In Pro Per

BY RICH MERRITT
     
      Keeping Secrets
      "Surely you knew what was going to happen." That's a common response when I tell people that Atlanta-based law firm Powell Goldstein fired me after I notified them of the imminent publication of my memoir, Secrets of a Gay Marine Porn Star. Another common reaction is, "You're going to sue, aren't you?" But I tell them that, in a state like Georgia where employment is "at will," what happened is perfectly legal. And even if I could sue, I wouldn't: I know all too well that litigation can be hell.
      Though I knew it was within the realm of possibility, I didn't think my firm would fire me for publishing my memoirs. I have been openly gay since being honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in 1998. In fact, I was relatively open about my private life prior to that: Just weeks before my resignation became effective, my picture appeared on the cover of the New York Times Magazine (with my face obscured by my salute) as part of a feature, "The Shadow Life of a Gay Marine." My identity was never revealed, though many in the Corps realized I was the "anonymous" Marine. I decided that from then on I would not hide my homosexuality. But I was still hiding a part of my past.
      During four months in 1995, I appeared in eight all-male adult films. I was a Marine captain on active duty at the time. There are many reasons?rationalizations really?why I did it, including anger about the "don't ask, don't tell" policy, fascination, adrenaline, and a need for validation.
      I chose not to disclose my history in adult films to the Times, primarily because I didn't feel it was pertinent. For the same reason, I also chose not to tell a writer for The Advocate, a newsmagazine catering to the gay community, for a subsequent article that revealed my identity. A reader promptly notified the editors of my secret history in sex films. A month later The Advocate exposed my porn past in a cover story entitled "The Marine Who Did Gay Porn." I was in my second semester of law school.
      The story devastated me, as it would anyone who's lived a hidden life that is suddenly thrust into the spotlight. The exposure started me on a downward spiral. Four months after beginning my law career at a high-pressure Los Angeles law firm, I attempted suicide.
      I began writing my memoir just days after being released from the hospital. The process was cathartic. Then, in early 2004, I moved to Atlanta to be near my father, who had just been diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. I ended up interviewing for a permanent staff attorney position with Powell Goldstein. During the interview, I did not tell the partners that my memoir, which briefly described my involvement in adult films, would be published in 15 months. Some might call this a "lie of omission"; others would disagree.
      As a staff attorney?a full-time lawyer not on partnership track?I had a flexible schedule that allowed me to help care for my dad. Because of the progressive nature of ALS, I had no idea how long I would be in Atlanta. If I liked the city and the job, perhaps I would stay. I thought I would give Powell Goldstein a year to evaluate my performance; afterward, I would disclose the upcoming book three months in advance. I took and passed the Georgia bar exam. My year-end evaluation was stellar; I was even given a raise. Just days after that, on a Friday, when the prepublication galleys of the book were being sent to media outlets, I gave a copy to the supervising partner. I wanted to believe that the three months' notice would allow the firm to develop a plan to deal with any media or client-relations issues. Over the weekend, they did come up with a plan: that Tuesday I was summoned?and summarily dismissed. It was two months to the day after my father died.
      I had given my employers a copy of the galleys to allow them to see for themselves that my book was a serious and honest story that many readers would identify with or empathize with. As a society, we ostensibly encourage people to heal from and move past destructive behaviors. However, if people fear that they will be fired for telling their stories?which is often a crucial part of the healing process?they will remain silent. And then we all suffer. My book opens with something my therapist told me, something I truly believe: "Our secrets keep us sick." Unfortunately for us all, institutions such as my former law firm would prefer that uncomfortable but human secrets be kept secret.
     
      Rich Merritt is an author and attorney in New York, where he lives with his partner, Jonathan.
     

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