As far as Mormon families go, my Mormon family is pretty hot shit.
My grandfather, Grant Von Harrison, is one of the most renowned Mormon authors in history. His books on Mormon theology have been published and circulated in the millions making him one of the world's foremost experts on how to be a "Mormon."
I'll admit, to this day I've never read a single book he's written. That admission alone might be enough to ensure that my family never speaks to me again. What I am about to say will almost certainly guarantee it:
I am gay, and it has both everything and nothing to do with the fact that I was raised Mormon.
My parents met in the Mormon mecca of Provo, Utah while both attending Brigham Young University. 3 months and 2 answered prayers later, they were married and "sealed...for time and all eternity" in a ceremony held at the Mormon temple in Manti, UT. My father later confessed to me that after only 9 months of marriage, they both knew they had made a huge mistake. 6 months after that, I was born.
As a young Mormon, I had no conception of what being "gay" even was. My exposure to homosexuality was limited to the pamphlets given to me by the bishops of my church, most of which identified the "sin" of same-sex attraction to be "next to the crime of murder" in its severity. Given my parent's tempestuous marriage and the limited discussions about sex, love and relationships in my religious community, I developed an intense mistrust of all 3 at an incredibly early age.
One of my grandfather's best selling books was a pamphlet entitled "Is Kissing Sinful?" For those who are unfamiliar with the Mormon teachings about chastity, according to my grandfather and his point of reference, the Mormon prophet Spencer W. Kimball, kissing was, in fact, a sinful act and not something to even be experimented with until after the age of 16.
You can imagine my confusion then when at 15 years old, the much older student body president at my high school and leader of our church's young men's organization propositioned me to do things that "all guys do" that should "just be kept between friends."
My parents were in the midst of a divorce, I was coming to terms with my sexuality for the first time and to be quite honest: I was lonely. Despite its predatory nature, the relationship gave me a space to feel sexual and to experiment for the first time in my life, well before I ever even conceptualized the idea of kissing a girl.
I remember the night it ended so clearly. My parents were in the middle of a marathon argument and I somehow managed to get tangled up in it. Frustrations mounted, and it wasn't long before I was thrown out of the house. Standing in the rain -- cold, sad and scared -- the only place I could think to go was to my "friend's" house. I knocked on his door, and when he answered, I relayed to him everything that had happened earlier that evening. I realized how aggravated I was becoming, and in doing so, became aware that I had not come to his house that night for a "quick fix." It was not sexual reciprocation I was looking for, but emotional.
Upon finishing my story, the young man proceeded to make his regular advances. I told him no: not once, not twice, but 3 times. He put pornography on the TV. He made his usual justifications. I told him how I felt it was "wrong" and that I "wasn't in the mood" but his persistence ultimately led to a dissolve of my iron resolve.
Once we had finished, I sat on the couch and hoped that the emptiness I was feeling would dissipate. I was heartbroken to realize that it didn't. The boy went to bed and told me that I could find a place to sleep in his basement. Lying there, alone, in a room with no windows and no one to hold me while I cried, I asked myself for the first time:
"What is wrong with me?"
At that time, I wasn't brave enough to ask the real question on my mind:"Am I gay...?" And if so, "why does it hurt so much?"
I decided I wouldn't wait to see him in the morning. Instead, I climbed out of bed, put my clothes on and I left. I never answered his calls again, and I never went back.
That is the only second time in my life that I have told that story in it's entirety. The first time was after a night of heavy drinking on MTV's Real World when I realized why it was so important that we tell and maintain queer stories.
When our stories are silenced -- by an abuser, a religion, a government or even by our own pain or insecurity -- our ability to educate and heal ourselves and own community is diminished.
Though I do not always agree with my grandfather, I respect that he used his stories to enlighten and empower others like him. In my own way, I hope that the telling of my story can do the same.
I have found that in telling my stories, the pain that the memories associated with them fades more and more. Not because they are losing their efficacy, but because each time I tell them, they become more and more my own.
Our stories are what make us who we are. Telling them is what sets us free.
Photographer: Drew Botcherby
Instagram: @christopherammon
Twitter: @tweetatchris
Website: www.christopherammon.com