“Tonight, somewhere in America, a young person, let’s say a young man, will struggle to fall to sleep, wrestling alone with a secret he’s held as long as he can remember. Soon, perhaps, he will decide it’s time to let that secret out. What happens next depends on him, his family, as well as his friends and his teachers and his community. But it also depends on us — on the kind of society we engender, the kind of future we build.” – President Barak Obama 4/8/15
Read the whole story on the White House bold and unprecedented stance against conversion therapy at Identities.mic
The same day Obama was speaking these words the media announced the bullycide death of Taylor Alesena. Her story of verbal harassment, abuse, and a silent school system ended last week.
And just a week ago I was reading about the death of 18 year old Blake Brockington, His was a story of parental rejection and loss ended last month. There is much work to be done.
Obama’s words are unprecedented from the White House. His reference to the struggles of each child living in this intolerant world brought tears to my eyes. But really those tears were for Taylor and for Blake.
The Little White Hearse
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day–
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid–out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.