..::Nebraska Democratic GLBT Caucus

I took advantage of the holidays to tidy up around the house. Enjoying the luxury of a few free extra hours, I rediscovered high school annuals, photo albums and stumbled across other relics while cleaning. Instead of rushing them into boxes headed for the attic, I spent a little time with my past.

The spines of old yearbooks creaked as I opened them, unvisited for many years. The pictures transported me. Hey, there I am in rodeo club back in 1976! Mom was so angry our high school rodeo fell on Mother's Day. She spent the day slinging hot dogs in the concession stand while I worked behind the chutes, contemplating barrel racing, longing to be steer wrestling. Auntie Lena always came to my rescue telling Mom, "Linda's different. She is going to make a great rancher someday. Let her be."

It's true. I loved the land and life being outdoors with the animals. I felt at home walking the Dakota river bottoms in the company of wild things, spirits of untold generations of beasts and humans. The land gave me a peace I still call upon in times of stress.

When returning to town, people gave me a feeling of dis-ease. I went off to college, bound for a professional career. A bittersweet memory, but as I looked again at the pictures of my classmates I know I made the healthy decision to leave.

Opening the family album gave additional validation. I am 4, crammed into a crinoline dress with puffy, scratchy, pinchy sleeves, smiling at the camera only after securing the promise of a ride on the drug store's mechanical pony.

Then the pitiful picture from third grade when my best friend moved away. We are exchanging parting mementos: Dee extends a porcelain horse figurine to me as I place a little watch on her wrist. "People are cruel, but we're friends forever," we lied to each other that bleak morning.

Dreams die hard though, and as I worked my way through my housecleaning, I found more memories in the grimy rodeo entry numbers and chute passes saved from brief glory days ended with broken ribs, hoof prints up my leg and the sweet knowledge I'd proven myself before the love of my life, even though she thought I was nuts for taking on 400-pound, rough-stock steers. Life was good. I finally could own all of who I was.

Ironically, at a holiday party that had partially induced my cleaning trip down memory lane, a new movie about gay cowboys came up, and one of the partygoers said, "That's hilarious. Whoever heard of a gay cowboy." I assured them that there are lots of gay cowboys and asked why they thought this was so incongruous. "Well, gay people are more intellectual, I guess," they opined, then defied me to name one gay cowboy. Wrong question.

After some discussion, I realized most folks really do go on stereotypes. The idea among those who follow the "code of the West" that God has seen fit to create gay people in their home on the range, truly shakes their understanding of sexuality. My goodness, strong men who know love and are brave enough to express it physically - that's too much of a stretch. Everyone knows that cowboys, natural beings, are incapable of being corrupted. Hmm. No wonder there's such a stir.

I knew it wouldn't take long for the moralists to rail against Hollywood for tainting true American values, so I went to this movie immediately to find out what Ang Lee had to say.

What I came away with was a shockingly accurate picture of the agony experienced by many gay Americans, me included. We wonder how we came to be here, trying desperately to fit into a society that hasn't time for details, only a wrong or right bumper-sticker philosophy. Some manage to preserve their lives by denying themselves, often sacrificing sanity in the bargain. Brutalized from all sides, those who are found out often sacrifice their lives for staying true to their country roots.

Though "Brokeback Mountain" might leave the impression things have improved from the times of its setting, one has only to look at the slaying of Matthew Shepard in Wyoming to see that ain't necessarily so. However, people now can make the decision, as I have, to live open lives, \pard softlinecarving places of relative safety for our families, challenging the false morality of many of our kin.

Yes, I am "from around here," I am of the land and I take my place as a gay Westerner. Though I've put away boots and chaps, my hope for this land has never wavered, even though that dream is far riskier than riding rough-stock. Don't count me out yet, though. Remember, I've got spurs and know how to use them. Let 'er go, boys!

Lin Quenzer lives in Lincoln with her partner of 17 years and their son.
Article first published in the Lincoln Journal Star, January 21, 2006.