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Meet Larry Houston. He's an 'ex-gay' who says homosexuality is a choice.
Therefore, they don't constitute a class of people in need of court rulings or legislative action protecting their rights or relationships. That's what Larry Houston, a Somerville resident who describes himself as a "former homosexual," tells Massachusetts representatives and senators during weekly visits to the State House, at which he urges them to back an amendment to the state constitution barring any legal recognition of same-sex relationships. Since last fall when the legislature was first scheduled to consider the amendment at a constitutional convention that was eventually postponed to February 11 Houston has spent at least one day a week paying visits to Beacon Hill lawmakers to tell them his story: he once engaged in homosexual acts, but not anymore. He once identified as homosexual, but now, he no longer believes what he calls "the lie of homosexuality" i.e., that he was born gay. Houston learned the advocacy ropes by tagging along with the Massachusetts Family Institute (MFI), one of the most active groups opposed to civil-marriage rights for same-sex couples in the state. When Houston heard through what he terms the "ex-gay grapevine" that MFI had enlisted former homosexuals from Florida to testify at an April 2003 hearing on the constitutional amendment, he called the organization to join the cause. By September, he was accompanying MFI lobbyist Evelyn Reilly on sessions with legislators, during which he served as "living testimony" to the "fact" that sexual orientation can change. Two months later, Houston branched out on his own because the MFI sessions conflicted with his work schedule. Now he visits the State House solo, talking to any legislator or legislative aide who will listen. He carries a briefcase stuffed with papers to leave in legislators' mailboxes and offices copies of his essays on homosexuality, which say it's "detrimental to many of those individuals who pursue it and to the society as a whole," as well as articles from the Boston Globe (I WAS INFECTED NEEDLESSLY), the New York Times (GAYS RESPOND: 'I DO,' 'I MIGHT' AND 'I WON'T'), and the Washington Post (PARTWAY GAY? FOR SOME TEEN GIRLS, SEXUAL PREFERENCE IS A SHIFTING CONCEPT). Every week, he prints dozens of pages of documentation on a broken laser printer, painstakingly feeding pages into the machine by hand. It can take him eight hours to print 200 copies one for each legislator. But he does it anyway to ensure that House and Senate members have "some background" while weighing the gay-marriage issue. He's become such a familiar face that aides often call out "Hi, Larry" when passing him in the halls, or "Take it easy, Larry" when accepting his materials. By now, he's known to many at the State House as "that former homosexual" a notoriety he embraces. As he readily admits, "I'm the token ex-gay guy in this debate. I don't mind." He doesn't mind, that is, as long as people are listening. THE MODERN "ex-gay" movement dates back to 1973, with the founding of Love in Action, the first ministry to seek to "cure" people of homosexuality. Three years later, it was joined by Exodus International, a Christian organization promoting "freedom from homosexuality through the power of Jesus Christ," which now claims more than 135 ministries in 17 countries. Other prominent groups include the National Association for Research and Therapy of Homosexuality, and Homosexuals Anonymous, which offers a 14-step program to become straight. For years, these ministries operated below the radar of public consciousness, including that of gay-rights organizations. But all that changed on July 13, 1998, when a full-page ad appeared in the New York Times. The ad featuring Anne Paulk, billed as a wife, mother, and former lesbian claimed that homosexuals can go hetero by accepting Jesus Christ. Similar ads in USA Today and the Washington Post captured additional media attention. Today, now that the movement is more visible, it has become an object of open derision among gay activists. This is partly because of its close ties to right-wing organizations like the Family Research Council, Concerned Women of America, and Focus on the Family many of the same national groups pouring money into Massachusetts to fight civil-marriage rights for same-sex couples. And it's partly because of the hypocrisy among some of the movement's leaders. In 1978, the two Exodus founders, Gary Cooper and Michael Bussee, left the effort (and their wives) after they fell in love. In the early '90s, they took to the talk-show circuit to blast ex-gay ministries as a "fraud." The most famous fall from grace involved John Paulk the husband of poster girl Anne who headed the ex-gay ministry Focus on the Family (FOF) and promoted his own blissful marriage in the pages of major news outlets. In September 2000, while he was traveling on the FOF-sponsored Love Won Out tour, Paulk got caught in a Washington, DC, gay bar called Mr. P's by gay-rights activist and author Wayne Besen, who photographed Paulk running down the street. Despite these high-profile embarrassments, the movement keeps going. Its basic premise holds that sexual orientation is not an immutable characteristic, like race or gender, and therefore doesn't warrant legal protection. The idea that heterosexuality is a choice might strike the straight people reading this as bizarre chances are you never consciously decided to lust after the opposite sex. Not surprisingly, the notion that homosexuality is a choice has met with scorn from gay-rights groups. Says Jason Cianciotto, a policy analyst at the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force (NGLTF), in New York, "That anybody would choose to be gay in light of all the evidence showing how difficult it is to be gay in America is preposterous." That someone would choose to be called a "fag," to get beat up in school, or to be kicked out of their parents' homes defies common sense. He adds, "Basic logic demands the question 'How could you possibly say that?'" But Larry Houston doesn't hesitate to answer. People may not be able to control their attractions to those of the same sex, he says, but they can choose whether or not to follow up on those attractions. "You may have attractions. Your choice is, 'Do I act on them?'" Besides, he points out, "Science has not proven that homosexuality is genetic." It's clear from interviews with Houston that he believes what he says. He comes across as sincere, up-front, willing to answer anything. He may even reveal too much. Talking about his homosexual trysts, he says he's "thankful" he didn't have many because "there's pleasure in it." He continues, "The more you have, the more you want to repeat them.... I didn't have many, so I don't have many tapes to replay in my mind." He's also pleasant and affable indeed, he doesn't like the "antagonistic" rhetoric of some fellow anti-gay-rights activists. All of which makes him a compelling figure. HOUSTON IS sitting at a table outside the State House cafeteria, counting a stack of papers he plans to distribute to legislators. It's just two weeks before House and Senate members will convene for the February 11 constitutional convention. "Did you see this?" Houston asks me. He shows me the January 20 front page of the Globe's Living section, which is dominated by a photograph of two teenage boys, their faces pressed together, their arms wrapped around each other. The headline reads HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. Beneath the photo is an article describing how the 16- and 17-year-old boys like many young gay and lesbian pairs are looking forward to their wedding now that the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court has ruled that same-sex couples have a constitutional right to marry. Houston tells me the piece made him cry. "There's not one word of concern," he says. "Not one word of warning about the consequences of homosexual behavior. Not one word of caution about 16-year-olds making wedding plans.... This [article] sends a message to 12- and 13-year-olds. If you think you're gay, try it out." To counter this "journal activism," as he calls it, Houston has written his own essay on homosexuality and adolescence for legislators that blasts "the homosexual advocates' 'adult motivations' for gaining public sympathy for legalization of same-sex unions, with little regard for adolescents." He spent five days researching and writing the six-page handout, which is replete with quotes from studies about homosexual behavior among youths. As Houston walks through the labyrinthine corridors of the State House, he exudes quiet determination. At 46, he is lean and rangy, with an elongated face and giant, square-framed glasses. He dresses in casual, yet conservative clothes khaki pants, short-sleeved shirts, dark-colored ties. He has a genial, open demeanor. And when he enters legislators' offices, he takes a deferential approach. He quietly slips materials into mailboxes; he cordially asks for a few minutes of attention. His politeness tends to conciliate people, who offer him wide smiles, hearty "Good mornings," even the occasional "How's it going, Larry?" On this Tuesday, Houston visits 15 legislators' offices that make up his list of "regulars." They include such politically diverse representatives as Shrewsbury Republican Karyn Polito and Boston Democrat Marie St. Fleur. Although Houston has met most of the 15 legislators once and has refrained from asking their positions on gay marriage and the constitutional amendment he tries to influence them by wooing their top aides. After four months of office calls, he enjoys a rapport with many of them. As he describes it, "Would you write off someone who visits your office every week?" Typically, these visits are amiable and short. At the office of Senator Brian Lees, the East Longmeadow Republican and Senate minority leader who moved to adjourn the July 2002 constitutional convention before it could consider an anti-gay amendment, Houston greets aide Daniel Conley with a handshake before launching into his complaints about the January 20 Globe article. He then offers his handout and emphasizes some key points "A lot of teens try same-sex sexual activity, but grow out of it." Through it all, Conley, a tall, friendly man, says little. At one point, he tells Houston that he'll put the materials in "the red book," a 50-plus-page folder of essays on homosexuality that Houston delivered to House and Senate leaders last fall. The conversation lasts no more than three minutes, and it's replayed nearly verbatim with most of the five aides whom Houston sees today. But every so often, he gets to debate. Dan Sullivan, the aide for Representative David Flynn, a Bridgewater Democrat and House dean, leans against his desk as he listens to Houston complain about the Globe article. When Houston bemoans the article's "wrong message" and asserts that homosexuality is "about behavior, not identity," Sullivan interjects, "I think the jury is still out on that." "No studies so far have shown that there is a gay gene," Houston responds. "Until that's determined," Sullivan suggests, "we have to deal with the fact that gay people are treated differently. That's one reason people in this building are having this discussion about gay marriage." Sullivan then launches into a 10-minute monologue, during which he tells Houston that his boss Flynn "is supporting civil unions," but not gay marriage. "The representative is trying to meet both sides halfway," Sullivan says. "He's trying to appease the gay community and not discriminate, yet he also understands concerns from religious groups." As Sullivan continues touching upon the "stacks of e-mails virulently against the SJC decision" that Flynn's office has received Houston jiggles coins in his pocket. He taps his foot on the floor. Eventually, he makes a statement. The only reason, he argues, that Massachusetts has to discuss same-sex marriage is "because gay advocates are pushing for something." He adds, "But who is asking? It's a group of people defined by their behavior. This is not about rights." "Still," Sullivan counters, "it's difficult to have a homosexual couple come in to the representative's office and for me to say, 'I don't believe that you're equal.'" The exchange goes on like this, back and forth, in circles, for 45 minutes. Finally, Sullivan likens the issue of gay marriage to that of abortion: "This whole debate has no real answers," he says. "It will rage on for a long time, regardless of what this legislature does." He then shakes Houston's hand and thanks him for his "hard work." "I'll see you next week," Houston calls back. As he walks away, he marvels at how long the exchange has lasted. When I point out that it doesn't appear Flynn is sympathetic to his ultimate message, he shrugs and says, "I'm taking a page from the gay advocates' playbook. It's about education." HOUSTON LIKES to say that there's "much more to Larry than the former homosexual," and he's right. Six days a week, he works as a cook at a Harvard University dining hall. He spends three months of each year in the Ukraine, where he teaches English to high-school kids for free. These days, he has achieved what he would consider a normal, successful life. He's gained enough respect at Harvard that his co-workers elected him union shop steward, which carries managerial responsibility. In the Ukraine, he's gained the love and affection of a middle-aged nurse, Angela, whom Houston says he's "not going to pass up." He explains, "Angela is an attractive woman and has good character traits." Asked what that means exactly, he has a hard time articulating his response. "People talk about an 'inner beauty,'" he says, "and she has that." He also stresses that others think she's great. "My friends say she is a great catch. They were all very impressed." Still, Houston's "struggle with homosexuality" has colored much of his life. Born the oldest boy (along with his twin brother) of seven children, he grew up on a grain-and-livestock farm in Chapin, Illinois, a town of just 500. As a kid, he and his siblings attended Sunday school at a local Lutheran church. His parents, however, weren't especially devout. By the time he entered junior high, the family had abandoned religion altogether. Houston says his parents quit "doing stuff as a unit" around then, too. His late father was an alcoholic. At night, he left the family behind and headed to Jacksonville the area's big-city equivalent where he indulged in booze and women. His late mother maintained a steady stoicism despite his father's extramarital affairs. "She never said anything bad about my father," Houston says. But even as a child, he confides, "I knew I wanted something better for my mother and myself." By age 10, his relationship with his father had become so strained that Houston made a promise to himself: "I swore I was not going to be like that man." His resentment only worsened over time with each football game, school play, and band concert that his father missed. Looking back on his childhood, Houston blames his "homosexual problem" on this troubled relationship with his dad. He believes his rejection of the person who was supposed to be a "role model" to teach him how to be a man and husband caused his gay behavior. "My father was absent," he explains, so he had an acute need for "male intimacy." Houston discovered that he could meet this need at 13, when he began experimenting sexually with boys. Specifically, he engaged in "mutual masturbation" with his twin brother, Jerry. This eventually stopped, but not before Houston questioned his sexuality. "It planted a seed in me," he recollects. "I thought, 'I'm a homosexual because of this behavior.'" Even then, he says he knew that homosexuality was "wrong," so he refrained from what he describes as "same-sex physical sex acts" in high school. But that changed once he arrived at the University of Illinois, where he studied agriculture. "I had anonymous sex encounters with men," he says. Sometimes, he masturbated with men in bathrooms. Other times, he had "sexual encounters" in YMCAs. All told, Houston had "six, seven, or eight" such experiences. When he talks about them today, he suggests that he had simply seized an opportunity. "If there was an opportunity and I gave in, well, that's that," he says. "I never initiated anything. I let my emotions get in the way." In the 1970s, while Houston was having sex with other men at school, the gay-rights movement was surfacing on the Illinois campus. He can remember articles about "gay pride," pictures of men "putting on makeup." It didn't seem to fit him. "I was never part of the homosexual lifestyle," he says. He even dated his only girlfriend, Renιe, but the relationship fizzled because "I could not express my love and be intimate both verbally and physically." He says he "failed to take the risks as a male to relate to a female" because he didn't want to open himself up to vulnerability. What he did open himself up to was "a relationship with God." As soon as Houston had learned to drive, he returned to the Chapin Community Church the only one among his siblings to do so. After several years of farm labor, he began working at Christian institutions. He bounced from a Christian boarding school for troubled teens in Wisconsin (where he learned to cook) to two Christian day camps for children in California. By age 31, he had traveled to the Associated Free Lutheran Bible School, in Minneapolis, where his life took a dramatic turn. After two years at the school, Houston was encouraged to apply to the three-year seminary. Although he "didn't feel called to be a parish priest," the seminary accepted him. "I love Jesus," he says, "so I went." He became one of five seminarians in the class of 1993. But when he was only one semester short of graduation, a fellow classmate turned him in for what Houston will describe only as "anonymous same-sex behavior" that had taken place two years earlier. He was kicked out, stripped of his chance to receive a theology degree. "I was angry," he says. "I had said that I didn't feel called to be a parish priest. Now you know why." The night he was expelled from the seminary, Houston turned to his friends for comfort, and his conversations changed the course of his life. When he called the first one, he says his friend replied, "Larry, I know you have a problem. But you're not a homosexual." When he called the second, he heard the same thing. Ditto for three others. All told, five people responded to Houston's news of expulsion in the same way, word for word. "I took it as a sign." Indeed, it dawned on him that "I had a problem with homosexual behaviors," but that he could change those behaviors. He explains, "I gained a new point of reference it's not who one is, it's what one does." Houston stayed in Minneapolis, cooking at a hospital and hotel. All the while, he subscribed to the newsletter of Exodus, the ex-gay group. He spotted a "prayer request" seeking a volunteer to start a ministry in Boston, and it got him thinking. "I told God I was open to moving to Boston," he says. He had two "conditions": first, he had to get a job cooking at Harvard, whose prestigious reputation appealed to him; second, he had to meet people in his new home who were not like him "people who aren't broken," he says, his voice cracking. "I did not want to live in the ex-gay ghetto. I wanted to surround myself by people who aren't struggling in the same way." So in January 2000, with no job or housing lined up, he boarded a plane for Massachusetts. AS THE SOLE "former homosexual" in the Bay State who speaks out on the Hill, Houston inspires mixed emotions. To his detractors, he's a spectacle trotted out by right-wing groups to dupe those unfamiliar with homosexuality into thinking that gay folks don't deserve equal rights. To his supporters, he's a brave man bucking the trend toward anonymity among the ex-gay population. Most former homosexuals steer clear of the political arena because they feel embarrassed or ashamed about their pasts, supporters say. Or they're ridiculed for believing they can change. The MFI's Reilly says it "takes a lot of courage for people like Larry" to discuss their lives. "It takes courage to talk to strangers about a personal experience that might make people feel awkward. It takes even more courage when the other side claims you don't exist." Regina Griggs, the director of Parents and Friends of Ex-Gays, who recruited Houston to lobby with her organization on Capitol Hill last year, puts it more succinctly: "It takes inner strength to do what he's doing." For gay-rights advocates, however, Houston arouses more ambivalence than admiration. Some, like Arline Isaacson, the co-chair of the Massachusetts Gay and Lesbian Political Caucus (MGLPC), find him and the entire ex-gay movement "bizarre." After all, she doesn't go around telling legislators that she's an ex-heterosexual, even though she used to consider herself straight. Besides, Isaacson adds, "It's one thing to be ex-gay. But it's another thing altogether to try to prevent a group of people from having benefits they deserve." Others say they feel sorry for Houston, whom they regard as a "wandering soul," uncomfortable with his sexuality, period. Still others believe he's sincere. Explains the NGLTF's Cianciotto, who underwent three years of "conversion therapy" as a teen in an attempt to will away his homosexual tendencies, "I think that every ex-gay spokesperson firmly believes that he or she is a heterosexual. But it's because they want with all their hearts to be heterosexual in a society that shuns homosexuality." Like Cianciotto, many view the handful of former homosexuals who've spoken out on gay issues nationally as pawns in someone else's game. Same goes for Bay State advocates who've witnessed Houston in action. One State House insider who supports same-sex marriage sums up the sentiment: "MFI is using him. It's all part of this they-can-change message to the public." Houston, for his part, dismisses such a notion. Since he contacted MFI last September, he's visited only "a small number" of legislators with Reilly all voluntarily, without pay. If anything, he says, MFI has failed to take advantage of him. "How often do you hear MFI making reference to me?" he asks. "Is MFI 'parading' me out in the press conferences and rallies that it holds?" To paint him as a pawn of the organization, he insists, "is not accurate." Clearly, Houston has his own motivations for activism. And if there's one thing on which his friends and foes agree, it's this: he's having an effect at the State House. Though some legislators look upon him as a joke as someone who lives in denial about his suppressed homosexuality many who have met him over the past five months respond differently. According to Reilly, legislators who had assumed that sexual orientation is immutable react with "surprise" when introduced to Houston, "a living witness to the opposite." As a result, she claims, "a number of legislators have reconsidered their former conviction that homosexuality is inbred." She insists, "Larry is being taken seriously" up on the Hill. Gay-rights advocates don't discount his message either. "It can be an effective lobbying tool for the other side," the MGLPC's Isaacson says. Houston's story of struggle pushes buttons in straight people, causing them to wonder about gay folk. Is homosexuality inbred? Or is it just sexual license? When it comes to the volatile issue of gay marriage, such questions help shore up barriers that gay activists have long worked to break down. Says Isaacson, "There is plenty of fertile ground for that message in the legislature." You might expect that to please Houston. But it seems that convincing legislators to vote his way isn't his top priority. Already, he assumes the majority of Bay State politicians reject same-sex marriage, but embrace civil unions a reality that he doesn't expect to alter significantly. What matters more to Houston is sharing his perspective and, in doing so, encouraging other ex-gays to come forward. After all, he says, "Isn't what I'm doing offering hope and encouragement to even one person?" Call him a man on a mission. As he likes to tell those who wonder about his fight: "I have this friend, his name is Jesus, and he's asked for my help." Parents and Friends of Ex-Gays & Gays (PFOX) Box 561 Fort Belvoir VA 22060 http://www.pfox.org 703-360-2225 ex-gays@earthlink.net Affordable press release writing and distribution http://ThatPRGuy.com
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