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In Russellville, Alabama during the early 1970s, the worst thing a kid could call another kid was “Jerry Moody.” As in, “Stop acting like a Jerry Moody.” Or, “Joey Manley is a Jerry Moody.” We didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t even realize, at first, that it was somebody’s name. “Jerrymoody,” all one word, was just a bad thing to be. Mood Rings came out about that time, and one of the colors they could turn was “Moody.” You wanted to avoid that color at all costs.
Later, I learned that what people meant when they said “Jerry Moody” was: queer.
Jerry Moody, in addition to being a curse word, was also an actual human being, about twenty years older than me. I only saw the real Jerry Moody once, walking his mother (I think) home from the library. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the ground. He held her arm.
I spoke to my own mom about him on my recent visit home. We had pulled out her old yearbook to find a photograph of Gustav Hasford (another famous outcast from mom’s generation in Russellville, albeit for completely different reasons) and, turning a random page, there he was: a geeky, scrawny kid with dark, thick glasses.
Under his photo: Jerry Moody.
For a kid of my generation, of my neighborhood, that’s like seeing a picture of somebody with the word “Faggot” under it. Seriously. His name was my first introduction to the very concept.
“How did people find out he was gay?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if he was,” she said.
She told me that she had, weirdly enough, had a conversation with my cousin Shirley about Jerry Moody. Shirley, the oldest daughter of my mom’s oldest sister, is only three years younger than my mom, and has always seemed more like an Aunt to me than a cousin. “Kids used to throw rocks at him,” Shirley said. “When I think about that, it tears me up. He had a terrible life.”
I don’t know if Jerry Moody was really gay. I don’t know if he’s still alive. I don’t know how his name came to mean what it did. But I do know that I am one of him. I knew it the first time somebody called me it. Maybe because our initials were the same. Maybe because I just sensed that it meant: doesn’t belong here. And I knew that I didn’t belong there. (Note: I feel less strongly anti-Russellville, the farther it recedes into my past). I do know that, like Shirley told my mom, he had a terrible life — and you know what else I know? I know that I didn’t.
I expect that it is because people like him came before me (he didn’t leave, he didn’t kill himself, he walked his mother home from the library — these things are actually heroic, when you think about what he was up against) that I was able to live my life relatively peacefully, in Russellville, and then other places. He gave a name to what I was, and bore the brunt of that — whether he wanted to, or not.
Thank you, Jerry Moody, wherever you are, whatever you were.
I knew Jerry Moody and his mother. By the way Gustav Hasford (listed most likely as Jerry Hasford) was in the same class with my brother (class of 1966) and they were good friends.
Jerry Moody came into my dad’s drugstore often. I was just a girl and he was at least 10 years older than me. Back then (in the 60s) I didn’t even know about the concept of “homosexual,” but I know that on more than one occasion Jerry was badly beaten up. Once he came in our store all bruised and cut up and his jaw had been broken and his mouth was wired shut for several weeks while it healed. Now that I’m a “fifty-something” adult, he was absolutely the stereotypical gay in mannerisms and speech. His mother died in the 70’s. She was a diabetic and had many health problems and Jerry lived with her and took care of her until her death. I have no idea whatever happened to him.
Jerry was my Aunt Marys brother. Jerry had a hard life. His own family turned on him ostracised him. He took care of his Mom until she died. Years later Jerry was saved and confessed he had overdosed his mother. He served time in Bryce Hospital for the criminally insane. Upon his release he tried to return to a life in Russellville but was too unhappy here. He moved to Tulsa OK and was affiliated with the Oral Roberts ministry. He died alone in Tulsa and is buried at KPCemetary in Russellville. As far as I know he was not gay and was married for a short time in OK. You would have only had to know his mother to realize why he was as he was.
Very good piece. I have to say, I was thinking about Jerry Moody myself not too long ago. Don’t know why, just out of the blue he—and the treatment he received from a generation of our contemporaries—came to mind. I thought your cousin’s comment about his life was especially poignant. Your use of the term”heroic” is, I think, pretty much on the money. From one Russellville boy to another, great job.
Thank you Mark! Did you graduate in 1984? I think I maybe think I know who you are. But maybe not.
That is so harrowing. My God. Thank you for sharing your memory of him.
I just sailed through life as a semi-openly gay kid in Russellville in the 70s and 80s without any problems at all (except for the normal ones of being an ambitious young man in a tiny town). It’s amazing what kind of changes can happen in just one generation, while nobody’s watching.
Great article Joey and so true. I remember the park being called the ‘Moody” lot and people talking about Jerry Moody molesting little boys there. I doubt there is any truth to any of the rumors that went around, but it is so sad that he suffered because of people’s hatred for anyone different especially in our little town. I hope if he is alive he has found peace and if he has passed on, he was comforted in his later years by the knowledge that things for future generations are getting better although we still have a long way to go.
I think it was called the Moody Lot because one of his ancestors had donated it to the city. There’s a medical building there now (just saw it on my recent visit).
I remember Jerry. When I saw him he was using a distinquished walking cane that many thought contained a masterly hidden sword. Of couse, that seems like a hundred years ago to me.
I think it odd that a small town that tormented that fellow actually has become a reputed den of disgust and home of pediphiles. Those same people that poked fun at Mr. Moody long ago may of actually grown up to be the dirty old men who got caught looking at child porn.
I never knew Jerry Moody, but remember the ‘hushed’ comments among the neighbors and kids. I never felt sorry for him, but longed to know him better. I admired anyone who bucked the system and dared to be different.
I remember kids calling each other “Jerry Moody” or saying “You are a Moody”. I never really knew what it meant either, other than it was a “bad thing” to be. I really enjoyed your article, Joey, and am glad you are doing well!!
My aunt knew him and said he died of an insulin overdose, since he was a diabetic.
I would like to talk with you via email or facebook. I am a native of Russellville as well, and I am writing a novel about a small town, a young man who is gay, and the town’s acceptance of him. I intend for the novel to have a happy ending.
This is so weird that I saw this posting today. Very well-written. My email is nancyshawkins@verizon.net, and my fb identity is Nancy Strickland Hawkins. I live in the Washington, DC area now, and I think that’s what’s on my profile.
I don’t intend to ask nosy personal questions; I’d just like to talk about my project with you – see what you think. At any rate, I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you. Nancy Hawkins
Nancy: I sent you an email. Thanks for the kind words!
To all the Jerry Moody’s of the world, I think YOU are the hero. Thank you honoring him in such a poignant way.