I'm From Driftwood

by Sarah A.

Only a few months after coming out, the Prop 8 decision was passed down and the gay community said, “Enough Already!” As the protests and the marches were organized across the country, one was arranged in DC where I currently live. A march was planned from the steps of the Capitol around the National Mall and onto the lawn of the White House. I had only recently moved to the area and had never been to either the Capitol or the White House. I can’t imagine a better way to see these landmarks than filled with the thousands of people who showed up that Saturday to march. I was there in my newly-out-lesbian pride, with two newly-wed lesbian friends, and our friend and colleague with her 6-year-old son. I couldn’t believe how many people were there: gay, straight, lesbian, transgender, the whole community was uniting together. I had never seen so many gay people in all my life (Dubuque being hardly a town of diversity or tolerance). But here they were, normal people of all shapes and sizes, not perfect-looking stereotypes from TV.  And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere.

We walked for miles, chanting, cheering and talking to those around us, while other people stood at the sidelines and watched. Some carried signs of their own — some condemning us to Hell, some merely stood with confused question marks across their faces, but some honked their horns and cheered with us as they drove by on their way to wherever they were going. We’d been walking for a while, admiring the creativity of our fellow queers, (signs that read, “Silly bigots, rights are for everyone!” and “Does your marriage suck less yet?” among others) when the heavens opened up and it started to pour.  Our bodies were drenched, but our spirits were high as we joked about what message some higher power was trying to send us.

The downpour was intense but short and as it began to ease up, I glanced over my shoulder and stopped dead in my tracks. A clear and perfect RAINBOW arched across the sky, stretching from the Capitol building we had left an hour before to the White House we slowly trudged toward. A rainbow! Nothing could be more perfect. There in the midst of friends and friendly strangers, I felt connected in a way I never had before. And whenever I start to feel the ignorant bigots of the world get me down, I try to remember that rainbow and the words of my best friend, “I love that you are gay! In fact, I think I love you MORE this way!”

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(Trigger Warning: Brief thoughts of suicide)

by Oliver Browning

As I sat on the campus of Oxford University, the sun shone over the crisp, green grass of the field. It was a typical English summer’s day, with a pleasant breeze tickling my face. I sat alone with my back against a tree, reading the Kite Runner; I was on page 89, I’ll never forget. I was around half way down the page, when I heard his voice. His voice stood out at the time, having been surrounded by Southerners for the last 3 years, it was refreshing and comfortable to hear the broad Northern accent which so resembled my own.

“The Kite Runner, ey? A boy after my own heart.” I looked up. I imagine I must have looked daft as a brush, sat against a tree squinting in the sun light. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life. Replying, no words came out! I simply stared up at him, wondering why a straight boy I didn’t know would approach me and say such a thing, and immediately I came to the rather uncertain conclusion that he must be gay. By this point, he had squatted down, and was grinning at me. I grinned back, still having said nothing. Instead, he continued to talk. “I’m Nick, and you’re Oliver, Lauren has told me about you”.

Lauren was a friend from my University course, and a close friend of mine. This mutual friend allowed me to find my voice. Unfortunately this was not the best thing to have happened, considering the first thing I ever said to Nick:

“Oh yeah? She’s a great gal!”

Oh Christ – I just said gal.

Nick was sweet, he laughed and agreed with me. Nick was studying law at a different college than me. We had a similar interest in literature, and the conversation, thankfully, picked up from the “gal” fiasco. We chatted for around fifteen minutes, before he had to go for a lecture off campus – we exchanged numbers, and arranged to go for dinner in Oxford.

Dinner went well; the conversation flowed and it was then we discovered a mutual, powerful attraction to one another. Further dinner dates ensued, as did similar dates, and soon enough I found myself uncontrollably and irreversibly in love.

We were both due to graduate Oxford that summer, and after graduation we were both going to Manchester, he to live back at home, and I to ensue a PhD. We had enough money to afford rent on a city centre flat, where we stayed for just over 4 years, before I was offered a job in London straight out of University, working for the BBC.

Naturally, Nick accompanied me. We were both excited to begin our new life in London together; he had been offered a job with a big London Law firm, and it seemed as though both our lives were working out both apart, and together. I would say this was the point in my life where I was never happier. London is truly an incredible city.

I cannot begin to write how in love I was with him – he is truly the love of my life, even to this day.

Christmas 2007 was set to be wonderful; and we had arranged to spend Christmas day alone, together. However our individual families insisted we spend some time with them! My family were in Chelsea, and Nick’s were still in Manchester. It was Christmas Eve, and Nick was supposed to drive back up to London early Christmas morning.

Nick’s family were never happy with him being gay – all their expectations of him seemed to have been satisfied, except for the “wife and children” thing. A big argument on Christmas Eve after dinner led him to storm out and begin driving up to London early.

But dinner was, naturally, accompanied by drinks.

He was such an intelligent man, but sometimes his lack of judgment scared me.

Our Christmas morning was not what we had planned. I had to drive down to Manchester. I remember driving down the M60, and seeing the chaos he had caused. Queues miles long because of an accident.

It was at that moment I seriously considered accelerating and crashing my own car. Only that could take the pain away.

The journey took me back to that summer’s day on the Oxford campus – Nick was grinning down at me, I never did get past page 89.

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(TRIGGER WARNING: Child molestation; Homophobic bullying; Homophobic slurs)

by Felix Montano

My name is Felix Montano and I am a gay 48-year-old first generation son of Cuban-American immigrant parents. My brother-in-law, married to my older sister, is Muslim. My mother and younger sister are devout Evangelical Christians who continue to “pray for me” to be delivered from homosexuality. As a gay man, I have been on the receiving end of ridicule, prejudice, and hatred most of my life.

Every day throughout elementary school in Burlingame and San Mateo in Northern California, I withstood bullying and name-calling. Each morning before school I wondered how to make myself as inconspicuous as possible to avoid being tripped, having my locker vandalized, or my books getting knocked out of my arms. I was taunted, teased, and threatened from the second grade through my senior year in high school. Even my fourth grade teacher asked me why I was such a sissy, and then told me all the teachers talked about it (me and my “affliction”) during lunch in the cafeteria. This same teacher also allowed fellow classmates to talk about my “gayness” when sharing during “current events.” If I tried to stop them, I was told to sit down and not interrupt. I was called gay, faggot, and sissy before I knew what the words meant. But I knew I was not okay, not accepted, and only wished I wasn’t me.

I endured the daily pain of harassment at school crying myself to sleep at night or praying for hours that someone or something “fix” me, make me like the rest of the boys. At times it became so unbearable that I pictured myself running into the street in front of oncoming traffic—only then would I find relief. Only then would it all stop. A bullied child who has become a social outcast yearns to be accepted, to have a friend, and is particularly susceptible to an adult role model. The sexual predator has an acute awareness of the “wounded” child and offers the lure of comfort, understanding, and friendship to create a false sense of trust, inevitably with the sole intent to satisfy his sexual appetites. I experienced this first-hand and became the target of a sexual molester.

The summer before ninth grade I took a drama class at a nearby high school and discovered that I loved becoming someone else on stage. The male drama teacher was especially supportive, attentive, and encouraging. I had “talent.” Finally someone saw who I was and accepted me–he made me feel special, unique. I transferred to the high school where he taught, feeling I could leave the years of pain and terror at school behind me. Little did I realize he’d been grooming me. My beloved, extremely popular drama teacher molested me for the next two and a half years—in the dark corners of the stage, before school in the basement costume room, or at his home when his wife went to work on weekends. Vulnerable and needy to his overt attentions, I was unable to separate his “adult love” for me from his perversion as a child molester. Not until I was in my twenties did I begin to recognize what he’d done to me. It took many years of intensive therapy to overcome the guilt and shame I carried which, I learned, had begun in my early school years from being bullied. Somehow I had the strength and will to overcome the torment of my childhood, accept being gay, and believe that I could live a full, happy, and successful life. Many can’t endure the emotional torment and end up taking their own lives.

When I attended the National Equality March in October 2009, I met many young people, gay and straight, who had driven long distances to participate in the march. I heard many stories similar to mine, many who were still suffering, afraid to expose their homosexuality, and I realized that I needed to become more involved. Silence is the voice of complicity. I want our young people to be able to live openly without fear, to be able to discover their authentic selves without hiding, and to receive their full constitutional rights and protection under the law. Without acting on their behalf, we not only cheat our young people’s development, but that of our society as a whole.

It is said that it is not what happens to you, but what you do with what happens to you. This is what I will do with what happened to me.

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(Trigger Warning: Ableism)

by Antonio

I came out at the age of 15. I never thought I would’ve come out at that particular time. However, shortly before my freshman year ended, my whole world became a lot more real. My little brother, who was practically considered normal after years of therapy due to autism, died at the age of 12. He accidentally suffocated himself when he stuffed who knows how many pillows and blankets up his hoodie while going back to bed and when he tried to take it off it got stuck and well you know the rest.

Soon after my brother’s death I went through a whole ordeal of realizations and, to put it in simple terms, I grew up a lot. I used to be very shy and unsure of myself. I don’t know what happened when my brother died, but I guess I developed a tougher exterior. When people had something to say I said, “And what of it?”

This new-found confidence helped me start coming out to my friends at 15 and then by 16 my parents and relatives knew. They didn’t care. They still loved me. I am Puerto Rican and if anything my culture stands for love and family. The catholic church I attend believes in loving everyone and treating everyone as you would like to be treated and loved, no matter what. Everyone has a place and a purpose, and no one is EVER a mistake. My pastor just so happens to have a diverse family, including a gay sibling. Needless to say, I have been blessed with a loving family and a catholic church that actually supports everyone.

I have always been a big dreamer. Ever since I was younger I have always wanted to become a famous Pop/R&B Recording and Performing Artist. I think that my experience has not only made me stronger mentally, but has also made me fight for my dreams that much more. I feel like the gift of music can be so powerful in bringing more peace to this world. Singing has always brought peace at even the toughest of times and has always provided people with something else to think of me rather than just being the “gay kid.” Imagine all the benefits I could try to give people if I had some type of voice in this society. A gay Pop/R&B singer that tries to create music that would benefit the gay community and bring us closer to equality with the rest of society and says that it’s okay. I have always loved helping people and if there is anything else I have to say, it would be to always follow your dreams, follow your heart, and always ALWAYS be honest with yourself.

I am now on my way to Florida State University to study music. I feel like I have come a long way and hope that if you are having problems with your life due to your orientation, take it easy, believe in yourself, and you will be capable of anything!

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by KJ

Born and raised in the Philippines, I have been here in the US for four years now. I figured out my sexuality in high school, and I knew I had to tell my parents that I am gay to be true not only to myself but to them as well.

I’m 20, and I’ve always put off coming out to my parents. It has been in the back of my head, and last September 23, I just did it. I was driving on I-295, and I told my Mom, “Ma, don’t you ever wonder why I don’t have a girlfriend?” She said, “No. I know.” That’s when I started to cry, while driving 65mph, and I continued by saying, “I like men. I’m gay. If I had the choice, I would have chosen to be straight, for I know it’s going to be so hard.” My mom then said, “I knew, I had an idea, and I was just waiting for you to come tell me. You will always be my son, and I love you no matter what.” Relief flooded my whole body. I have a mom who loves me for who I am, and I know that I can now call my mom my best friend.

To anyone reading this now, I hope that you will be blessed to have parents like mine, and if not, I know our community will support you.

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by PJ Mintner

I’m a Kansan. I’m an education professional. I love watching How I Met Your Mother, and you can find me cheering on my alma mater on Saturdays every fall. I love barbecue and the Kansas City Royals. I’ve only cried in one movie: Toy Story 3. I’m an uncle (and love that title), brother, son, and grandson. I can be a listener, counselor, teacher, trainer, co-worker, best friend, and support group. I’m an unapologetic Democrat. I love my Republican friends (and there are many in Kansas). I’ve had wonderful success at work and in school, which I’m reminded of as I currently search for jobs everywhere from New York City to South Texas. I have been to 13 weddings in the last 12 months, celebrating my friends’ love.

In every way possible, I feel blessed. My sister uses me as an example to show her children what she hopes they will achieve. My brother relies on me as a godfather to two of his young children. My parents love me in a way that I can’t comprehend; I honestly think that if I committed a heinous crime, they’d smuggle me out of the country, no questions asked. And my grandparents have the most beautiful, wise souls.

My nephew, a kindergartener, told me once that the thing he really liked about me was this: “You’re not always there, but you’re there when it matters.”

As you can imagine, after this gem he went on to ask me if I could come to his tee-ball games. You have to love the wisdom and naïveté of children. You could say that the notion that my nephew expressed is my personal mission statement: Be there when it matters. All these things help define what I am and what my “piece of the puzzle” is.

I talk to my students about their “piece of the puzzle” all the time. When I’m working with students, I am always genuinely interested in their story — what important factors influenced them and brought them to the very moment that we’re meeting. There’s the story of the young man from the Congo who helped raise his brothers and sisters who needed financial support, so I allowed him to stay in my apartment for free for three months after I moved to a new place. Or the young lady who was studying for the LSAT night and day, whom I gave old, unused LSAT-logic-game books so that she could have more ways to practice. Or the two brothers and sister whose mother suddenly had a stroke, whom I had over for dinner so that they could take a break from taking care of her. That’s my way of being there when it matters.

It strikes me that through many of these kinds of experiences, I’ve rarely shared an important part of my own story. Of course, many people know what I’ve shared, but many don’t know this: I fell in love for the first time in college. I was a senior, and I met someone who turned my world upside down. It was that my-body-gets-numb-when-you-enter-the-room-or-accidentally-graze-my-knee-or-tell-a-bad-joke-that-I-pretend-I-don’t-like-but-secretly-want-to-laugh kind of love. For two years it rattled my perspective in every way possible. If I could have, I would never have changed it for the world. I (rather stupidly) changed educational goals and life plans, and I’m much better because of it, because as wonderful as the feeling I had being in love was, equally painful was the break up. I’ll never forget the night we shared Pablo Neruda’s poetry together — yes, poetry (we were nerds). And I’ll never forget the night that it all came to a screeching halt, or the pain that came with the end of our relationship.

The person in me who wants to help others struggled with this chapter of my story coming to an end. I had no idea how to help myself, but luckily for me, there were important friends who were there when it mattered. I have to thank my friends in Dallas, Cleveland, Lubbock, Kansas City, Wichita, and many other places. They taught me how to love myself and accept support from others, skills that are hard to come by for people like me. The direct impact they have had as I’ve picked up these broken parts of my life to contribute to my “piece of the puzzle” reminds me how loved I am.

I’m a gay man in a red state. I love Kansas and the understated beauty of the plains and flint hills. I love the humility and refined simplicity of Kansans. And, probably much to his chagrin, I love people like Governor Brownback. There are a lot of people who probably wouldn’t like me if they knew my whole story, or wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to love me, but my grandmother told me once, “I love all people. They’re people that I never thought I could love, but I love them because of the good they do, not the choices they’ve made. They’re there for me, and I love them.”

Grandma has been married to my grandpa for over 70 years and finds it in her heart to love everyone. I struggle with what she’d say if she knew whom I’d fallen in love with, but I know, at the end of the day, that she’d support me. The last time I saw her in her nursing home, as I began my job search, she told me, “Wherever you go, you’re always my grandson. Give me a hug. We all need more of those. Let’s hug. We can make up for those we’ve missed and need.”

It can’t be difficult to understand why people like Anderson Cooper and Steve Kornacki have made a difference to me. I love to write, learn, and think critically about the type of things they report about each day. I often find myself saying that I have to do something worth writing about each day. Mr. Cooper and Mr. Kornacki’s recent bravery helps me feel more legitimate as a person — and more comfortable telling my story. So I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart. Personal courage and professional goals are hard to reconcile sometimes. I have to thank them for being there when it matters for me.

But most of all, I want to thank my first love, because if he hadn’t broken my heart, I wouldn’t be here today, starting my journey toward being both privately and publicly gay, and more than just OK. I wouldn’t be moving to a place where I can share who I am with more than just my inner circle. I wouldn’t be able to privately acknowledge that I’m not only a gay Kansan but a productive citizen who helps others each day, hurts some days as I reflect on my past, and loves others without abandon. I think my story of falling in love isn’t that different from how my 13 friends who married the men and women of their dreams felt when they fell in love. And that’s why I think my “piece of the puzzle” is pretty normal and, in its normality, worth sharing.

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by Austin Yu

Over 15 years ago, I came out to my parents while in high school. Specifically, to my mom after a heated argument about whether or not I can go play miniature golf with a few friends over the summer. Specifically, with Rob, my cross-country teammate and otherwise blond Adonis. For one reason or another, my mom did not want me to go, and the abridged conversation went like this:

Me: I really want to go.
Mom: No.
Me: But I already told Rob that I wanted to go.
Mom: Tell him you can’t.
Me: But I love him.

And thus began my decade-plus long struggle for us to come to terms with the fact that I am gay, and that they have a gay son.

Through my later teen years and into early adulthood, we revisited the issue a handful of times. Not to say that it didn’t run as an undercurrent through every waking moment of our lives, we just outwardly addressed it a handful of times. Though some conversations may have started out peacefully and even with good intentions, all of them devolved into shouting, tears, and frustration. We approached the topic like a cold war, two diametrically opposed parties with tension brewing just beneath a veneer of calm, ready at any given moment to detonate and scatter the pieces of our quasi-happy existence into the great unknown.

We’d fight, endure a few days of silence, then resume our regularly scheduled repression. Through two significant relationships, I learned rather adeptly how to separate my romantic life from my familial one, how to tend to one while keeping an eye on the other, hoping to never let either know that they are essentially being compartmentalized, quarantined. East is East.

Then, 2008 rolled around.

On one nondescript Sunday towards the end of May, I decided that I would accompany my mom and dad to church. My parents have regularly attended church for years, and I knew that my mom appreciated my company there, even if my faith was conspicuously absent. That morning, we sat fourth row from the podium, right off the center aisle.

Little did I know that I inadvertently stumbled upon an entire “sermon” on the “sanctity” of marriage and how it was under attack by the homosexual liberals and their Prop. 8 shenanigans. How dare we?

I’ve heard enough of this kind of rhetoric to immediately pick up on where it was heading. The light bulb in my head was Pavlovian. The “pastor,” Bill, began talking about Rebecca and Isaac, the miracle of matrimony and childbirth, and how modern day times are constantly trying to reinterpret and redefine these tenets. I was like a dog, salivating at the sound of a bell; I knew what was coming.

I wriggled uncomfortably. My eyes darted around the room to see if anyone was nodding along, as church-going people are wont to do during sermons, I’ve noticed. Finally, it became too much to bear. I stood up, looked Bill directly in the eyes as he prattled on, grabbed by jacket, and stormed down the seemingly endless aisle with my head held high and eyes fixed on the door in the back. I let it slam as audibly as possible on the way out. Very diva.

Knowing I could not walk back into the church without it symbolizing some sort of defeat, I stood by the back door and listened. It was nothing but the usual diatribe, appalling and boring. When, finally, the service ended, I found my parents rather quickly. No discernible expression on their faces, and they said ‘hi’ as if nothing had happened, as if I had not disappeared in a huff just half an hour ago. This further fueled my simmering rage.

Bill walked over and schmoozed with them, and they smiled and laughed in return. The pit of my stomach was an active volcano of ire. Then Bill turned to me, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

I had but two milliseconds (nano, if I want to be dramatic) to decide what to do. Though the issue may be my war, this was not my battle, or my grounds. I could let Bill know exactly what I thought of him, his “sermon,” and my absolute disgust that he would turn a place of worship into his own political platform. But I could walk away from him, never see him again and never feel the repercussions of my actions. My parents, however, would face a different outcome.

So with my hands anchored at the bottom of my pantpockets and a stare that I hoped could melt glaciers, I said, “I know who you are.” His hand lingered in mid-air for a moment longer, and then he awkwardly excused himself.

My parents were livid.

I later discovered through my sister that they were mostly angry because I was rude to Bill. Unbelievable, I thought, though not entirely unexpected. It was safer for them to focus on trees when the forest was a great, and decidedly anti-great, unknown.

I fumed about it to Sam, my partner, that evening. Always the same approach, always the same conclusion. And so, after much deliberation, I decided to try a different tack.

I called my parents a few days later, and presented the terms as calmly as I could muster: Accept me for who I am, and understand that there is no changing me: I love men. You do not have to accept all gays and lesbians of the world, and you do not have to join PFLAG or march down Market Street in June. But meet my partner. Embrace my friends. Play a part in this part of my life, or you don’t get any other. Should we ever speak again, you must comply.

And thus began a month of silence. Sam asked if I had picked the right battle. I had no other battles. Over the course of 15 years, there was nothing but this battle. Only the stakes have changed: all of me, or none. No more compartments. As bad as this sounds, I felt justified in throwing a tantrum and laying down this ultimatum. It was the right thing to demand.

The stakes were high, though, and the odds were stacked against me (if the past decade and a half were any indication). Yet, I knew that we could not go on dancing around the same bush. If I were to completely cut ties with them, I could do it knowing that I stood up for what I believed in and did the best I could.

A few months later, my parents and sister, along with 5 gay guys including me and Sam, had dinner at Naan ‘n Curry together in Union Square. It was surreal.

Two years later, I turned 30, bought a house, somehow managed to get Sam to buy me a ring without even trying. All within a month. My parents have now met all of my close friends, and they see Sam on a regular basis. They ask about him when he’s not around. We have talked about my being gay and gay issues in general and we’ve ended those conversations with peace in our hearts and a deeper understanding of who we are as people. I have much to be thankful for.

When Sam and I began construction to add an additional bathroom to the upstairs level of our loft, we were told it was a small job, requiring less than a month’s time with minimal disruption to our lives.

But as construction projects go, the scope crept until it disappeared into the horizon, and we were displaced after the second night without a place to sleep. We took my parents up on their offer, moved in with them, and left 40 days later.

It was a rare opportunity for my parents to get to know Sam, and vice versa, and they all developed a level of comfort with each other that may have taken a lifetime to develop otherwise. My mom discovered that Sam likes yogurt, so she went to Costco and bought two 24-count boxes of Activia. My dad made a pan-fried soy and ginger halibut dish that he knew was Sam’s favorite. Twice. After dinners, my mom would brew a pot of jasmine tea, something to which Sam has quickly grown accustomed. And throughout these 40 days, they welcomed him, and us, into their home and lives, and allowed themselves into ours.

On the weekends, I was typically the last one out of bed in the morning. As I would shuffle through the hall and down the stairs for breakfast, I often heard my parents laughing, and Sam laughing, and conversation lobbying back and forth like an effortless round of tennis. I was thankful to have been an outsider during those moments, observing unnoticed, but listening to what I interpreted as family.

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by Siddarth Murthy

Stolen glances, wry smiles, and eyes catching each other. Aren’t we all familiar with these.

I found myself falling for Ben, a smart, sleek and smooth-talking marketing executive working in my college. Don’t we just love men in suits.

The problem was, I never knew whether he was gay or straight. Oh you must be saying, “Honey, been there done that.” But this is a very big challenge I think most gay men identify with.

Ben had just stolen my heart. But it is so strange how we see only what we want to see. I tried everything to find out if he was gay…investigating, enticing, dropping hints and even Tarot reading. How desperate, right?

He was a tough thing, not giving out any hint at all. Eventually there was more than one person involved: my close confidante and friend who was a mutual friend between her and Ben. Finally after 4 months of speculation and heart thumps and daydreaming, he finally blurted out to her that he wants a girl. What a cliche, I thought. He gave gay vibes all the time. So I wondered what’s missing. The Tarot reading gave a mixed and confused answer.

But going back to the theory that “thought is the precursor of every creation”, I think at the back of my mind that I didn’t really want it. So here I am happy to be out of my romantic white water ride. The warm sun of the Gold Coast sunrise, the hot surfers, the balmy spring sea breeze and beautiful sunsets beyond the hilly hinterland.

Do I need anything more…?

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by Brett Harris

In the crisp fall of 1977 I was a strapping and husky 16-year-old. A close (and closeted) high school friend of mine decided we should visit the “Florentine” Night Club; the premiere, and only, gay bar in our conservative city of Shreveport, Louisiana. Due to my size, I appeared to be of legal drinking age of the time in Louisiana…18.

While I was at “the club” as we called it, I ran into the hair dresser who cut my mother’s and my hair. He was a flawlessly beautiful man with bright white teeth, chiseled features and exquisitely manicured facial hair. I always loved the feeling of his fingers in my hair as he washed it. GOD was he hot! He was a fantasy of mine since we began going to his salon. I always looked forward to our weekly visits to get our hair trimmed.

When I noticed him, my heart started pounding in my chest. I tried to get by him without him seeing me. Unfortunately, not being so “slinky”, I bumped into the guy standing next to him. Then he noticed me and asked what I was doing there. I racked my brain trying to think quickly on my feet. In what was what I later realized to be the absolute stupidest thing I could have ever said, I told him, “I’m here doing research for a report I have to do in class on the gay culture.” I know now he and his friends must of thought “Yeah…right!” Mortified and embarrassed, I found my friend and told him of my horror. Against his protestations, we ran out of the club as fast as I could drag him behind me.

The next day I thought back on the last evening’s adventure. I was reeling at the new revelation that my hair dresser was a queer like me. I finally knew another gay man! I felt I had to express my feelings about him, about myself, about being gay, about everything. So I sat down and wrote him a long letter. However, in the end, I chickened out and put the letter in an orange class folder and put it in the bottom of my sock drawer in my bedroom; thinking it would be safe from anyone’s eyes. I went to school floating on air, but sad and frustrated that I hadn’t had the courage to follow through with giving him the letter. “Maybe tomorrow,” I thought to myself. I thought about him all day.

Later that day my mom washed some clothes. Normally I was responsible to put away my own clothes but today, out of the blue, she decides to put my clothes away and of course, my socks in the sock drawer. She found the folder with the letter I wrote to our hair dresser.

When I came in from school that day I found my mother with her hands folded across the folder, her head down, sobbing. We talked, she cried. We talked some more, she cried some more. This went on for two weeks. Then one day she came to me in the kitchen and said, “It’s none of your business what your stepfather and I do in our bedroom, so it’s really not any of my business what you do in yours! There is a reason the relationship between a person and God is supposed to be personal.” Then she gave me one of the best hugs I ever got from her. That was all I needed. Now that my mom knew, I didn’t care who else knew. I didn’t open my closet door. I kicked the sucker off its hinges and came out to everybody. That was a little over 30 years ago and I have been an advocate/activist for gay rights since then.

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