I am happy — really happy — with something the state of California has done. It is a very, very good thing. They have become the first state in the nation to ban therapy that tries to turn gay teens straight. I am armed with subjective histories. My heart, if not my brain, goes to them first. My first private office in California was in San Diego and just happened to be near the center of the alternative lifestyle community of that fine burg. I heard tear-stained stories from gay guys whose parents had “suggested” therapy of this sort. One man, who saw me for treatment of a physical pain syndrome, told me how his parents wanted and believed in a heterosexual son. He cried as he told me about their “Christianity” and their desire for him to father a family. They would even try to encourage him on dates with girls when he felt “less than nothing.” Curiously enough, I remember him as being part of one of the most highly committed and long lasting dyadic relationships I have ever known. He had a loving male partner who brought him to every appointment and waited in the waiting room. When I approach a situation, I do not start with subjective data, however emotional. I look farther.
I know that the searchers of the human genome for markers for homosexuality have come up empty. This seems to mean that homosexuality is probably not genetic. It does not mean it is not biological. Last time I tuned in, people seemed to believe that homosexuality — at least in males — seemed related to stress during pregnancy. I was still back in Europe when I read that the largest number of gay males ever born in a similar set of circumstances were the male children born to women who had been incarcerated in concentration camps. Read more on Good for California! “Straightening Out” Gays Is Now Illegal…
“I’m heterosexual and proud of it. Do you need a reference from my husband?”
Such was my response to a drop-dead-gorgeous male transvestite who sidled up to me once, at one of the unusual affairs my husband and I were accustomed to attending at the time, and wanted to know if I had been born male.
Oh, there were a couple like me, she said, and even if I were a lesbian, it would be so wonderful to have someone like me, a “professional” woman, for a friend.
Oh, there were a few like me, she said, who did not care as much as they ought about appearance, and she wanted desperately to have an opportunity to make me up a bit, and maybe even lend me some clothes.
I declined, as politely as I could. I actually gave her a card, told her we could have lunch, if she wanted. She (I had learned to call people by their publically identified sex) told me she had run out of cards. I told her to just call, and I would be available for lunch, and I was certainly open for friendship.