I'm From Driftwood

by Gay Lynn Costa

When my son, Kyle, was fourteen years old, I asked him point-blank if he was gay. He admitted to me tearfully that he was. We hugged and cried together, and I let him know in no uncertain terms that it made no difference to me whatsoever. We began an adventure together that day, mother and son, that has been wonderful and heartbreaking, joyful and painful. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

From that day forward Kyle never saw any reason to hide from the rest of the world. Admittedly, I worried from time to time that he may have come a bit too far out of that safe closet, but I didn’t ever want to make him feel ashamed of who he was by asking him to “be more discrete.” I didn’t want to shove even one of his toes back into the darkness.

In the small, predominately Mormon town of Kaysville, Utah, Kyle confidently made his way through junior high and into high school. His outgoing personality and sense of humor won him a lot of friends, and all seemed to be going well. So when the principal called me one afternoon to tell me Kyle had been “mobbed” by a group of guys after school, the world as I knew it was turned upside down.

I raced to the school with tears streaming down my face. The flood of emotions that was surging through me is difficult to describe. I wanted to find the little mother fucker who had instigated this and beat the shit out of him myself.

I burst through the doors of the school and into the principal’s office to find Kyle physically okay –a couple of scratches, but nothing major. The real damage came to light as the principal explained to me what had happened.

As Kyle was leaving school that day, a group of the football players followed him and began verbally assaulting him regarding his being gay. The terms they used were horrific, and the humiliation was beyond what anyone should have to endure. There was a physical scuffle as they surrounded him, but before they could throw many punches someone broke the crowd up.

The ring leader, I was told, was waiting in another room, and his mother was on her way.

I was in a fog of outrage and pain. Kyle sat next to me, quiet and sad. I was seething. It’s a good thing I didn’t know what room that kid was in.

The principal had called the police, and they showed up to investigate. They were calling this a “hate crime”, a term I’d hardly heard in 1996, and they were promising to prosecute. Good, I thought. Good for the principal and the police officers who took this as seriously as they should have.

Then the door opened and this kid’s mom walked in. Oh, my god. I knew her.

I had been an active member of the LDS church for many years, but because of my differing liberal opinions (regarding issues such as homosexuality) I had long been inactive. Julie Smith (not her real name) was the president of the Relief Society – the LDS women’s group for the ward. She had been to my house a couple of times, urging me to reconsider and come back to church. Each time I explained to her that I just didn’t believe the way they did, and would never be back.

Wow. Here she now stood, as stunned to see me as I was to see her. She sat in a chair near me and tearfully begged me not to press charges. “My son,” she said, “is not this kind of boy. Please don’t let this ruin his life”.

Her tears aroused sympathy in me, and for just a few seconds, I thought of how she must have felt, and considered her wishes. But I looked back at Kyle, and all the anger roared back into my heart and I looked her straight in the eye.

“Your son IS this kind of boy. He did do this.”

We sat there, the six of us in silence for the next couple of minutes. Two policemen, the principal, Julie, Kyle, and me. Then one of the officers asked me if there was anything else I’d like to say. All I could think of was that I wanted to talk to this kid. I wanted to see him. I wanted to try and understand.

He was brought into the room and my jaw was clenched. He was big – close to six feet tall, and quite husky. He was wearing a letter jacket and a sheepish look. I couldn’t tell if that look represented shame, or merely frustration at having been caught.

It took me a minute to collect my thoughts, but I finally spoke to him.

“You’re a good-looking kid. I’ll bet you are quite popular.” It came out as more of a question. He shook his head yes. “Lots of friends?” Again the head shook yes. “Good for you.”

“Let me tell you something. My son might be gay, but you’ll never be half the man he is.”

This caught his attention and he looked up at me, slightly startled that I would say such a thing. I continued.

“You are a coward. Kyle is not ashamed of who he is. I can only hope that you’re ashamed of who you are.”

It was one of my finer moments.

I mention the fact that this kid’s mother was heavily involved in the LDS church – not to disparage the church or its teachings. I mention it because, sadly, religion is often inexplicably a conduit for judgment and hatred. I have no doubt that “Julie Smith” would never have outwardly encouraged her son to do what he did. However, if you, as a religious, spiritual person, ever say, “we don’t believe in that” to your child (or congregation) without adding, “but we should never judge or criticize those who do”, then you are sending the wrong message.

It’s time to change that message.

Kyle survived the incident amazingly. I’m sure it left some scars, but he has continued these last several years without changing who he is. He inspires me.

The football player was charged with a hate crime. It was his senior year in high school and he wasn’t allowed to participate in any more sports, and spent six months on house arrest. I hope he learned something. I wonder.

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NOTE: Gay Lynn’s son, Kyle, recounts his version of this story in his video story with IFD. Check it out here.

by Anonymous

I’m from a town called Defuniak Springs, Florida. Never heard of it? There’s a reason for that. Defuniak is a rural community in northern Florida (which may as well be called lower Alabama). With the town being located deep in the bible belt, you can imagine the attitudes of the occupants. Everyone’s ultra-conservative, and about as anti-gay as it gets. I grew up in that community, went to church just like everyone else, knew the name of every kid in my school (I had been going to school with the same people since kindergarten). You can imagine how hard it was realizing I was gay. At first I denied it, said I could still like girls. Well after a particularly uncomfortable 3 month relationship with a wonderful girl, I realized that wasn’t true. I was deathly afraid of coming out. Afraid of what the other kids in my high school would say. Even more afraid of telling my parents.

My mother is from the neighboring town, and about as rural as it gets; my step-dad was born in Dothan, AL. Any time we talked about gay people, they were called queers, or fruits. Gay people were something to laugh at. During my sophomore year of high school, I decided to come out to my friends. My parents weren’t very social, so I had no worries about them finding out. Throughout the school day I would get my friends alone and tell them, and much to my amazement, everyone was happy for me (though there were a few mortifying “I knew it!”s). In the following week, as the word spread around school, I realized no one really cared. I mean, I had a few acquaintances stop speaking to me. Some of the really religious kids tried to get me to go to church with them, so I could be “saved.” But for the most part everyone acted like it was no big deal. After such a mostly positive reaction my confidence grew, and I decided I would tell my parents soon.

After work one night (and after drinking quite a few red bulls), I finally got the courage to do it. On the drive home I called my aunt and told her. She told me it was a phase, and laughed. While that might seem mean, that’s the kind of person my aunt is. To this day she says it’s a phase, but she doesn’t think any less of me or treat me any different. Next was to call my dad (he lived 60 miles away). His answer? “That’s nice, can I go back to sleep now?” I remember thinking, that was easier than I thought it’d be. Last but not least was my mother. I was still in high school and lived with her. Seeing as how I’d just gotten off of work it was around eleven at night, she was asleep. My step-dad, was working out of town. I went into her room and shook her awake, and said simply, “Mom, I’m gay.” It took a second for her to actually wake up and register what I’d said. But when it hit, she didn’t do any of the things I was scared of. She didn’t kick me out, she didn’t cry, she didn’t get angry. What she did was say, “Okay” and then proceeded to tell me she loved me anyways, and always would. Unconditionally. I was in awe. I had just done the thing that I had been deathly afraid of for a long time, and it was NO BIG DEAL. Even when my step-dad came home and found out, it wasn’t that bad. I mean it was a little awkward, seeing as how he’s a big country boy, but he never treated me any different.

I suppose the reason I’m writing this is to let those who aren’t out yet know that coming out isn’t a bad thing. It brought me closer to my friends and family, gave me confidence to be who I am, and let me be proud of it. Take the leap, even if you have a bad reaction, you’ll be amazed at how good it feels not to have to hide.

by Dave Mittlefehldt

I’m not gay, but my younger son is. You may have read his story; he’s from Clear Lake, TX.

I was clueless of my son’s sexual orientation until he revealed it. Rafi came out to his mother and me his freshman year in college. It was an awkward moment. Not because it was unpleasant news, rather because I had not anticipated it and didn’t know what to say. I tend to be flippant, but for serious issues I want to have serious discussions. In this case, Rafi floored me. I didn’t have any comforting or supportive words to say. I honestly don’t even remember what I said at the time. Do you remember, Rafi?

Afterwards, I had lots of time to think about what Rafi said. It made me realize a couple of things.

One was that I had partially failed Rafi. As a father, my number one job is to prepare my children for life. But how could I do this for Rafi? I have had no gay experiences that I can draw upon. There is a whole part of his life that I cannot help him with. I fret about this. How can I help my son with relationship issues? Are they the same as heterosexual relationships? I simply don’t know. Neither can I help him with his interactions with society at large. I do not know how he might be treated at the corner store, by the car mechanic, a police officer. I know how he ought to be treated, but that’s not the same. I still struggle with this issue.

The second realization is the more important one. When our son came out, he mentioned that he had known since he was in seventh grade, some six years earlier. Why didn’t he tell us sooner? I presume it was because he was uncertain of our reaction. I mentioned that I tend to be flippant. Did some of my flippant remarks make him feel uncomfortable as a gay man? I hope not. That would never be my intent. But I do not hear my remarks with the same ears a gay man does.

The bottom line is that I could not love Rafi more, or be more proud of him, if he was straight. I take delight in his triumphs, and I share his pain when things don’t go as planned. I don’t have a straight son and a gay son. I have two of the most wonderful human beings who call me dad.

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