I was reading the last Dallas Observer's main story about the gay mexican immigrant population in Dallas when mentioned one guy's Jehovah's Witness past:
Ruiz's campaign of self-education involved much more than packing up and moving from Odessa and happening to meet Jorge. One day in high school, his mother was flipping over his bed so that its innards wouldn't settle, and she came across a journal in which Ruiz had written about his emotions. He'd prudently kept the language vague, but that didn't fool his mom, a strict Jehovah's Witness who had immigrated to West Texas with Ruiz's father from Mexico.
His mother was sitting on his bed after he got home from school with the journal open, but Ruiz denied that he was gay. Five months later, however, when he thought she hadn't returned from a trip, he decided to go to a gay bar for the first time. He almost made it back to his bedroom at 1:30 the next morning when a light suddenly came on and his mother demanded to know where he'd been.
She kept badgering him until he told her he was, in fact, gay. Ruiz tallied up for me the damage inflicted on him that night: three cracked ribs, one black eye, a busted lip, three kicks to the stomach and assorted missing patches of hair, all courtesy of his mother, he says. But Ruiz didn't wallow in self-pity: Several days later, he told his boyfriend to call his pager if the dis-fellowship meeting at the church lasted more than an hour. The boyfriend kept paging him until one of the church elders asked what the noise was. "That's my boyfriend calling; I've got to go," Ruiz said, and he moved to Dallas.
Such family love...