I'm From Driftwood

by Rod Wright

I swear the waitress worked there since the buffalo roamed freely. I had disliked her since we moved to Killdeer a few years earlier. I was in shock over the little town and just pissed at my parents for moving us. To top it off this granny waitress was mean. My little sister and I wanted shakes. She was busy and said the machine was broken. She walked away and I protested to Mom and Dad, “I just saw her make one!” Dad gave me the look that meant shut up now. Anyway, I digress. This is about my first gay date.

I had the biggest crush on him. Most of my class did as well. He lived on a ranch far from our little town. I think he often needed a place to stay. That way he could stay in town and enjoy sports and all the extra activities a freshman wants. For weeks I sought him as a friend. I was the new kid at our school. I was nothing like these rancher, western kids. They thought I was a freak actually. I didn’t wear cowboy boots, I had platform shoes. I didn’t own a pair of jeans, I dressed in polyester bell bottoms. Yes, yes it was the 70′s. We all had longer hair and bangs. I was chubby and funny. I was made fun of. Still, slowly I won everyone over. I used humor to hide. Hide liking boys. Hide being fat, I thought, and hide from such a whacko family. About liking boys…I thought I was the biggest pervert on earth. I had never knowingly seen a gay person. I had no role models. Regardless, at 16 a boy’s hormones come calling. My body was in charge now and I wanted him as a boyfriend. Of course, the entire mating dance had to be a covert operation.

After weeks and weeks he was to be my overnight guest. I was beyond excited. That day at school seemed endless. Finally we were together in my car. We cruised Main–about three blocks long. We talked endlessly about girls. I loved girls, I could relate. I took him to our little cafe around 6pm. And there she was. Waitress from hell. He stated he could not afford to eat. I proudly proclaimed, “It’s on me.” I did warn him not to order a shake. The old waitress hobbled over to us. She seemed irritated. I think she wanted to close. She asked us what we wanted to eat. I cannot explain what happened next! All of a sudden I began speaking French. I told my date I would order for him. I had to point to the items as the waitress could not speak French. As hard as I try I could not stop speaking in French tongue. For over an hour I went on in French.  My date was very amused. For, I could not speak French. Nerves, I guess.

That night we rolled around like we were on our honeymoon. I could not believe what was happening. Suddenly, my bedroom door flung open. Mom had never come into my room like that. Both of us lay naked on my twin bed. All Mom could muster up was, “Why do you still have your glasses on?”  And she closed the door.

Next day, I wanted to run down the halls holding his hand. Of course, we ignored each other. That night I sat with him and his girlfriend. Our basketball team was playing the next county, our rival. I will remember what happened next, forever. His girlfriend asked him, “Where in the hell did you get those hickeys?” I think I almost passed out. He looked at her and exclaimed, “Rod gave them to me!”

I’ll let you guess whom is married to whom now.

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by Kevin Tengesdal

Why am I gay?

I grew up during the ’70s and ’80s on a farm in rural North Dakota to loving, committed heterosexual parents in a Lutheran based home. I am the youngest of nine. I witnessed my siblings dating and marrying into heterosexual relationships. I grew up around the heterosexual relationships of my aunts and uncles and cousins. Outside influence, maybe?

We had a black and white TV with CBS, NBC and that was it. I did not know any “homosexual” influences of any kind. All I knew was that I had attractions to men instead of to females, opposite of the case of my classmates who were lusting with their teenage hormones after women. I was clueless as to what was “wrong” with me. I tried for years to “straighten” up. About the only thing I did not try was electroshock/conversion therapy and/or marriage. Yes, even Exodus International.

At the age of 34 or 35, after moving back home to North Dakota, I finally realized it was past time to acknowledge this is who I am. And in doing so, I began a closer walk with God. Along the line, some of my siblings and family have stepped away. But, also, friends have come along and replaced them, as my chosen family. So, it’s just who I have always been.

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by Bobbi Dykema

I’m from Strasburg, North Dakota, hometown of Lawrence Welk. They played polka at my senior prom. A very homogenous, provincial, rural backwater of a place. I got picked on as a kid because I was different: brainy, literate, ironic.

I didn’t really glom onto the possibility that I was anything but straight until my sophomore year of college, when my best friend (male) came out to me. That started the gears turning in my head. Like maybe my interest in the ladies’ underwear section of the JCPenney catalog had a sexual dimension to it.

Luckily there was a small but supportive community to come out in. My best friend. The GLBT group on campus. I was also in the process of questioning my religious identity and beliefs, and had started actively attending the local Unitarian Universalist church, which was also an extremely loving and supportive environment.

For me, coming out has always been an ongoing and multi-layered process. After finishing my bachelor’s degree at North Dakota State University I moved to Minneapolis and began actively dating women and participating in the lesbian community. I discovered that many of the women in that community at that time were more or less openly hostile to bisexual women. So I identified as lesbian and tried to keep the other side of my sexuality under my hat. When I first came out, I wanted to make my appearance advertise my newfound understanding of myself as much as possible, so I chopped off my hair and started living in flannel. After a few years I realized that wasn’t really me, so I let my hair grow back and re-embraced lipstick and dresses. I remember calling up my friends on Saturdays to see if they were going to the club last night—Club Metro, the lesbian bar in St. Paul. It was a big place, two dance floors, a sports bar, etc., so my friends would ask how they were going to find me. My response was always the same: “I’ll be the one in the skirt.” And I was. My pattern was to ogle the pretty women—usually in jeans, but with longer hair and jewelry—and go home with the butch ones.

When I’ve been with a male partner my sexual orientation is often more or less invisible, or at least it feels that way. I’ve been told by lesbian and bisexual women friends that I set off their gaydar when they first met me—even in makeup, heels, and a skirt. Probably at least some of the people I know, such as my students, colleagues, and acquaintances, assume I’m a straight ally. That’s okay. What I hate is when a person, usually a straight man, finds out I’m bi and assumes that means I’m poly and/or into threesomes (like with him and his wife/girlfriend). No, thank you. I’ve explored polyamory a little and find it intriguing but I get jealous too easily for it to work for me in anything but theory. And I don’t really like sex for the sake of sex; I want there to be emotional closeness and real relationship too.

I have often found support in unexpected places. After my best friend came out to me, I asked my mom what she thought of gay and lesbian people. She said, “I think they’re God’s children like anybody else.” Or when I was on the phone with my dad and mentioned my girlfriend’s name, and he said, “Well, you’re both welcome to come visit anytime—you can take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.” Or when my aunt picked me up at the airport, asked about the book under my arm (something about GLBT life), and said, “You know we love you just the way you are.”

I just finished grad school, and lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for the first three years of my program. What a rush to be in a city where people living all kinds of lives—partnered, single, poly, with partners of different ages, races, genders, etc., and it’s really not any great shakes. In New York, everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. In San Francisco, everybody’s gay on Pride Day. I love that.

So much has changed for the better in my lifetime for GLBT people. I was 27 when Matthew Shepard was murdered. Now same-sex marriage is legal in 10 countries, 5 US states and DC. We still have a long way to go, as the recent publicized suicides of bullying victims testifies. But I am so grateful and proud to be part of the GLBT community. An army of lovers cannot lose.

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