somebody
had thrown a fire extinguisher through his family-room window
and spray-painted his house with graffiti: MELBOURNE HATES GAYS.
NO FAGGOTS. QUEERS AREN'T WELCOME, GET OUT. Says Crews: "Our
effort is to be strong and persevere so our message can get
through. The most important thing a gay person can do is come
out--and it is tough."
</p>
<p> Yet local activism, even solo advocacy, has paid off in the
face of adversity. Three years ago, John Broussard, a former
Air Force medic, stunned the tiny Louisiana farming town of
Welsh when he announced on local TV that he was gay and had
AIDS. After the broadcast, his home was pelted with rocks. Local
doctors refused to treat him. Baptist neighbors crowed that
he was going to hell, and his parents, he says, "went through
more rejection by friends in one year than they ever had in
their entire lives."
</p>
<p> Then Broussard began dropping into every store in town to socialize--even when clerks gave him a cold shoulder. He also addressed
the local junior high on AIDS. Slowly the town changed. Students
started cutting class to hear him speak, and parents appeared
in the back of the lecture hall to listen. When Broussard's
health deteriorated, a physician in nearby Jennings, John Sabatier,
confessed that he knew virtually nothing about AIDS but promised
to learn as much as he could as fast as he could. Seventh- and
eighth-graders sent letters saying they would never tell a dirty
gay joke because they now had a friend who was gay. People who
once avoided Broussard by crossing the street began asking how
he was doing and if he needed anything. "They began to see that
I was a person with a disease," Broussard says. "I wasn't some
three-headed thing."
</p>
<p> When a local college student recently inquired why he came out
in the way he did, Broussard paused for a moment. It was a question
he had never been asked. "I figured somebody had to be the bush
hog and clear the path for people who follow," he eventually
replied. "I've had a job to do in whatever way I could do it--to educate people."
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>