Project and content management for Contemporary Authors volumes
WORK TITLE: Girl on a Wire
WORK NOTES: with Sara Stewart
PSEUDONYM(S):
BIRTHDATE:
WEBSITE:
CITY: Lawrence
STATE: KS
COUNTRY:
NATIONALITY:
http://www.latimes.com/local/great-reads/la-na-westboro-church-defector-20130519-dto-htmlstory.html * https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/religion/article/74059-former-evangelical-extremist-recalls-life-in-westboro-baptist-church.html
RESEARCHER NOTES:
PERSONAL
Daughter of Fred Phelps, Jr.; married Logan Alvarez; children: one son.
ADDRESS
CAREER
Physical therapist and writer.
WRITINGS
SIDELIGHTS
Libby Phelps is a physical therapist and writer based in Lawrence, Kansas. She is the granddaughter of Fred Phelps, leader of the Westboro Baptist Church. The church is known for its controversial views on homosexuality and for its colorful protests of military funerals and other events. She left the church as a young adult, which caused her relationship with her immediate family members to become strained.
Phelps wrote about her experience in the church and the consequences of leaving it in her 2017 book, Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church. Journalist Sara Stewart is the coauthor of the volume. Phelps recalls being a child in the Westboro Baptist Church and explains how the church began drawing media attention for its protests, which were generally reviled by religious and non-religious people alike. Reporters were taken aback when members of the Westboro Baptist Church began demonstrating at the funerals of American soldiers, the funeral of a religious figure named Father Mychal Judge, who had been killed during the September 11th attacks, and the funeral of Matthew Shepherd, a gay teen who had been brutally murdered. The signs the church members carried were inflammatory and aggressive toward homosexuals. Phelps discusses the church’s rationale for the protests. She also details the day she decided to leave the church. An argument with her father became intense, and Phelps realized that her views were no longer in line with those of her family. She tells of her mixed feelings after leaving the church.
Phelps explained how she came to write the book in an interview with Joanna Hlavacek on the Lawrence Journal-World website. She stated: “I’ve thought about this question a lot, because when I was first writing it—and it’s been a process over the past few years—everyone told me to write it. When I left (Westboro), everyone was like: ‘Oh, you should write a book.’ I never really thought that my life was that interesting, because it’s all I’d ever known.” Phelps continued: “So I didn’t know what would be interesting to people or why people would want to read it, but then, as the process went on, I realized how much of an inspiration it could be to people, just to show people that you can change. Your heart and your mind can completely change from what you were brought up believing. That’s what it turned into.” Regarding the way in which her family is perceived, Phelps told Hlavacek: “There are a ton of misconceptions. When I very first started, it was almost like I was defending them a little bit, because it was my family. There was so much love growing up, but there was also so much hate.” In an interview with Shannon Hill, contributor to the Publishers Weekly website, Phelps shared the message she had for people whose views differed greatly from those of their families. She stated: “I want them to know that they can survive without them, that they’re not alone, and that there are people out there who support them. I also want them to know it’s possible for people’s hearts and minds to change.” Phelps also told Hill: “I’m raising my children to treat all people decently. I still believe in God, but I focus on attributes like forgiveness and love instead of the hatred that I was brought up to believe in.”
Reviews of Girl on a Wire were favorable. A Publishers Weekly critic suggested: “Phelps delivers a captivating study of how free speech can become a vehicle for cruelty and hatred.” A writer on the Shelf Awareness website commented: “This first-person account of life in the notorious Westboro Baptist Church by the founder’s granddaughter depicts the group’s hateful and insular philosophies.”
BIOCRIT
PERIODICALS
Booklist, July 1, 2017, Michael Cart, review of Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church, p. 3.
Publishers Weekly, June 12, 2017, review of Girl on a Wire, p. 60.
ONLINE
FourTwoNine, http://fourtwonine.com/ (April 1, 2015), Emily Rush, author interview.
Lawrence Journal-World Online (KS), http://www2.ljworld.com/ (September 3, 2017),
Los Angeles Times Online, http://www.latimes.com/ (May 20, 2013), Jenny Team, author interview.
New York Post Online, https://nypost.com/ (April 16, 2013), Sara Stewart, author interview.
Publishers Weekly Online, https://www.publishersweekly.com/ (June 27, 2017), Shannon Hill, author interview.
Shelf Awareness, http://www.shelf-awareness.com/ (August 25, 2017), review of Girl on a Wire.
XOJane, https://www.xojane.com/ (September 9, 2013), article by author.
MAY 20, 2013 | 7:00 AM
Column One
Defector from anti-gay church struggles with her past
Libby Phelps holds up a protest sign while picketing at a soldier's funeral in Wichita, Kan., in 2007. ( Megan Phelps-Roper ) More photos
Libby Phelps' family and faith told her that homosexuality was a sin and she was helping others find salvation. In the four years since she fled Westboro Baptist Church, her parents have not spoken to her. And her journey is far from complete.
By Jenny Deam
Reporting from Topeka, Kan.
May 20, 2013
The house was empty, just as Libby Phelps had planned. Slipping inside that afternoon four years ago, she felt as if her heart would burst through her chest.
She peeked through the curtains, terrified that her aunt and uncle across the street would notice the cars parked in the driveway with doors and trunks open.
Moving quickly with three co-workers by her side, she shoved clothes, high school yearbooks, photo albums, a pillow and an old TV into boxes and suitcases. She felt like a thief in her own home. And, in a way, she was.
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At age 25, Libby Phelps was stealing her life back.
She never dreamed growing up in Topeka that her last name would become so evil to so many. Her grandfather is Fred Phelps, pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church, a place despised by many for its virulent protests against homosexuality at the funerals of U.S. troops.
For Libby, church and family had always been intertwined. Nearly all of Westboro's 70 members descend from her grandfather. Libby's father, Fred Phelps Jr., is the oldest of 13 children and a church leader. She is one of 55 grandchildren.
The Phelps clan lives in a tight radius only a few blocks wide in central Topeka. The children attend public schools; the adults have professional careers. But they socialize almost entirely with one another.
The Southern Poverty Law Center calls them "arguably the most obnoxious and rabid hate group in America."
From the time she could hoist a sign that read "God Hates Fags," Libby picketed with her grandparents, parents, brother and two sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, first in Topeka and then across the land. Her family and her faith told her that homosexuality was a sin and she was helping others find the path to salvation.
She believed it with all of her heart.
Until she didn't anymore.
The Rev. Fred Phelps, Libby Phelps' grandfather, leads the controversial Westboro Baptist Church, based in Topeka, Kan. Her father, Fred Phelps Jr., also is a church leader. ( Michael S. Williamson / Washington Post ) More photos
Troubling questions nagged at her as she grew into adulthood: "How could 70 people be right and everyone else be wrong?"
Libby walked one last time through the only house she had ever lived in. Her parents and older sister, Sara, who still lived at home, were out of state picketing. Suddenly her phone started to buzz. It was her mother sending her a text message: "You having a good day?"
She began to cry. Lately the church had questioned her obedience. Her parents suggested she be more contrite. Her grandfather had asked her just a few days before whether she was thinking of leaving. Even as she reassured him, she could not stop herself from forming a plan.
Libby did not answer her mother. She set the phone on her bed and walked out the door. Her parents and grandparents have not spoken to her since.
Libby had grown up with the belief that the world was full of bad people who would do her harm. In the first months of her new life, she was terrified of strangers. She would go to a party and wonder what her parents would say. She would watch people from afar, wanting to fit in but not knowing how. She still has a hard time trusting others.
"Over time, though, I am less and less the person I used to be," she said. Recently, she has set out to visit places she had been before but this time without a picket sign.
She was 12 when the picketing began.
It was the summer of 1991 and her grandfather took two grandsons on a bike ride to a park in Topeka. The park had long been a hookup spot for gays. The family story goes that Fred rode ahead and when he circled back, a man was trying to lure the boys into the trees.
Furious, he went to the city and demanded it clean up the park. When Topeka's government did not act, he posted his first sign on a park restroom door: "Watch Your Kids. Gays in Restroom."
Libby Phelps' parents, Margie, left, and Fred, center, protest in Baltimore in 2007. Libby says she misses her parents but has not had contact with them. ( Jed Kirschbaum / Baltimore Sun ) More photos
He went to local churches for support. He found none.
He became convinced he and his offspring were chosen to battle a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. They needed to take their warnings directly to the public. Fred, now 83, describes his church as Old School Baptist and subscribes to the Calvinist belief that certain people are picked for salvation before birth.
In the beginning, Libby saw the picketing as a play date with her cousins. Every week the children carried signs with messages of damnation and trudged around in a circle in Gage Park until a pattern was worn into the grass. Sometimes in the summer it got so hot that Libby's mother would wrap a wet washcloth around her neck. In the winter, getting their snow gear on took longer than the picket.
"I didn't even know what a homosexual was," Libby said.
Before long, her grandfather's crusade expanded beyond Topeka. Family members were dispatched to picket government offices, schools, military bases and pop culture events for what the church perceived as acceptance of homosexuality.
Libby picketed dozens of gay pride parades around the country, the AIDS quilt tour, the Academy Awards, radio broadcaster Paul Harvey's funeral, Jenna Bush's wedding, a public memorial for firefighters in California, college football games, soldiers' funerals, actor Bernie Mac's funeral, a Billy Graham event, the Sago mine disaster funerals in West Virginia and President Obama's 2008 inauguration. She even picketed her high school and college graduations before taking part in the ceremonies.
It had never been easy growing up as a Phelps.
Holidays were not celebrated. She was forbidden to date. She could not wear makeup, pierce her ears or cut her hair. As her family's notoriety grew, she realized she was despised. Classmates would move to the other side of the room to avoid her. Her parents told her persecution made her stronger.
Once, when Libby was 17, Sara asked their parents what they would talk about as a family if they didn't picket.
Libby Phelps pickets against Billy Graham and the Southern Baptist Convention in 2006 in North Carolina. (Megan Phelps-Roper) More photos
"Don't say that. Don't even think like that," Libby recalled their father bristling.
Later that night, maybe for the first time, Libby began to wonder: "Am I doing the right thing? Should I be telling people they are going to hell?" She quickly pushed those thoughts aside.
After the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, she said, church members were jubilant, saying God had punished the United States for condoning homosexuality. But Libby didn't feel happy.
Soon afterward, one of her favorite cousins, Joshua Phelps-Roper, abruptly left the church. She was told to never speak to him again.
Years before, Libby's oldest sister had also left the church. When her sister tried to visit home, church members told her she was not welcome. Libby saw the price of betrayal.
Yet she worried that those around her were becoming more extreme.
In February 2009, a fight over a bikini brought back rebellious thoughts that she had once swatted away.
Libby was working as a physical therapist at the time her family planned a trip to Puerto Rico. A co-worker lent her and her sister bikinis, and their mother snapped a modest picture of the two on a beach.
The photo was displayed on a table before church one Sunday. By the end of the service it was gone.
Libby was accused of dishonoring her parents, and an intervention was called. Church leaders told her they noticed her faith was slipping.
She was afraid, but unlike her sister Sara, she did not apologize. She reminded her critics that other church members had worn bikinis without reprisal. It only made them angrier. She was told she was trying to live in both worlds. She would have to choose.
"What is in your heart?" an aunt demanded.
Libby wasn't sure. Once she figured it out, she knew what she had to do.
Since Libby left Westboro Baptist Church in 2009, there have been about 10 other defections — most of them grandchildren, including Sara.
Steve Drain, a Westboro spokesman, downplays the departures. "They're not of us," he said. "They want to define God in their own terms. Good luck with that." His daughter Lauren left and recently wrote a book critical of the church.
Libby married in July 2011. Her parents did not attend.
Libby Phelps with her boyfriend at the time, Logan Alvarez, in Venice, Italy, in 2010. They have since married. Her parents did not attend the wedding. ( Libby Phelps ) More photos
Her name is now hyphenated: Phelps-Alvarez. Now 30, she lives in Lawrence, Kan., about 20 miles from her childhood home. She has new friends, a new family, a new world. But she misses her parents. Just after she left, she received an email from a church member saying her mother and father wanted no further communication with her. Her parents did not respond to requests for an interview.
Libby isn't sure what she believes anymore. She no longer hates homosexuality, but her journey is far from complete: "Everyone thinks when you leave you do this 180. It doesn't work that way."
Sometimes she and her cousins talk about reaching out to those they hurt. Libby remembers when the Phelps clan picketed the funeral of a soldier killed in Afghanistan in 2006. He was the husband of one of her favorite instructors in college.
Libby wishes she could explain her past to the woman, but what could she say?
"I guess I would say I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing."
She is not yet ready to make the call.
QUOTED: "I want them to know that they can survive without them, that they’re not alone, and that there are people out there who support them. I also want them to know it’s possible for people’s hearts and minds to change."
"I’m raising my children to treat all people decently. I still believe in God, but I focus on attributes like forgiveness and love instead of the hatred that I was brought up to believe in."
Former Evangelical Extremist Recalls Life in Westboro Baptist Church
By Shannon Hill | Jun 27, 2017
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Photo: Grace Elizabeth Phelps-Roper
Libby Phelps
Picketing everything from the funerals of American soldiers to Broadway musicals, the Westboro Baptist Church frequently makes headlines for their hate speech and controversial protests. For most people, the infamous “God Hates America” signs are synonymous with evangelical extremism, but for Libby Phelps, they represent her family. Her grandfather, Fred Phelps, founded the church in 1955 in Topeka, Kans. and orchestrated the first protest (against homosexuality) in 1991.
“People always ask me if I would describe the Westboro Baptist Church as a cult, but it’s so hard to use such a negative word to describe my own family,” she told PW.
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Phelps shares her story as a member of Westboro Baptist Church and her decision to leave both her faith and her family in her debut memoir, Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line Between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church (Skyhorse Publishing, Aug.).
For Phelps, the book provides an opportunity to offer hope to others who might be faced with feelings of suppression and shame. It’s also a way to communicate with her parents, siblings, and extended family–all of whom disowned her when she left the church. “I know they’re going to read it,” she said. “It’s hard because I’m sure they’ll make fun of it and get angry. But even though they’ve pretty much disowned me, I still love them.”
According to Phelps, the theology of Westboro Baptist is rooted in a belief in predestination, a lack of free will, and the idea that only a small group of God’s elected people will go to heaven. “Gramps always used to say that it’s a lie that God loves everyone,” she said. “They pretty much think that everyone except those who belong to Westboro Baptist are going to go to hell.”
While she sees those views as extreme today, she says growing up she accepted them as the truth. The hardest part about being raised in the church wasn’t adhering to its religious ideas, holding hateful picket signs, or dealing with counter-protests, said Phelps. It was the strict lifestyle guidelines and the pressure to be perfect. “It was like walking on eggshells,” she said. “You had to be spiritual and Godly all the time.”
Her decision to leave came eight years ago, at age 25, after she was chastised for wearing a bikini and was the focus of a church-wide intervention. Belittled, disappointed in her family for not defending her, and questioning the sanity of some of the church members, the idea that Westboro Baptist Church represented God’s chosen people began to crumble.
After packing everything she owned into a car and moving into a friend’s house in secret, Phelps realized how much of her life had been planned out and controlled by the church, including the clothes she wore and when she exercised. “There were so many simple daily tasks that I didn’t know how to do, like how to pay my bills,” she said. Phelps hasn't seen her family since she left.
The strength and courage Phelps discovered within herself and the support she received from friends is the biggest thing she says she hopes readers take away from her book. “I have lots of gay people reach out to me about how their families shun them because of their lifestyle,” she said. “I want them to know that they can survive without them, that they’re not alone, and that there are people out there who support them. I also want them to know it’s possible for people’s hearts and minds to change.”
Phelps speaks from experience. “I was anti-homosexual, now I’m speaking out for equality,” said Phelps, who lives in Kansas with her husband and children and works as a physical therapist. “I’m raising my children to treat all people decently. I still believe in God, but I focus on attributes like forgiveness and love instead of the hatred that I was brought up to believe in.”
Alexandra Hess, assistant editor at Skyhorse Publishing, credited Phelps’ willingness to reflect on the radical ideas that informed her life up until leaving the church. “Her ability to find clarity and the strength to overcome hate is a revelation of human compassion, resilience, and redemption,” she said.
When asked about concerns over Westboro Baptist Church's reaction to Girl on a Wire, president and publisher of Skyhorse Publishing Tony Lyons said he is prepared for the possibility of backlash. Nevertheless, the publisher is dedicated to finding credible and diverse perspectives, regardless of controversy.
Marketing and publicity for Girl on a Wire, which has a 20,000-announced first print run, will include outreach to mainstream and Christian media outlets such as NPR, Sirius FM radio shows, the Christian Science Monitor, and various Christian radio stations, as well as promotion on social media via reviews, excerpts, and media appearances, and inclusion in Skyhorse’s newsletters to booksellers and librarians.
I left Westboro — and now I’m fighting for gay equality
By Sara Stewart April 16, 2013 | 4:00am | Updated
Modal Trigger
I left Westboro — and now I’m fighting for gay equality
Libby Phelps Alvarez (near left, at 2006 protest) was brought up on hate speech as the granddaughter of Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps. Today, she is supporting gay equality as part of the Planting Peace organization. Gabriella Bass
Libby Phelps Alvarez stands outside her grandfather's Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan. Four years ago, she fled the church, known for its hate speech.
THE SISTERS: The church blasted Libby (at right, left photo) and her sister Sara for wearing bikinis in this photo. Libby's parents (right photo) have not spoken to their daughter in four years.
Libby at her 2011 nuptials to husband Logan Alvarez (left). Right: Libby (top left) celebrates her 24th birthday with her sister Sara, grandfather Fred Phelps and grandmother Margie.
Libby Phelps Alvarez was raised as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church, a vitriolic group founded by her grandfather, Fred Phelps. Famed for picketing funerals of soldiers with anti-gay signs, the Topeka, Kan.,-based organization, with its estimated 70 members, has become infamous for its extremist hate speech.
Four years ago, Alvarez, now 30, left the church — and she is now supporting Planting Peace, a nonprofit that recently bought a house across from her old church and painted it with gay-pride-themed rainbow stripes and titled it the Equality House. Alvarez plans to work with the group’s founder, Aaron Jackson, on a new anti-bullying initiative — as far as one can come from a childhood of waving signs reading, “God hates f - gs.” A physical therapist, she lives with her husband, Logan, in Lawrence, Kan., close to her hometown. She tells The Post’s Sara Stewart her story.
I’m sitting in the living room of the Topeka rainbow house, looking out across the street at the church that used to be my home. I’m so close. And I’m really nervous. I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want to disappoint my parents.
But I like hanging out with the guys here. I’ve been here a few times now. I like how open they are, and how I can have conversations with them about anything. Growing up, I would always be afraid of getting things wrong, afraid of what my family would think of me if I did.
PHOTOS: ‘I LEFT MY FAMILY’S GAY BASHING CULT’
I knew what the rainbow colors meant when I first saw the house — I’ve picketed gay pride parades before, after all. I don’t quite know what I think about it all. It’s not like I want everyone to be gay. But I think everyone should be treated equally.
This is not the kind of teaching I grew up with. My grandfather, Fred Phelps, is the founder of Westboro Baptist Church.
Gramps, as I called him, is a Southern gentleman. You just want to be in his orbit. He’s always very sweet with Gran, always gives her kisses. But with Gramps and my dad — Fred Phelps Jr. — the only way to get their love and affection was to talk about hell. I remember sitting by the pool in the backyard when I was young, writing in my pink notebook about hell and the descriptions of it. Gramps came up to me and kissed me on the forehead and said, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Three times in a row.
He would make me poached eggs for breakfast, and then we’d sit around and he would talk about the sermon for the upcoming week. It was always about how “f - gs are dooming the nation.”
There are about 70 people in the church, mostly family. We had about 10 houses in the neighborhood, and a communal backyard. Gramps and Gran live in the house that’s also the church.
In the old days, Gramps was a Democrat and a civil rights lawyer. He ran for governor in the ’80s. I remember driving around in his red truck in parades, throwing candy and stuff. We would have these big barbecues in the backyard. Al Gore came to my house for a fund-raiser once.
When I was 8, Gramps went to nearby Gage Park with two of my cousins, who were about a year younger than me. This park was known for homosexual gatherings. When he came back, he said these men started propositioning the boys — though you know, I’ve never actually asked my cousins whether that happened.
Gramps went to the city council meeting and wrote letters. And the next thing you know, we all started picketing, every single weekend. Eventually it became every day, no matter what. Afternoon pickets and evening pickets. Because you’re doing God’s work, telling everyone they’re going to hell.
The whole family talks about homosexuality, every single day. And it’s always about how homosexuals are dooming the world. They talk about fornication and divorce, remarriage and adultery, but the main thing is the homosexual lifestyle. It wasn’t a personal hatred toward anybody. We were taught that we were doing a loving thing.
Either you are one or you’re enabling one, and so everybody — except the Westboro people — is going to hell.
Church was on Sundays, for an hour. All the women had to wear head-coverings, because women are seen as submissive.
Gramps would always do the sermon. He was so good at it, so intense. He would talk about topical things that were going on, and it would always come back to homosexuality, nearly every single time.
We weren’t allowed to celebrate any holidays at all, because they’re all too pagan, even Easter and Christmas. We could only celebrate birthdays, so those have always been a big deal for me.
We went to public school, but we weren’t allowed to go to dances or anything like that. We were mostly friends with each other. You weren’t supposed to date, obviously. Gramps would preach about that: “If I hear of any of my grandkids going around having sex with anyone . . .”
The picketing was a social thing for us — it was a way we would see our cousins. We would just call each other, like, “You going to the 5 o’clock picket? Me too. I’ll see you there.” We would use it to go on vacations. You go, you picket, you do some fun stuff. I have a picture of me in Hawaii with two signs: “God hates f - gs” and “God hates Hawaii.” Why does he hate Hawaii? Because we wanted to go there!
When 9/11 happened, I heard it on the radio in the car. I was actually driving over to the church. It was jaw-dropping. I thought, “Oh my God. I can’t believe that happened.” And then I get to the house and everyone was celebrating, like, “This is awesome! God is punishing this nation!” So I had to change, and be like, “Oh, OK, that’s awesome.” So I did. That’s what I thought.
Around 2007, my cousin Megan and I would go to a rec center at a nearby university to play volleyball. And this guy Blake came up to us and asked if he could hit with us. He seemed really personable and outgoing, really nice. He didn’t say anything about being gay. But I’ve been around homosexuals my whole life, just from picketing them. His mannerisms made me think he might be. Afterward, I looked at Megan and said, “Do you think he’s a f - g?” We didn’t know.
Blake told me later that his friends, and the people at the rec center, were saying, “Do you know who you’re playing with? You’re playing with those Phelpses!” But he kept hanging out with us.
One time he was driving down 17th Street in Topeka, and he saw me and Megan picketing with some people. And he honked and waved at me, and I said, “Hey!” and smiled back. It was confusing.
In 2008, I graduated from University of Kansas Medical Center with a doctorate of physical therapy. I had been living at home the whole time I was in school.
One of my first patients was this guy named Logan. When he came in, I thought, “Whoa, he’s cute.” I didn’t say anything, because I’m very professional! But also it wasn’t like it was a possibility. If anybody in the church even thought you were lusting after somebody, that was a sin. But I didn’t lust. I just thought he was cute, and I kept it to myself.
Then in 2009, my mom and dad, my sister Sara and me took a trip to Puerto Rico. We weren’t allowed to picket there, but we went anyway — we took a whole bunch of photos, including one of me and Sara in our bikinis at the beach.
When we got back, Gramps said to me, “I haven’t had a picture of you guys in a while. Can I get one?” I thought that was the best one, so I gave it to him. And he liked it. He was like, “You guys look like models!” He always said that kind of stuff.
So I didn’t think anything of it until my cousin Megan called me on the phone and said, “Why were you wearing a bikini? I don’t think it’s appropriate.” And I stuck up for myself. I said, “You’ve worn a bikini before. We used to be able to wear them. And now it’s against the rules? It wasn’t like I was trying to pick up a guy or anything.”
Then my Aunt Shirley called and said, “Can you come down here? A few of us want to talk to you.” I showed up, and 30 church members had filled up the big game room. Like a show was being put on or something. And they started in: The initial issue was the bikini, but the bigger problem was the way I was reacting. Because I had stood up for myself.
I wanted to throw up. It was the most intense thing. Because I’m thinking, I better shape up or I’m going to go to hell. Then I heard Marge, who’s my other aunt, in the other room saying, “She’s too far gone. There’s no hope for her.”
That was on Wednesday, March 11. On Friday the 13th I left for good. It was a really hard decision for me to leave. But things were just getting more and more extreme in the church — like praying for people to die.
Nobody knew I was leaving. My mom and dad were on an out of town picketing trip. And my sister was out of town, too. I didn’t tell anybody else in the family.
It was in the middle of the day. My boss and two other people from work came to my family’s house and helped me pack up my stuff and I went to my boss’ place, where I lived for a few months.
Blake was one of the first people I saw after I left. Not because of him being gay or anything. He was just always really nice to me. And I remember talking to him and him saying, “So what do you think about gay people now?”
And I said, “I still think it’s wrong!” Because when I first left, I did think that.
That was the first time he’d asked me anything like that. And he said, “Oh,” and kind of looked down. I’m pretty sure he thought I would tell him he was going to hell if he was.
Soon after I’d left, Shirley sent an e-mail saying, “Your mom and dad and sister want no further communication with you.” I learned later that my mom had called the clinic where I work on Friday, not knowing I’d moved out. That was the only time she’s ever tried to contact me.
One of the first things I did after leaving was get a haircut. Women can’t cut their hair in the church, because of First Corinthians 11:14: “If a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her, for her hair is given her for a covering.” You shouldn’t cut it off because you’re cutting your glory off.
The whole time I was nervous. I was like, “Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
When I first left, I thought that I was going to die driving on the highway. When I first got on an airplane, I thought it was going to crash and I was going to die, because God hated me now. I still get scared.
A few months after leaving, I was shopping downtown and recognized Logan, my cute former patient. I was like, “Hey, I know who you are.”
We started dating and early on I asked him, “Do you know who Fred Phelps is?” And he said maybe he’d heard the name, but he didn’t really know. And I said, “Well, I’m his granddaughter.” I told him to go home and research it.
The next time I saw him, he told me he had. And then there was a long pause. I was like, “Just say it. Whatever you’re going to say, just say it.” He said, “It doesn’t matter to me.” That my past didn’t matter. And he liked me for who I was. Because I didn’t do it anymore, he didn’t care.
We dated for about two years and then we got married in Cozumel, Mexico, on July 9, 2011. Three of my cousins who’d left the church came to the wedding. I was sad, because I wanted my parents there. My mom and grandma had given me these rings when I was younger, and I wore those. The one from my grandma had four birthstones on it.
I walked down the aisle by myself. I didn’t want anybody to walk me. I felt lonely — everybody wants their dad to walk them down the aisle — and I could have asked a cousin, but I figured, I’ll be a strong independent woman and do this by myself.
We’re happily married but my past still haunts me.
A few months ago, I was having a really stressful night. I had a little breakdown. I went to Blake’s house, and we went driving around. I was just telling him everything, spilling my guts.
And then in the middle of all this I said, “Blake, would you just tell me that you’re gay?” That’s just my personality. I’m nosy. I could tell he was hesitant to say. He was living with a guy at the time.
He finally did. And I just started laughing. He said, “I knew you’d be fine with it and you’d still be my friend. But what I was afraid of is that you might tell me I’m going to hell. And I don’t want to be told that.”
But I didn’t tell him that.
The day before Easter I took my little cousin to Topeka because I thought she would like to see this colorful house I’d heard about, right across the street from the church. I drove over the long way, so I wouldn’t have to pass all my families’ houses. I was really nervous. I was shaking. I didn’t want to get out. The first time I got that close, I was like, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” But I walked up and I sat there on the porch for a little bit.
A tall man with dark hair came out of the house and introduced himself as Aaron Jackson, the founder of Planting Peace. Immediately I was intrigued and we made a plan to have dinner. Over the meal with Aaron and his associates, Davis Hammet and Rob Gisser, they told me about their plan to start an anti-bullying program. Aaron asked if I’d be a part of it. I don’t know if I want to give a speech or anything! But I don’t believe in people bullying people for any reason. So we’re talking about it.
When I was in the rainbow house last week, I saw my parents go by on their daily walk. I hadn’t seen them in four years. And I couldn’t go to them, couldn’t talk to them. It wouldn’t be productive. I just watched them walk by and I started crying.
My dad will see this story, because he’s the one who weeds through press. And if he thinks it’s worth forwarding on, he’ll forward it to everybody. And then someone will be like, “She’s following her lusts, she’s going to hell.”
But I want to tell my parents that I love them. And I want to say that my parents were good parents.
I don’t know if they would ever leave the church. But my cousin Megan left a few months ago and she’s one of the last people that I would have thought. And now her sister Grace and my sister Sara have left, too.
So it’s a possibility. My parents could leave. I would want them to. Then I can see them again.
In the meantime, I hope I can help some of my young relatives when they get older. That’s my main goal, why I want to stick around in Kansas.
I want my cousins and my nieces and nephews to see that the world isn’t mean and hateful and evil and full of vicious people. We were told there’s going to be heartache and sorrow and disease and sadness in the world outside the church. And there is sadness at some points. But overall, it’s a fun adventure.
I don’t really think my personality has changed much, but I think my ideas on life have changed. When I had first left, if I would see a homosexual couple, I would scrunch up my nose. Then it got to where I still thought it was wrong, but I wouldn’t say or do anything. And now it’s to the point where it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t really care if somebody is gay. I know that I want to be good to people. I still believe in God. I just think that he’s more forgiving.
Ultimately I don’t think I have the right to say who is going to heaven or hell. I think I’ve always felt this way, but until now I didn’t have the courage to say it.
sstewart@nypost.com
Libby Phelps was part of the Westboro Baptist Church until she was twenty-five years old. She’s participated in a BBC documentary titled America’s Most Hated Family in Crisis, has been on The Today Show and Anderson Cooper Live, and featured in media such as the New York Post, Lost Angeles Times, and xojane.com. Today, she’s a physical therapist and lives with her husband and son in Lawrence, Kansas.
I'm an Ex-Westboro Church Member Who Has Renounced the Group My Grandfather Founded
It’s been four years since I left my family, my friends, my community the only world I had ever known the Westboro Baptist Church (WBC).
LIBBY-PHELPS-ALVAREZ SEPTEMBER 9, 2013
TAGS: RELIGION, WESTBORO BAPTIST CHURCH
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For most of my adolescence and early adult life, my life’s purpose was to protest homosexuality in God’s name. I really believed, to my very core, that gay people were destroying not only America, but the entire world. And that it was my job to let the world know just that.
The church is made up of about 70 people, and 90 percent of them are members of my immediate or extended family. WBC is best known for its picketing, which began in earnest in the early 1990s. We picketed pop concerts, football games, churches of every denomination and, most notoriously, the funerals of American servicemen and victims of hate crimes.
You know who we are. You’ve gasped at television footage of me and my family at memorial services for American soldiers, waving signs that say “Thanks God For Dead Soldiers.” You have seen the images, each colorful neon sign emblazoned with a hateful, shocking slogan: “God: USA’s Terrorist.” “God Hates Jews.” “Thank God for 9/11.” The international media have covered our protests with unflagging interest, to the deep satisfaction of the WBC leaders my aunts, Shirl and Marge, and my grandfather, Fred, the group’s pastor and founder.
I was involved in a group so inflammatory that their website is named www.godhatesfags.com. People sometimes ask why it took me so long to leave. I seem so well-adjusted and, well, normal, so they don’t understand how I could have ever thought my family and their beliefs were anything but hateful.
But, for almost 26 years, I was more than just sheltered. I was warned against the outside world: again and again, in sermons and private conversations, I was told that people outside of WBC were sinners, alcoholics, drug addicts, lost souls with no moral compass. So I was terrified of what lurked beyond the protective walls my family had carefully erected around me -– especially of gay people, because according to the WBC, homosexuals were the absolute worst group of people in the world.
From as long as I can remember, I was told daily that they were the bottom rung on the ladder of depravity and were sending America to hell in a “faggot’s hand basket.” Gays were to blame for all the natural disasters, terrorist attacks and school shootings. But their enablers were just as bad: anyone who didn’t believe in what WBC preached, anyone who didn’t attend WBC was going to hell, where the worm that eats on you never dies and your thirst is never quenched. Where fire will shoot out of your eyeballs and your body’s tolerance for pain will incrementally rise so there is never any level of comfort.
My only view of life outside WBC was that it was an orgy of sin. That absolutely everyone was bound for eternal damnation.
The seeds of doubt sprouted in me at 17, on a Midwestern road trip with my family.
“What would we talk about if we didn’t talk about picketing?” my sister Sara chirped in the car.
“Don’t even think that way,” my dad chided her.
My aunts, Shirl and Marge, were a fearsome duo who ruled WBC with an iron fist and it was when they made me the target for their wrathful machinations that I was finally emboldened to leave; the prospect of staying in the church was finally worse than my fear of the unknown.
I needed my family to reject me before I allowed myself to act on the impulse I had felt, but never spoken of, for many years. I couldn’t picket any longer and I couldn’t continue telling people that God hated them. So I packed up and moved to a city 30 minutes away from WBC, and I’ve been forbidden to talk to my parents, siblings, cousins and friends still connected with the church ever since.
It’s been four years and I continue to be a work in progress. For a long time I was scared of how my parents, my entire family, would react to what I had to say. It may sound foolish or paranoid, but I became convinced they were godlike and were somehow able to observe me at all times.
I understand the world sees Fred Phelps, who founded WBC in 1955, as an evil hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, but to me he was always just Gramps.
Few people can believe it, but Gramps became a civil rights lawyer shortly after starting WBC.
My dad is Fred Phelps, Jr. He was the oldest of 13 children and the only one born outside of Topeka. When I was eight years old and the church’s picketing ministry began in earnest, he would quiz me and my sister Sara before pickets to make sure we knew what we were protesting and why.
For decades after the church’s founding, Gramps worked as a civil rights lawyer during the week, and an old-school preacher on Sundays. My dad followed in his footsteps, working on civil rights cases as well he was Al Gore’s delegate on the floor of the Democratic National Convention in 1988.
And then everything changed in 1991.
In June of that year, the picketing ministry of WBC was born. It all began at Gage Park a local “hot-spot” where homosexuals were known to meet and have anonymous sex. For being barely eight at the time, I remember the day well when my family discussed the possibility of picketing. I could tell a serious discussion was taking place by their hushed sounds, as they didn’t want the children to hear exactly what was going on.
Our first picket took place after a church service on a Sunday. We held placards with messages that were not on par with the more popular slogan, “God Hates Fags.” The first sign Gramps made was later framed and hung inside the church’s green office, named for its green carpet: “Watch Your Kids! Gays in Restrms.”
I was told Gramps wanted to clean up the park for him and his grandchildren to enjoy it. My family initially thought other churches would see the problem and come on board and help with the picketing. The opposite happened. They started preaching against the signs. So my family started picketing local churches regularly.
From there, the church moved on to bigger venues, sending groups of picketers all over the United States. WBC’s message eventually spread to just about every country in the world it’s so easy, thanks to the Internet and relentless journalists who visit the church regularly and keep the world appraised of WBC’s every move.
Initially, we had a calling tree to figure out who could go to which out-of-town pickets. As technology progressed and members became computer-savvy, a program was designed for church members to log in and answer “yes” or “no” to a picket request.
As the pickets progressed and became more extreme (to the point of me getting knocked down at the age of 12 by an angry mob of counter protestors in Golden, CO and getting punched in the face as a young teen at a frequent local Topeka picket) so did the fundamentals of the church itself.
For me, the most disconcerting change was in the way we prayed. Everything changed as a result of a lawsuit filed against the church by Albert Snyder, the father of a U.S. marine killed in Iraq in 2006. WBC members had picketed Matthew Snyder’s funeral, as they had so many others, but the elder Snyder was ready to fight back.
The case became an epic battle for WBC it eventually reached the Supreme Court and all church members were expected to rally around the cause. We actually started praying for people to die. This startling development, along with other extreme updates to WBC doctrine, further chipped away at my faith.
People often wonder about the motive behind WBC’s public face. Do they really believe what they’re doing? Is it all a publicity stunt? Are they doing it simply to be cruel? The bottom line is that they think they, and only they, are God’s servants. God put them on this Earth to spread the Gospel. Gramps saw the increasing prominence of the gay lifestyle as the single biggest indicator that America was headed for ruin, just as in Sodom and Gomorrah.
I heard extreme views like these for as long as I can remember, but I thought I was one of the few people God had selected to be His own. I felt, in a sense, privileged that by the grace of God I was born into this family and believed I was handpicked to represent God on the mean streets of America. I felt this way because that’s how my family raised me to feel.
We were to be thankful we were chosen out of this corrupt and sinful generation while all others were blinded by the truth. That didn’t mean I didn’t have conflicting emotions when something like 9/11 happened, where my initial reaction was pure and utter shock, while the elder church member’s reaction was to joyfully dance (or to dance a little jig, as they so fondly called it).
Since I’d been told what I was told since birth, a lot of it felt normal for me. I learned from a young age to push any “bad” thoughts to the back of my mind, as if those thoughts never existed. I also learned from an early age that these “bad” thoughts were not to be discussed openly for fear of public humiliation within the confines of the church.
The words on the signs (and coming from the picketers’ mouths) are not necessarily written to make people feel bad, but more for the shock factor. Short sound bites grab people’s attention and spark interest. As a result, they will look at the signs and have to make a choice: to serve God by picketing with them (though this has to my knowledge only happened once or twice), or to turn their back to them (which would be like turning their back on God) and be part of reprobate America.
When the picketing first began, WBC targeted the homosexual population. Now they are more likely to be protesting a fallen soldier’s funeral than a gay pride parade. When you look at the places WBC picketed, it seems as if church members are continually compelled to find someone or something to complain about, or they cannot be content.
In the inner workings of the church, the same is true. The elders will find fault with a person, and when that situation is resolved to their satisfaction, they’ll scan the rest of the group in search of another insignificant issue with which to find fault and “correct.” They rebuke one another. I was told sometimes that to “rebuke” means to show honor. It also means to bring something to light and expose it, and shame the person into doing right.
A few months ago, on Anderson Cooper’s show, I was confronted by the mother of a soldier whose funeral had been picketed -– not because he was gay, but because he had been fighting for a country that condoned homosexuality. They only told me it would happen minutes before the show started shooting.
I panicked; I didn’t know what I was going to say. Was I going to apologize or not? Was I going to try and explain the church’s mindset? Seconds before I went out, I decided I wasn’t going to apologize or say I lived in regret. I don’t want to regret anything I’ve done; past experiences made me the person I am today. I can only learn from the past and move forward and be an example to others that change is possible.
But when I found myself face to face with a mother of a fallen soldier and saw how much pain my family (and what I used to do) had caused her and her loved ones, I couldn’t do anything but apologize, even though I had been gone from the church when her son’s funeral was picketed. It simply was the right thing to do.
After this experience, I wondered whether I’d be making amends for my family for the rest of my life. I can only hope that at some point, my actions as I move forward in life will speak for themselves.
Libby Phelps on life after leaving the Westboro Baptist Church
CULTUREBY EMILYRUSH ON APR 1, 2015
Little has been said about what life is like inside the Westboro Baptist Church, the hate group best known for picketing funerals and its vehemently anti-gay views—that is, until now. Fred Phelps’ granddaughter Libby spoke with Vice about what it was like growing up in the WBC, and what her life has been like since she left.
Libby Phelps left the church her grandfather built in 2009. Regarding why, she says, “There are so many reasons; bottom line is I don’t believe in WBC theology. I don’t think it’s right to display such a hateful message. I especially don’t think it’s right picketing funerals.”
Although she went to public school as a child, she wasn’t allowed to have friends outside of the church: “We were only really able to develop relationships with those who attended WBC.” She was also sometimes treated poorly by other classmates or even teachers, “but we were told that the world hated us, so we expected it.”
Libby reports that despite the WBC’s promotion of hate, she was very close to her family growing up—something she misses now, especially since she has yet to see such closeness in the “real world.”
Although she grew up participating in LGBT rights protests, she says, “As I got older, I decided I didn’t believe in the doctrine,” even though rejecting her family’s views meant she was forced “to leave everyone I’d ever known behind and start a new life.”
She explains, “once you leave WBC you can’t talk to anyone any more. It’s weird, but that’s how it is. You leave your entire life, everything you’ve ever known. That’s why it’s so hard to leave.”
Despite the environment in which she was raised, Libby says “I think I’ve always thought nobody was better than anyone else, I just couldn’t express it. At WBC your actions and thoughts were conditioned and controlled by the older generations.”
The home of Planting Peace, the rainbow-colored Equality House, is deliberately located just across the street from the WBC’s compound, and after Libby left, she found herself wanting to participate in a different type of activism. “Within the first month of them painting it, I stopped by and wanted to help out. The owners gave me a paintbrush, and I helped paint the house.”
On March 23, Libby participated in the organization’s second anniversary event, “Plant One for Peace.” Now married with a young son, she said that she attended the celebration with her family because she believes in equality—and to be there for her young cousin, who has also left the WBC.
When asked what her life is like now, she says, “I’ve done so many things that weren’t possible at WBC…
“For the most part everyone has been so supportive and understanding, including my friends at the Equality House. WBC had raised us to believe that everyone outside of the church hated us, and it’s so refreshing to see that’s not true.”
429Magazine
QUOTED: "I’ve thought about this question a lot, because when I was first writing it—and it’s been a process over the past few years—everyone told me to write it. When I left (Westboro), everyone was like: 'Oh, you should write a book.' I never really thought that my life was that interesting, because it’s all I’d ever known."
"So I didn’t know what would be interesting to people or why people would want to read it, but then, as the process went on, I realized how much of an inspiration it could be to people, just to show people that you can change. Your heart and your mind can completely change from what you were brought up believing. That’s what it turned into."
"There are a ton of misconceptions. When I very first started, it was almost like I was defending them a little bit, because it was my family. There was so much love growing up, but there was also so much hate."
September 3, 2017
Ex-Westboro Baptist Church member discusses her book, her estranged family and life after leaving
In her early 20s, Libby Phelps Alvarez made the decision to leave the Westboro Baptist Church on one particular day without saying goodbye to her family. Now married and living in Lawrence with two kids, Phelps Alvarez has written a book about her experiences being raised in the Phelps family.
Photo by Nick Krug. Enlarge photo.
In her early 20s, Libby Phelps Alvarez made the decision to leave the Westboro Baptist Church on one particular day without saying goodbye to her family. Now married and living in Lawrence with two kids, Phelps Alvarez has written a book about her experiences being raised in the Phelps family.
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By Joanna Hlavacek
September 3, 2017
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Libby Phelps Alvarez, 34, has written a book about growing up in the Westboro Baptist Church — and what made her decide to leave at age 25 and start a new life for herself in Lawrence. Here, in an edited and condensed version of the Journal-World's interview with the first-time author, the surprisingly bubbly and, for lack of a better word, normal Phelps Alvarez speaks openly about her childhood, her life post-WBC and why she still holds out hope for her estranged family. (Even "Gramps," as Phelps Alvarez lovingly refers to the late founder of Westboro Baptist Church, supposedly had a change of heart just before his death.)
Now married (with two small kids of her own) and working as a physical therapist in Lawrence, Phelps Alvarez, who writes under the name Libby Phelps, has also become an advocate for LGBT equality since fleeing her family's notorious anti-gay hate group nearly ten years ago. Her book, co-written by Sara Stewart and titled "Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line Between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church," debuted earlier this month.
What made you write this book? And whom did you write it for?
I’ve thought about this question a lot, because when I was first writing it — and it’s been a process over the past few years — everyone told me to write it. When I left (Westboro), everyone was like, “Oh, you should write a book.” I never really thought that my life was that interesting, because it’s all I’d ever known. So I didn’t know what would be interesting to people or why people would want to read it, but then, as the process went on, I realized how much of an inspiration it could be to people, just to show people that you can change. Your heart and your mind can completely change from what you were brought up believing. That’s what it turned into.
Do you think there’s anything missing from the public’s understanding of your grandfather and your family’s church?
Yes. That’s another reason, too (that I chose to write the book). There are a ton of misconceptions. When I very first started, it was almost like I was defending them a little bit, because it was my family. There was so much love growing up, but there was also so much hate. But they tell you that the way you love your neighbor is by preaching God’s hatred to everybody, so it’s very strange.
I don’t know what people think. They think that (my family) are coming at it from a hateful viewpoint, I guess. But at least when Gramps was preaching before he died, he thought it was the right thing to do, that he needed to warn his neighbor that everyone was going to Hell. But they really do believe it.
Growing up, did you have a sense that your family wasn’t, so to speak, “normal?”
I’d been picketing since I was eight years old, so it was so normal for me to grab a sign and go out and picket. It was like you’d come home from school, you’d have your afternoon snack or whatever, you’d do some homework, and everything was scheduled around the picket schedule.
"Girl On A Wire" by Libby Phelps
Photo by Nick Krug
"Girl On A Wire" by Libby Phelps
I knew that nobody else picketed. I knew that that part wasn’t normal, but it was very normal to me. And they told us the kids would hate us and pick on us, and it was because what we were doing was right. So when they said, ‘This is what’s going to happen,’ and it did happen, we were like, ‘Oh my gosh, our parents are right. They’re raising us right and teaching us the truth.’ Because what they said would happen, did happen.
You finally left the church at age 25 after your family staged an intervention over a photo that had surfaced of you wearing a bikini at the beach.
Isn’t that so stupid? I know that it sounds so dumb and trivial, but that’s what they do. They take the dumbest things and just blow them way out of proportion. What they do is they attribute intentions to everybody — like, the intention of you wearing that was to get some boy’s attention. And I was in Puerto Rico! Like, what are you talking about?
It was a family vacation, right?
Yes! And I know how this is going to come across. It just sounds so stupid, but that’s what started it. And then, and this is what I tried to make clear, it was the way I reacted to them talking about it. That’s what set them off, is because my cousin Megan (Phelps-Roper) called me up and said, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be wearing that. Why are you wearing that?” And then I said, “Well, you’ve worn one before.” Usually I would just back down and say, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” but I had just gotten sick of it, I guess — the way they treat people.
It’s like there always has to be some sort of strife or conflict inside the church, and they’re never happy. It’s awful.
Other Phelps defectors
Nate Phelps, one of Fred Phelps' 13 children, will discuss his childhood in — and his eventual escape from — the Westboro Baptist Church during "An Evening With Nate Phelps," slated for Sept. 7 at the Lawrence Arts Center. Phelps, who has become an LGBT advocate and public speaker since fleeing his family's church 40 years ago, is the subject of an upcoming feature-length documentary about his life and the lives of Phelps siblings Mark and Dortha.
The three siblings will all participate in the Arts Center's event, which will also screen brand-new clips from the movie, "Not My Father's Child." The event will be filmed for use in the documentary, with all proceeds from the evening going toward production of the film.
"An Evening With Nate Phelps" starts at 7:30 p.m. Sept. 7 at the Lawrence Arts Center, 940 New Hampshire St. Tickets cost $7.50. For more information, call the Arts Center at 843-2787 or visit its website at www.lawrenceartscenter.org.
Does part of you hope that your book might inspire your estranged family members to reach out?
When you leave, you are completely cut off. I know that they’re going to read the book, and they’ll probably just ignore it, but I don’t know. Part of the reason, too, that I wrote it is because I know they’re going to read it. They haven’t even met my kids. See, that makes me cry. When I talk about my kids, sometimes I cry.
So my kids haven’t even met their grandparents. I hope they can meet them someday.
Have you ever talked about that with your kids? How much do they know about their estranged family members?
Paxton, my oldest, is three. This was a few months ago when he came up to me — and I actually recorded him doing it because it was so sad — and he said, ‘I want to see your mommy.’ And I didn’t know what to say. I think I just said that they don’t live here, because that’s true. I didn’t want to lie to him.
The very first question (you asked) was, “Well, why did you write (the book)?” And it was for my kids, too.
A few years ago, one of your cousins told reporters that your grandfather supposedly experienced a change of heart just before he died, saying of the rainbow-painted Equality House across the street, “You are good people.” Do you think it’s possible that your grandfather really did change, and that maybe others in your family could too?
I think there’s always a possibility for people to change. When Gramps passed away, it was two weeks after Paxton was born. So I couldn’t go see him. Some of my cousins went over and found out that he was in hospice, and I wanted to go, but I’d just had a baby and I couldn’t get out. So, when he passed away, it was really awful. But my cousin did get to go, and they showed him (Fred Phelps) a picture of Paxton. I can never remember his exact quote, but Gramps said, ‘I can remember when she was a baby, just a sweet baby, and now she’s a mother.’
He was on his deathbed, and I’m so glad that she showed him that. And it really humanizes him. Most people think that he’s this fire-and-brimstone preacher, but there’s that side of him and then there was also this loving grandpa. A lot of people have reached out and said, ‘I almost loved Gramps by the end of this book.’ They see a totally different side. I feel like it’s a really honest account of what it’s like to grow up in the church.
Last week it was announced that there’s a movie being made about the life of your cousin Megan (Phelps-Roper), based on her own upcoming memoir. Any movie deals or similar projects in the pipeline that we should know about?
I’m working on a lot of stuff. I can tell you I’m planning to do something with GLAAD. It’s Sept. 8, and it’s some kind of an anti-bullying program. They’re going to maybe do a Q&A; with me. You can just say I’ve been in touch with GLAAD.
I just talked with somebody from the BBC. I mean, there might be a film made, but I don’t know. We just talked about it, and then they’re going to read the book and see.
Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church
Michael Cart
Booklist. 113.21 (July 1, 2017): p3.
Copyright: COPYRIGHT 2017 American Library Association
http://www.ala.org/aboutala/offices/publishing/booklist/
Full Text:
Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church.
By Libby Phelps and Sara Stewart.
Aug. 2017. 224p. Skyhorse, $24.99 (9781510703254). 286.5.
It began in 1991 with a single sign: "Watch Your Kids! Gays in Restrooms." It was waved about during the first demonstration by the now notorious Westboro Baptist Church, whose founder, Fred Phelps, had decided that homosexuality was a menace American culture was trying to promote. The Phelps' picketing grew apace, and by 1998 it had gone national, and the church members were present at the funeral of Matthew Shepard ("Matt in Hell"), while in the wake of 9/11 they targeted New York firefighters ("Thank God for September 11"). Phelps' granddaughter, who left: the church eight years ago, recalls with coauthor Stewart, these and other controversial incidents. If there is a villain in this fascinating memoir, it is her humorless Aunt Shirley, not Phelps' late grandfather, for whom she still has warm feelings, noting he genuinely felt he was lovingly saving people from hell by pointing out their sins. There is a fine line between love and hate, however, and readers will decide for themselves which emotion was the actual motive. --Michael Cart
Source Citation (MLA 8th Edition)
Cart, Michael. "Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church." Booklist, 1 July 2017, p. 3. General OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A499862614/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=c1526545. Accessed 21 Mar. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A499862614
QUOTED: "Phelps delivers a captivating study of how free speech can become a vehicle for cruelty and hatred."
Girl on a Wire
Publishers Weekly. 264.24 (June 12, 2017): p60.
Copyright: COPYRIGHT 2017 PWxyz, LLC
http://www.publishersweekly.com/
Full Text:
Girl on a Wire
Libby Phelps and Sara Stewart. Skyhorse, $24.99 (256p) ISBN 978-1-5107-0325-4
Phelps tells the riveting story of growing up in "the Most Hated Family in America," led by her grandfather and family patriarch Fred Phelps, who founded Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kans. Seeking out the spotlight for controversial religious reasons, Libby's family rose to national prominence after protesting the funerals of 9/11 victim Father Mychal Judge, murdered teen Matthew Shepherd, and numerous fallen U.S. soldiers with signs that read "God Hates Fags," "Fags Doom Nations," and "God Sent IEDs"--arguing that these deaths were the consequence of American society's move away from Christian values. At one time Phelps agreed with that position, but, over the course of the book, she reveals how her thinking has changed. At age 25, she had a traumatic break with the church and her family after an argument with her father. "On the outside," she writes, "I felt terror at what might become of me when the day of reckoning was at hand." Phelps now finds ways to "undo the legacy of hate" she helped to create, including by volunteering with Equality House, the LGBT-advocacy office located across from Westboro Baptist Church. From the inside of one of America's most infamous churches, Phelps delivers a captivating study of how free speech can become a vehicle for cruelty and hatred. (Aug.)
Source Citation (MLA 8th Edition)
"Girl on a Wire." Publishers Weekly, 12 June 2017, p. 60. General OneFile, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A495720724/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=3a693090. Accessed 21 Mar. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A495720724
QUOTED: "This first-person account of life in the notorious Westboro Baptist Church by the founder's granddaughter depicts the group's hateful and insular philosophies."
Girl on a Wire: Walking the Line Between Faith and Freedom in the Westboro Baptist Church
by Libby Phelps, Sara Stewart
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Libby Phelps's surname is synonymous with the notorious Kansas Westboro Baptist Church founded by her grandfather Fred. Members' daily demonstrations targeted Gay Pride parades as well as American soldiers' funerals. "I had been picketing since I was eight years old," Libby recalls in her memoir, Girl on a Wire. She wrote it after fleeing her family, their church and the bizarre life she'd lived for her first 25 years.
Individuality was anathema to Westboro--90% of the 70 congregants were members of the Phelps family. Libby suppressed any intellectual curiosity. She adored her grandfather, a self-proclaimed prophet whose message that God hates America for tolerating gays never diminished his role as her loving Gramps in her young mind. Bible study, communal chores and picketing framed the Phelpses' days. Shirkers were scorned. "I was constantly worried I wasn't good enough to be one of God's elect," Libby writes, and she was terrified of eternal damnation. The church encouraged academic success, however, so Libby and her cousins were relativity free during school, and Libby eventually earned a Ph.D. in physical therapy.
Aunt Shirl was Westboro's enforcer, and her lifelong sniping at Libby culminated in an "intervention" staged when Shirl objected to Libby's "indecent" swimsuit. Through a tearful, painful realization afterward, Libby enlisted sympathetic co-workers, packed and fled. "I was walking the tightrope between faith and freedom. It was time to cut the wire."
Privacy was nonexistent at Westboro, so Libby was afraid to keep a journal. Nevertheless, her recollections are clear and detailed, providing insight into an oppressive and hateful community. --Cheryl Krocker McKeon, manager, Book Passage, San FranciscoDiscover: This first-person account of life in the notorious Westboro Baptist Church by the founder's granddaughter depicts the group's hateful and insular philosophies.