"My son didn't have to die

"My son didn't have to die."(gay teenage suicide victim)

(Ladies Home Journal)

I loved Robbie for who he was. But society made him hate himself for

being gay

My son Robbie's room is exactly as he left it. On one wall, there

is a banner from Disney World; on another, his acceptance letter from

a prestigious high school. The top of his bureau is covered with family

photographs, religious statues and a Bart Simpson doll. It's been

more than a year since Robbie died, yet I can't bring myself to pack

his things away. I often sit on the edge of his bed, clutch his pillow

and pray for strength to endure the pain.

Last year, my world fell apart when Robbie committed suicide. He

was only fourteen. I'll never completely understand why he did it,

but I do know that he felt depressed, ashamed, tormented by his peers

and unable to accept himself--all because he was gay.

I'm telling Robbie's story to help spread my message about teaching

tolerance for homosexuality. The statistics are grim: Gay children

are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide than straight

kids--and may account for 30 percent of all teen suicides, according

to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. I want to keep

other parents from suffering a loss like mine, and to keep gay children

from wanting to die because they're different from other kids.

I try to remember Robbie as the happy child he was, not the troubled

teenager he became. I see him baking Christmas cookies and hear his

sweet voice saying, "I love you, Mommy." A divorced mother, I had

custody of him and his older sisters, Danielle (now twenty) and Claudia

(now nineteen), but my ex-husband, John Kirkland, an FBI agent in

nearby Cleveland, saw Robbie on weekends and was very involved in

his life. In 1984, I married Dr. Peter Sadasivan, a kidney specialist

I met at the outpatient clinic where I worked as a nurse. Our daughter,

Alexandria, is five.

As a toddler, Robbie loved to play with his sisters' dolls. I didn'

t think anything of it until a friend pointedly asked, "Aren't you

afraid he'll be gay?" I told her no. Sexual identity, I believe, is

determined at birth; you can't "make" someone gay, with toys or anything

else.

I sent my children to a local Catholic school. But Robbie's gentle

nature made him a target for bullies; he would come home crying, with

torn clothes and scratches over his body, and once, a bump on his

head from a rock someone had thrown. Talking to teachers didn't help.

At Robbie's request, I enrolled him in another parochial school, but

he remained in a funk, convinced that he was different from his classmates.

In a way, that was true: I didn't know it then, but at ten, he was

already finding himself attracted to other boys. (Experts say it's

not unusual for children to be aware of their sexual orientation as

early as elementary school.)

Robbie was close to his sisters, father and stepfather. But throughout

sixth and seventh grade, we noticed that he was becoming distant and

increasingly forlorn. He joined the school basketball team in an effort

to fit in, but a few of his teammates taunted him, too. At home, Robbie

stayed in his room; at first I thought it was just a teenage need

for privacy, so I didn't pry. I learned later that he was spending

much of his time writing sad, poignant poems about his pain and loneliness.

One of them was titled "I'm Dying and No One Cares."

Robbie had a good friend in Jenine, a girl he saw every summer

at camp. For several years, he wrote a series of letters to her that

now seem like desperate cries for help: "Sometimes I feel really,

really alone," one said. "Not like I'm friendless, just alone ...

I have this weird feeling something REALLY BIG and TRAGIC is gonna

happen soon. It's probably nothing. I hope it's nothing."

In later letters, Robbie told his friend that his classmates teased

him about being gay, because he had a slight lisp and didn't like

sports. He also confessed that he fantasized about committing suicide

"and how everyone would cry and feel bad that they treated me so unjustly."

In February 1996, things got worse. Peter and Alexandria were using

our new computer when a picture of a naked man flashed on the screen.

Robbie claimed that someone on the Internet had made him download

it, but that didn't make sense. I asked him if he was gay, but he

denied it. Then we got a huge bill from our online service. We confronted

Robbie, who apologized and confessed that he had been going online

but didn't realize how many hours he had run up. I canceled the account,

and John and I punished Robbie by making him do chores to pay off

the debt. He had always been so responsible that we hadn't monitored

his computer use closely.

Of course, the signs seem so obvious now, but back then, John,

Peter and I were trapped in denial, hoping that Robbie was straight.

It's not that we were homophobic; we just knew what a difficult life

he would face if he was gay.

One day in March, I went to wake up Robbie--and he wasn't there.

I called the school to see if he'd gone to class early; he wasn't

there, either. Frantically, I searched his room and found a note saying

that he had run away. After an anxious night, we finally got a call

from a police station in Chicago. Robbie had taken a bus to find a

man he had met on the Internet. Fortunately, someone saw him at the

depot and took him to the police.

During my search of the bedroom, I was shocked and heartsick to

find a suicide note dated a few weeks earlier that began, "Whatever

you find, I'm not gay." From an unmailed letter to Jenine, we learned

that Robbie had written that note after swallowing an overdose of

painkillers while the rest of our family was at church. (He threw

up the pills before they could harm him, and we assumed he just had

a virus.) I also discovered gay pornography in his room, which confirmed

my earlier guesses.

After returning home, Robbie refused to discuss the suicide attempt

or the reason he had run away, so we took him to a counselor. I was

blunt: "If my son is gay, don't try to make him something he's not."

After two sessions, the therapist confirmed the truth.

Our whole family assured Robbie that we loved and supported him,

and I told him that any partner of his would be welcome in my home.

I had a frank talk with him about safe sex and AIDS, gave him articles

to read and offered to take him to a local support group for homosexual

teens. But, adamant about staying in the closet, he refused to go

to the meetings. Finally, his therapist explained that Robbie was

ashamed of being gay and afraid to come out at school, for fear of

more harassment. I apologized to Robbie for not understanding his

feelings, and his attitude improved.

But not for long. Robbie found ways to sneak online late at night

or while I was running errands, using other people's passwords. He

called gay phone-sex lines, too. When the huge bills arrived in the

mail, we grounded him and made him pay off the debt. He would act

remorseful, but he didn't stop, which left us all confused and upset.

Only later did we realize that these were the only outlets for Robbie

to be openly gay and talk to other gay men without revealing his identity.

But I still worried that he might be seduced--or worse--by a sex offender

preying on boys online.

Robbie's mood deteriorated still further after eighth grade. He

stopped eating and slept a lot. The nurse in me recognized these as

warning signs, but the mother in me stayed in denial, not wanting

to believe things were that serious. Then, in November, the therapist

referred us to a psychiatrist, who told us Robbie was suffering from

clinical depression. He prescribed an antidepressant, and we all hoped

to see some improvement soon.

It wasn't soon enough. On New Year's morning, 1997, I received

a call from the mother of a boy in Robbie's class. She had seen our

number on her caller-identification device and wanted to know why

my son had called at three A.M. I confronted Robbie, and he reluctantly

admitted that he had made a prank call to the boy. (I later found

out that Robbie had a crush on his classmate.) Robbie then hid out

in his room all day, presumably to avoid me. He and his sisters were

spending the night at John's house, so as I left for work, I passed

by his room to say I'd see him the next day. From behind the door,

Robbie mumbled, "Good-bye." It was the last time I ever heard my

son's voice.

On my way to pick up the kids the next day, my car broke down,

and I called John to come get me. An hour later, he arrived--in a

police car. Thinking our son had run away again, I said, "Is it Robbie?

What did he do?" John told me about the suicide, and I wept.

Robbie had planned his death carefully. That morning, while his

father was in the shower, he had swiped the key to the drawer where

John kept his FBI handgun, taken the weapon and some bullets and replaced

the keychain. Then he quietly went up to the attic and shot himself

in the head. No one heard or knew what had happened until Danielle

found his body.

I never stopped telling Robbie that I loved him, and I did everything

I could to help him accept himself It hurts so much to know my son

died hating himself for being gay, and in some ways, I still blame

myself for not doing even more to help him through his personal crisis.

For instance, though Robbie had chosen to attend a small private school,

I wish I had sent him to a larger public school, where he might not

have stood out as distinctly among his peers.

Hundreds of friends, neighbors and classmates attended Robbie's

wake and funeral; I think he would have been surprised to see how

many people really did care about him. Afterward, I talked to his

therapist and closest friends and learned about his crushes on boys

and his frustration over not being able to act on his feelings. The

harassment he endured at school--boys called him queer and faggot

every day--no doubt contributed to his depression, too. Jenine showed

me the letters Robbie had written to her, which helped me understand

the anguish he had suffered in his short life.

That's why I want to establish diversity-awareness programs beginning

in elementary school. I believe that if teachers make it unacceptable

for young kids to tease others--about race, weight, disabilities,

sexuality or, anything that makes them "different"--and continue reinforcing

tolerance over the years, then preteens and adolescents would be more

accepting of kids like my son.

To advance my cause, I've joined Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education

Network (GLSEN), a national organization that believes schools must

be safe for gay youth. I'm also active in the local chapter of Parents,

Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG), a national support

group. Through the new Robbie Kirkland Project, PFLAG plans to educate

school administrators and counselors about the high risk of suicide

among gay youth. Last October, I received a local Ohio award for my

work in gay youth advocacy.

I wish more homosexual adults would come out publicly, because

gay kids need positive role models. I regret that Robbie never heard

Ellen DeGeneres's speech after she won an Emmy award last fall for

the coming-out episode of her sitcom, Ellen. She specifically addressed

gay teens, saying, "Don't ever let anybody make you feel ashamed of

who you are."

To help us through the painful grieving process, Claudia, Danielle

and I see a counselor. And I will continue my mission, speaking loudly

and often, until children of all ages and backgrounds no longer have

to fear becoming casualties of ignorance and intolerance.