an ethiopian human rights activist raises the profile of gay rights on campus

By Blythe Lawrence

June 22, 2005: Texas - The invitation said 9:37 p.m., but at 10 the spacious apartment was still almost empty.

"I hate gay people," Leoule Goshu said dramatically, rolling his big brown eyes. But he can't help but smile, his despairing tone quickly melting into a high-pitched giggle.

"I just want it to be quiet and not too obnoxious," he said of the impending birthday party. Alcohol is not allowed in the building where Leoule lives, so guests have been warned not to bring anything tucked into a brown paper bag.

In the living room, a handful of guests are seated on cushions and couches around a small coffee table laden with lemon cakes and potato chips, breaking the ice by sharing stories of their strangest dreams and answering "would you rather" questions read off a deck of cards.

"Would you rather your mother was a well-known prostitute or a murderess and only you knew about it?," a girl asked. Leoule blanches, even though the question is not addressed to him. He's played "would you rather" on his birthday before -- specifically, one night two years ago when he decided he'd rather live on the streets than face his abusive parents again.

Domestic violence: A family affair

Originally from Austin, TX, the former UW Gay, Bisexual, Lesbian and Transgender Commission (GBLTC) director grew up in a household where domestic violence was a family affair. His parents were from Ethiopia, where Leoule's grandfather was a government official.

His parents moved to Austin before he was born, and his father attended the University of Texas at Austin, where he received a PhD in psychology. Although it is not uncommon for Ethiopian men to hit their wives, Leoule said his father decided to give up the practice after studying the effects of spousal abuse. But the damage had already been done. Instead of growing up in a household where the father was the dominant abusive figure, by the time the family had moved from Austin to Tacoma, his mother had taken to hitting his father. Violence was "all around," he said. As a child, he thought kids in every household were treated that way.

"I was a bully in preschool," he said, laughing. "My parents used to pinch me, so I pinched other kids. I thought it was the norm."

An excuse for anger

His parents noticed his high voice when he was young and knew he was "different." "Apparently they knew I was gay before I did," Leoule said, but doesn't show the smile that so frequently appears when he interacts with others.

He doesn't think his sexuality altered his childhood, or that his parents picked on him because he was gay. Rather, his sexuality became an excuse for their anger. "[There would have been] domestic violence whether I was gay or straight," he said.

As he grew older, the attacks got progressively worse.

"My father threatened to take my life," Leoule said emotionlessly, staring far away into the darkness of the night. "My mother threatened to kill me with an axe." It's a story he's told many times before.

The young and the homeless

When Leoule was 18, he enrolled at the UW, commuting from home for two years. His parents wouldn't apply for financial aid, even though Leoule says his family would have qualified. "For them, it was a matter of control."

One night, Leoule's mother hit his sister in the face with a wine glass. The injury landed her in the emergency room. For Leoule, it was a wake-up call: his mother was capable of carrying out her threats. He realized he might be next.

So like many children who come from homes of domestic violence, Leoule decided he was safer on the streets. He split the night he turned 20.

"There's a rule among street kids that if you don't have interaction with a social worker during your first 90 days of being homeless, it's hard to get help and get off the streets," Leoule said. He was lucky -- after making contact with a social worker, he was placed in one of Seattle's transitional housing facilities

Because he was black, gay and homeless, the odds were against him. According to a report by the Seattle Commission on Children and Youth, approximately 40 percent of homeless youth identify as gay, lesbian or bisexual. Half say their parents reject them because of their sexual orientation, and 25 percent are forced to leave home because of it.

When Leoule began seeking out ways to get back in school, he discovered he was still technically enrolled at the UW. "It was one of the greatest days of my life," he said.

But there was still depression to overcome. At the transitional home, youths move out when they feel they have gotten a handle on their lives. The continuous exodus and influx of new people at the shelter was too much for Leoule to deal with. Depression and suicide are common issues, he said. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services reports that suicide is the leading cause of death among gay and lesbian youth.

"Here in the U-District, people have the privilege of staying in shelters," Leoule said. "There was no stability in my life. People would enter and leave every three months."

A fetish for being included

The men in the room fit no stereotype and belong to several ethnic groups. Party guests have moved on from playing "would you rather" to describing their fetishes.

"Soccer men."

"Swimmer boys."

"Being tied up with the entire U.S. men's gymnastics team."

For Leoule, it's a welcome change. Even among gay youth, Leoule said he often felt excluded because of his skin color. "White gay males, their circles are very white," he said. His awareness that his skin color made him different from other gay men made him painfully shy.

"I would meet guys on the internet for sex," he said. "But I could never interact with them in person."

Fighting for his rights

Leoule still battles post-traumatic stress. But he's also moved on. As director of the UW GBLTC, he was responsible for generating a storm of publicity about gay rights on campus. He lobbied for gay marriage and helped organize a drag talent competition in the HUB that was so popular it filled the auditorium to capacity and students were turned away.

His job has become so popular that although Leoule applied for the position next year, he was not chosen for it.

"It was weird, moving from a place where I had no power, to a really powerful position," he said. "People love me or they hate me. Nobody wanted the job last year, and now so many people want [it], I've done my job."

Moving on

Leoule's apartment, the biggest in his building, is spotless. The room is lit only by one lamp, with bulbs sprouting in every direction, making it look like an exotic tree. Alongside movie posters, pages featuring GBLTC events from The Daily are tacked to the wall. Music pulsates from someone's laptop, a grounding, driving beat. The guests are eating, drinking, engaged in animated conversations. Every now and then the door opens and someone new walks in to shouted greetings and hugs.

Leoule stands at the center of the room, reveling in it all. Later, when everyone who wants to be is good and buzzed, there will be dancing at Neighbors, a popular gay club on Capitol Hill. Finals, the past and the future can wait -- right now, Leoule Goshu is just another college senior enjoying his 22nd birthday party.