I Grew Up Gay and Gun Shy in Texas
That’s why I understand we must promote common sense and reduce the harm we inflict on one another.
I grew up in a Texas gun culture where I was groomed to love and have a healthy relationship with guns. However, a couple of childhood experiences changed that, and I became gun shy.
For the first 12 years of my life, I lived in a small, three-bedroom, pink brick house in Bedford, Texas, a suburb nestled between Dallas and Fort Worth. It was a new subdivision built in 1960, and that subdivision was my entire world. My elementary school, Bell Manor, built in 1969, featured a unique design of four interconnecting hexagons divided into open-classroom pods. Each hexagon housed two grades, and because of the open-design format without interior walls, everyone could see all the other classrooms in their grade at the same time. There was no hiding here! A mile away from my home, I walked to and from school most days, and as I got older, I rode my bike.
I knew most of our neighbors well and played with the other neighborhood kids in our backyards or on the street. I often hung out with Darlene Worsham, who lived three doors down. My first dog, a dachshund puppy named Shantay, came from the Worshams’ litter in 1970. I’m not sure why I named her Shantay; this was decades before the word truly entered our cultural vernacular through RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I think I might have heard someone on TV say the French word “enchanté,” and it stuck in my 5-year-old brain. Enchanté, you stay.
Because my mom worked or attended college classes to earn a bachelor’s degree in education, I was occasionally watched by Mrs. Worsham. But gunshots in our little community changed all that.
They pierced the silence three doors down, in the Worshams’ living room, when Mrs. Worsham shot her husband in front of Darlene, their other kids, and two neighbors. Mr. Worsham was killed, and a neighbor was injured by ricocheting fragments. Miraculously, Darlene and her siblings were physically unharmed.
Why did she do this? It didn’t make sense. Gun violence rarely does.
I remember being told that she and her husband had an argument just before she pulled out the gun and started firing. My young mind could not comprehend what kind of disagreement could lead to murdering your spouse. But what I did know, or had a strong sense about, was that if she hadn’t owned a gun, Mr. Worsham might still be alive, and Darlene could have been spared the trauma of witnessing her mother kill her father. Needless to say, Mrs. Worsham never babysat me again.
Owning a gun was, and still is, a staple — a rite of passage — in the lives of many Texans, my family included. My dad, a hunter, owned rifles and kept them tucked away in the back of his and my mom’s bedroom closet. Dad and Uncle Frank would hunt deer in the East Texas woods. When my brother got older, he joined them on their hunting trips. Like many kids in Texas, Wayne already owned a Daisy BB rifle. Eventually, I inherited the Daisy. Sometimes I practiced shooting at targets or Coke cans, but I didn’t feel a thrill from aiming and pulling the trigger. Shooting a gun didn’t give me the surge of adrenaline it seemed to give others.
I was in the Boy Scouts as a Webelo from 4th to 5th grade. Webelos stands for “WE’ll BE LOyal Scouts.” Heady stuff for a 10-year-old. Technically, Webelos were part of the Cub Scouts, a subdivision under the Boy Scouts that prepared boys to become Boy Scouts. For the most part, I enjoyed being a Webelo. Although I felt a little self-conscious wearing the uniform — a short-sleeved blue shirt and a yellow knotted bandana around my neck — to school on den nights, I have fond memories of working on the various ranks and achievement badges.
One of the badges was Shooting Sports, which required properly demonstrating the use of a BB gun and accurately shooting at a target. I don’t remember how well I performed, but it was one of the badges I preferred over some of the other, more physical achievements.
A few months after the Worsham murder, another gunshot rocked our neighborhood, this time at the last house on our street, where the Martins lived. They had a son, Joey, who was around my age. Like Mrs. Worsham, Mrs. Martin also watched me from time to time. I disliked being at their house. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but it didn’t feel like a happy place. Joey and I had nothing in common, and something was off about him. Today, we’d probably say he was on the autism spectrum. Nevertheless, I always felt uncomfortable and out of place there.
One afternoon, the story goes, Mrs. Martin ordered Joey to go outside and play in the backyard because she needed to be alone in the house. Once Joey was outside, she took out a gun and shot herself. Somehow, she survived; her suicide attempt failed. Even so, I don’t remember ever seeing Mrs. Martin again.
As a young kid, I knew the shootings on my street were not normal. I didn’t know why they were happening, nor did I understand at the time the dark grip of depression, deep dissatisfaction, and desperation that drives a person to internalize or externalize violence. However, I did feel the awakening of things I had not previously seen, which would eventually lead me down a path of wanting to know why — why do people do the things they do? Not from a judgmental place, but from one of curiosity. I began to ask myself why I am the way I am.
Were there connections between our two neighbors? Why did my parents trust both moms to watch me, despite the possibility — albeit unlikely — that guns were available to unstable people? Did my parents ever sense their emotional instability? It just goes to show that you never know what goes on behind closed doors, not until those doors are riddled with bullet holes.
I remember a few times when Wayne brought friends over to hunt quail in our back pasture. With over 53 acres, there was plenty of space to shoot without worrying about others. I had zero interest in hunting, much like my lack of interest in girls — another thing that made me different from other boys in rural Texas.
But I didn’t fear girls the way I feared guns.
In an effort to confront my fear, I once took a shotgun out to the back of the property to hunt with Wayne. However, anticipating the loud noise and “kick” from the shotgun, I quit before I could aim and shoot. To this day, I don’t get easily frazzled by loud noises, but the sound of a gunshot always startles me.
I felt more comfortable with a smaller caliber gun and would occasionally practice target shooting with a .22 rifle and handgun near the pond in the back pasture. This was the compromise I made with myself for not measuring up to the standards of being a “normal” boy.
In addition to sports and physical coordination, hunting and proficiency with guns were things I struggled with as a gay boy. At the time, these were interconnected in my mind. Being a “normal” boy meant excelling in and enjoying those activities. While I could shoot my way through Duck Hunt, an arcade game, and some Atari games in the early 1980s, those experiences were a far cry from the real thing! In reality, my marksmanship sucked.
I’m sure my early childhood experiences, especially the two violent incidents in our neighborhood, shaped my views and fears about guns.
I grew up in a culture where guns were accepted and commonplace, leading to a healthy appreciation and respect for their power and use. Even though I knew that guns were not for me, I understood that many in my family and community held a responsible view of gun ownership. They were not gun-toting individuals who used firearms to intimidate or terrorize others.
It is quite interesting that as a society we accept actions that serve the greater good and reduce harm. I remember when the mandatory use of seat belts became law. The evidence that seat belts saved lives in accidents was sufficient to change national legislation. This simple law has unambiguously resulted in a 45% decrease in car crash fatalities.
Yet, despite evidence that stronger gun laws could reduce fatalities by 36%, no national laws have been enacted. It is a matter of common sense and the greater good to reduce harm.
I reflect on growing up as a gay boy during a time before widespread acceptance, non-discrimination laws, and the legalization of gay marriage. While I faced some dark moments as a child, I did not live in fear of the gun violence that many youths encounter in their schools, churches, or communities today.
I felt depressed as I came to terms with my sexual orientation, anxious about the hatred I perceived from others because of it. Although there has been progress and greater acceptance in recent years, a backlash against that progress has emerged. The level of hatred and fear stoked by individuals who deliberately other, scapegoat, and condemn those who are different has become a justification for using violence as a terrorist tactic against LGBT people. Fear and hatred are powerful motivating factors, but there is something even more powerful.
The antidote to this situation is quite simple: we must promote common sense and reduce the harm we inflict on one another.
Evidence shows that fostering connection, building trust, and focusing on shared values and commonalities can help create psychological safety. Psychological safety is understood to be a basic human need for individuals to thrive in all areas of their lives. This can only be achieved by denouncing the rhetoric, policies, and tactics that fuel fear and hatred and by demanding better from leaders and politicians who employ them.
Ultimately, empathy must be embraced and practiced to undo the damage and division created by hatred and fear. Empathy, along with love, is one of the greatest transformative emotions — not just for the recipients of love and empathy, but for those who practice it.
Practicing empathy is something I hold myself accountable for; it makes me a better human being and gives me hope that others can change their hearts and minds.
