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Quarter-Light -- ©Brenda Carter  I don't understand what's going on either. Sandy has responded to a letter I don't remember writing, a letter I can't imagine writing. Is it possible I was that unclear, that I came on too strong? Desperate to lower the heat, I stay in my chair, write a reply, read it over a few times, and hit the send button.
Sandy - I'm sorry my letter was so painful to read. I think that much of what you took to be rage is actually passion, my desire to be heard about a part of my life we've never been very good at tackling head on. I am not angry with you. Upset and unclear about how to deal with our differences, passionate about wanting you to know me for who I am, yes. But not angry. Of course, I have issues, but I don't expect you to resolve them. I'm only asking you to try to understand what I was too upset to say that night in Ojai. You don't need to repeat your position on homosexuality: I hear you loud and clear. What I still don't know is why you opened up to me and how you thought I would react. I wish you would tell me. I hope this helps. Jill *** After living with my questions for another week, I look for answers on the internet. Searching for "sexual wounding" gets me nowhere; "gender confusion" hits a tightly-linked ring of websites devoted to the conversion of queers. Scrolling down a long page of names, I click at random and read the personal testimonies of men and women who moved beyond the queer lives they had once lived, lives much like mine. And how did they pull it off? By maintaining an unending vigilance over themselves, by squelching every desire for acts they would no longer allow themselves to commit. No more eyes resting on that fine butch, no more jokes with the well-hung flight attendant, no more "emotionally dependent friendships." Goodbye to all that. Now they pray to God, go to support groups, and work at purging every dangerous tendency from their lives and fantasies.
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