I was 38 years old the first time I lived with a gay man. We were roommates in treatment.
A counselor had taken me aside and asked if I was OK sharing a room with him. He was originally assigned to another room, but the guy in there was vocally homophobic and threatening.
I said yes. There was no question in my mind. He needed a safe place to recover just like the rest of us.
I don’t remember his last name, and the only people who would are the counselors at the treatment center. They won’t release it because of confidentiality laws. Without that information, I was unable to track him down to get his permission to use his name for this column. Therefore, I will refer to him by his treatment nickname: Sparkly Bitch — S.B. for short — out of respect for his privacy.
I am only sharing from my limited perspective. His experience was completely different from mine because no two people exist in the same way. Plus, he is gay and I am straight.
When S.B. and I became roommates, I felt enthusiastic to do more than just talk about inclusivity, but then we went with the group for a cigarette break. He and I walked shoulder to shoulder. My first thoughts were, “Does he think I’m gay? Do the other guys think we’re together?” I then realized how pervasive and dangerous homophobia was because — without any overt threat or comment from anyone in the group — I automatically felt threatened. Before we got back to the treatment center, I resolved to get over myself.
I was surprised by my ignorance in other ways, though. For example, S.B. dragged a 6-foot-by-6-foot piece of cardboard from the recycling to use as a privacy wall between us. He also asked me to turn away whenever he dressed.
Besides revealing my lack of understanding, I benefited from our association in unexpected ways. He taught me some fabulous self-care tips. He showed me how to exfoliate. I started using moisturizer. But the best trick he taught me was to use hemorrhoid cream under my eyes to get rid of bags. I feel so much more confident.
Addicts in recovery have been supporting each other for decades now. When Sparkly Bitch demonstrated courage and vulnerability, he empowered the rest of the men in treatment to let our guard down, too. It wasn’t always easy, though.
When another resident called him a derogatory name, S.B. filed a grievance and the treatment center upheld its no-hate-speech policy. The guy was discharged the same day.
But I questioned how widely the no-hate-speech policy applied when a counselor told S.B., “You’re using your sexuality as a defense mechanism to keep people at a distance.”
S.B. may see it differently, but I believe he internalized that counselor’s feedback because she was an authority figure and we were all raw and looking for help. I did not object when S.B. repeated it in group therapy, but I asked him about it later. He maintained the counselor was right, so I didn’t press the issue.
I still feel unsure about the moniker Sparkly Bitch, too. It came about when we were making nametags for our doors. A guy who used to do tattoos in prison drew a beautiful, colorful nametag with the nickname in scripted font and gave it to my roommate. The guy was smirking when he presented it to my friend. But I think Sparkly Bitch reappropriated it because he put in on our door with a flourish and — well, sparkle. He was an enthusiastic survivor, and no one held him back from being completely himself.
I say S.B. was a survivor because he showed us a scar on the back of his head where his scalp was stapled together after he and a friend were attacked coming out of a bar a few years before. I think he blamed himself for the assault because he said when the guy yelled a disparaging insult at him, he yelled something insulting back. That’s when the fascist attacked him. S.B. mentioned the attack as an example of how he used his sexuality as a defense mechanism, although he added something about that not being an excuse for being attacked.
I think of S.B. — both his pride and ambivalence — every time I see or hear about another injustice against LGBTQ+ people. So many individuals, especially Black queer and trans individuals, are routinely denied their humanity, their identity, their right to live.
IN PORTLAND: Black Lives Matter activists push for greater inclusion of Black LGBTQ+ voices
According to the Human Rights Campaign, in the brief six months since 2020 began, 15 transgender or gender non-conforming people have been fatally shot or killed by other violent means globally: Dustin Parker, Neulisa Luciano Ruiz, Yampi Méndez Arocho, Monika Diamond, Lexi, Johanna Metzger, Serena Angelique Velázquez Ramos, Layla Pelaez Sánchez, Penélope Díaz Ramírez, Nina Pop, Helle Jae O’Regan, Tony McDade, Dominique “Rem’mie” Fells, Riah Milton and Jayne Thompson.
I was apathetic and only nominally aligned with LGBTQ+ rights for most of my adult life prior to meeting S.B. To be honest, actively engaging in the antiracist struggle for civil rights continues to be optional for me — an option I have sometimes chosen to ignore. My inaction due to discomfort has contributed to the deaths of the 15 people listed in the previous paragraph.
The current protests will eventually subside, and so will much of the progressive, white outrage. I plan to stay in this struggle — within myself and the community — for the rest of my life. I encourage my fellow cisgender, straight, white peers to do likewise. I am not saying anything you haven’t heard before, but it is worth repeating. Please, donate a part of every paycheck to the Black Resilience Fund or Street Roots . Sign up to volunteer with New Avenues for Youth or Unite Oregon .
S.B. and I tried to stay connected briefly for the first few months post-graduation, but early recovery friendships — while vital and deeply personal — rarely last because the risk of relapse right after treatment is so high. Counselors and return clients tried to warn us about it, but I didn’t want to believe them. They were right.
I changed phones and phone numbers twice in my first year of sobriety. It was nice to get upgrades and move on in other ways, but I miss my friend. I hope he is still sober. I hope he is still sparkly.
This column is a first-hand account of the struggles and successes of overcoming trauma, mental illness, addiction, homelessness and more.Street Roots is an award-winning, nonprofit, weekly newspaper focusing on economic, environmental and social justice issues. Our newspaper is sold in Portland, Oregon, by people experiencing homelessness and/or extreme poverty as means of earning an income with dignity. Learn more about Street Roots . Support your community newspaper by making a one-time or recurring gift today .
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