I was a few years older than him and had just moved back to my hometown of Denver, Colorado, following 5 years in New Mexico. It sounded like the kind of thing that happened in Albuquerque on a weekly basis. The culture there- at the time at least- was very dangerous for LGBTQ folks, especially if you were Latinx and Catholic, or white and Protestant, or anything outside the straight, macho norm, really. Having grown up in Denver, which is an unofficial LGBTQ refugee center for kids and adults from the South, the Midwest, Utah, Wyoming, and the East Coast - anywhere intolerance reigns- the attitudes in NM kind of shook me. I myself identify as straight, but my best friends have always been outcasts, and more than once I've had to knock some bully's teeth out in their defense. I assumed that all Westerners had this open-minded, live and let live attitude, especially about sexuality, because it's no one's gahdamn business. I used to say, There's nothing really high-minded about it, we just don't give a fuck about your _________ (race, gender, sexuality, religion, class, academic achievements, family name, etc)
Then I found out he was *from* Laramie. Lived there all his life. Hometown boy. Then why did he go into that redneck bar alone? I wondered aloud, as did many people in Denver, in Colorado, around the world. I knew people who had known him because the Denver gay community was pretty tight back then. They worked with him at the natural foods store, or hung out with him, or knew him from school. Everyone said how sweet and kind he was- and that he knew enough NOT to go into some redneck, non-gay bar, wherever he was.
This is one of the many things that make women and gay men equal; we both know not to walk into bars alone unless we're meeting SEVERAL friends there. If we do happen to do so, we definitely do NOT strike up conversations with strangers or anyone we don't implicitly trust. We both know the world outside is not safe for us, and you have to take many precautions against assault and death- even if it's a Wednesday night and you just want a beer before heading home. Shoot, for both of us, it's not even safe INSIDE our own homes- but that's a story for another time.
Then I found out that it was indeed abnormal behavior for him. His own best friends were at a loss as to what he was thinking. He had just moved back home after a stint of independence in Denver, where he found a community, he could be himself, and everyone liked him. Maybe he was trying out his new found confidence in his own hometown. Maybe he reckoned, I should be able to go into any bar I want to, anywhere I want to. I'm twenty-one. No law against it. And he was right - if that's what he was thinking- I've been known to get cocky and pull stuff like that, but I've never paid for it with my life, obviously. But he was right. He should be able to get a drink anywhere, strike up a conversation and maybe make some new friends. That shouldn't be a risky, potentially lethal thing to do. And yet women and gay men are punished every day for being so foolish. They are raped, beaten, and outright murdered. Because, how dare we think even for a second that we're equal.
If his murderers meant to punish him for such audacity and send a message to all gay boys everywhere- it backfired. To put it mildly.
The world was, rightly, horrified. The straight "community" allied with the gay community in outrage, and parents everywhere were forced to confront the bigotry in their hearts, decide that it was bullshit, and cast it out. The question, "what if that was my child?" could be heard ringing around people's heads, not just in the media.
And then I found out that he wasn't one of those runaway kids that populate the streets of Denver, rejected from their close-minded, probably Christian, homes for being gay, or trans, or whatever. Nope. He was a well-loved and accepted child, with lovely, educated, open-minded parents. He moved to Denver because he and his parents thought it would be good for him to get out of his hometown, and disenroll from the University of Wyoming for a while, to figure out what he really wanted to do. They trusted him. They checked on him. He loved them. They loved him. Nothing to see here, move along.
A few years later, two different made-for-TV movies about his death came out- one of them filmed a few blocks from me at an abandoned hospital scheduled for demolition. One day on my walk, I saw a young woman dressed in scrubs sitting on what was the old Emergency Room dock for ambulances. She was sobbing and trying to smoke a cigarette at the same time. The film crews had it all fenced off, but I hollered to her through it, "Are you alright?" Thinking maybe someone did something horrible to her or tried to. She nodded back, and stammered, "yeah... this scene... it's so hard. Really hard." I looked up at the fake made-for-TV sign put up over the old hospital sign, that read "Poudre Valley Hospital" - the place in Fort Collins where Matthew was taken. I nodded back at her. "This scene," she said, "this is the scene where he dies. We've been trying all day to get it right." Now I was starting to tear up. "Good luck. Do your best." And I moved off quickly from there, not wanting to completely collapse. I took my dog to the park, took some deep breaths, and got over it eventually.
(By the way- I recommend the MFTV movie that stars Stockard Channing as his mother. Because... Stockard Channing is just awesome, in everything, and rumour has it she did the work for free. It's a well-rounded and sensitive portrayal of his whole life, not just the incident that ended it. )
Through the years, as anti-gay violence ebbed and flowed depending on the Presidential administration, I rewrote my initial assumptions many times over, even as I heard other people echoing them.
"Well ya know, you lay yourself down on the train tracks long enough, you're gonna get runn'd over! What do you expect?"
"Even his own parents agreed that he was acting stupid."
"Kid should have taken some martial arts lessons. Ya got to know how to defend yourself."
"If it were me, I'da shoved a crowbar up their asses."
Nothing about how the murderers were some crazy, ignorant, insecure, hateful fucks. Nothing about how you should be safe in your hometown, where people know you, and presumably look out for you. Nope. Mostly stuff about how you should expect that if you *choose* to be gay.
Fast forward many years to just two years ago, when I was *briefly* working at a King Soopers in Highlands Ranch, an upper-middle-class, mostly white, mostly moderate conservative suburb south of Denver. Surprisingly, there were probably at least a dozen LGBTQ people on staff, and four of them were transgender. Out of those four, both of the female-to-male transitioning people chose the name Matthew as their new names. Since the store already had at least ten Matts or Matthews in every department - seriously, not exaggerating- I decided to tease my transitioning friend one day in the break room about their choice of name. "I applaud your bravery," I jested, "but for the love of God, did you have to choose the name Matthew??" I was cracking myself up. They responded quietly, it's partially for Matthew Shepard, and partially because I just like it.
Oh. This is not the first time I've found out what an ignorant douchebag I can be. But it was the most poignant. I had hurt my friend's feelings, unintentionally but still - and had completely forgotten about his legacy. Shit. I told my friend, "that's a beautiful tribute. And an awesome name. You wear it well." Luckily they forgave me.
We are so sorry, Matthew Shepard. So sorry for what happened to you, for allowing it to happen, and for forgetting even for a second what your name might mean to some very brave young people who are afraid to come out as gay, transgender, bi, queer, or asexual or whatever it is. Your name does not mean hate, and fear, and death. It means Gift from Yahweh. And now it means, acceptance, forgiveness, and love.
