Hannah Hooker, Arkansas

So I knew I was gay somewhere around the eleventh grade. I should have realized it years earlier when I played house with the little girl down the street and had her to kiss me before she “went to work.” But instead, I was sitting on the curb in my front yard chatting with a pal, and she started telling me about her weekend adventures, which included getting drunk and kissing another girl on a dare. I was so overwhelmed with some emotion I couldn’t name at first. But, the longer she talked, the clearer it became that I was feeling raw, vicious, disgusting jealousy. When I went to bed that night, my thoughts were something along the lines of, “Well Han-Ban, you haven’t done anything the easy way so far, I guess sexuality isn’t going to be any different.”

It was a hard decision, but I decided I would put coming out on hold until I graduated from high school. I couldn’t think of another gay person in my high school, and I just didn’t think I had it in me to be salutatorian and the only open homosexual in my tiny town. Not to say that I kept my emotions totally to myself. I flirted and kissed girls all the time, and no one suspected that I was anything more than a free-spirited teenager looking for popularity. I also had a boyfriend. He was one big fat sticky situation. I loved him in whatever way I could, and he loved me with all that he had, and I thought, Isn’t this what we all want? Why would I ever give this up? 

Luckily for both of us, college did what college does. I made friends who made me feel, for the first time, as though it literally didn’t matter what I did, they weren’t going anywhere. And, I felt the same towards them, which is a pretty powerful feeling. I started dropping an interest in women into casual conversation with trusted pals, just to test the waters. I got all calm and accepting responses, and I was just about ready to make my presence as a lesbian known on campus, when my best friend and I kissed in the middle of the night on one of her visits to my school. Oops! Two days later is was in committed relationship with someone who was nowhere near coming out. Back in the closet I went. It didn’t sit well with me. I wasn’t afraid of anyone knowing who I was, and not living loudly was practically against my genetic code. Plus, I’d never lied to my parents before about anything. 

Finally, the summer after my freshman year of college, I managed to snag my mom away from the house. In my constantly classy way, at the gas station up the road from my home I said to my mother, “I’ve been dating a girl for five months.” She responded with, “OK.” That was that for about a day. Then, when my kid brothers were out of the house and my parents and I were in the living room, my mom said, “So Hannah, what does this dating a girl thing mean?” I said, “Um, that I’m gay, Mom.” She said, “Really?” My Dad said, “Duh.” 

I’ve always been a Daddy’s girl, after all. With the rents in full support, I was ready to pump up the volume on life again. After that first relationship ended, I totally embraced the lifestyle, which meant....well, not a whole lot. Other than who I was dating and flirting with, not much changed. I still look completely and utterly like me everywhere I go, and I still keep it classy yet chaotic in every situation. A lot of people still don’t suspect upon meeting me that I’m anything other than that free-spirited girl who looks like your average, rebellious, heterosexual WASP, but whenever I’m asked, “Wait, you’re gay?!” I always respond, “Duh.” Thanks, Dad.

Charles Wei, California

I was 24-years-old when I finally came out to my parents. Until it happened, I honestly couldn’t imagine ever actually doing it. I’m second generation American. My mom is Filipino and my dad is Chinese, but he was born in the Philippines.

One day, my parents were watching T.V. and a commercial came on about gay marriage. I hadn’t heard either of my parents make a homophobic remark in several years, so I was shocked to hear the comments they were making during the commercial. It was at that point that I decided I could no longer keep up the façade for them. I had to tell them who I really was. On top of that, they were the only ones in my life that I hadn’t told yet.

I refused to talk to my mom for the rest of that night, so she knew I was pissed at her. The next day, I called from work to ask if she would be at home later because I needed to talk to her. She was really worried and asked what it was about, but I just told her I would talk to her when I got home. In a way, I was getting back at her for the things that she had said the previous day, but I was also paving the way for what I had to do later that night. I knew my parents, and I knew that if I wanted a favorable outcome to coming out to them, I basically needed to take them on an emotional rollercoaster.

I got home and luckily my dad was there. I didn’t know if I could do what I was about to do a second time. He was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table and my mom was doing the dishes. I turned the T.V. off in the living room and asked them to sit at the table with me. They both looked worried. I started out by telling them that I loved them and that I appreciated everything that they did for me. I knew I was freaking them out, but it had to be done. I needed to remind them how much they loved me before I dropped the bomb.

Then I told them I was gay and waited for their reaction. My dad cried a little, and they asked me a few questions, but honestly, I don’t remember exactly what was said after that. Things were a little awkward for a couple of weeks afterwards, and there were a couple of weird incidents with my mom, but things have been pretty good since then. I’m closer to my parents now than I ever was before and although we don’t really ever talk about my sexuality, I know they accept me for who I am. And, I know that they love me.

Nathan Scarborough, Arkansas

But my beloved had turned away and was gone.
My heart leaped up when he spoke.
I sought him, but I could not find him;
I called him, but he gave no answer.
The watchmen who went about the city found me.
They struck me, they wounded me;
The keepers of the walls
Took my veil away from me
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
If you find my beloved,
That you tell him I am lovesick

The Song of Solomon

It's hard to begin writing this. In many ways coming to terms with who I am and how I love is a process I'm still in the middle of. I'm not who I was ten years ago, or even five...but I guess the salient thing is that I've never been who other people wanted me to be.

Shulamite. The Receiver of Peace. I don't know that that's an apt name for who I am now, but it's what I'm looking for. This book has always spoken to me, and these lines remind me of my condition. My parents are the watchmen. I grew up in a literate family, one highly involved in the church, and one convinced they belonged to a class of people chosen by God to guard "The Family" and teach the world the right - the righteous - way to live and love together. They've always felt more like police than teachers to me...but I speak their language, and in some ways my mind still runs in the ways they set for me.

That said, I think I'm incredibly lucky to have largely escaped guilt about my love. I could say "who I love", but I honestly believe the difference is more than the gender at which it's directed. My experience with sexuality isn't defined as much by the male bodies of the people I love, though I love them as well, but there's a sort of unique psycho-spiritual intimacy which I simply don't feel with a woman. I think in a lot of ways that may be a result of the conditioning I received as a child. Women are Different. Women are Other. Their difference was always the point emphasized, not their sameness. Female incomprehensibility was the butt of dozens of tired jokes. We're not even supposed to be from the same planet. The love I was taught men shared, on the other hand, was one of mutual understanding, shared perspective, and deep trust. Volumes have been written on the subject of objectification, how this "othering" of women leads to their abuse and marginalization, and Harry Hay has already written about how one of the truly radical things about same-sex love is that it cuts right past the subject-object dynamic implicit in "othering" and instead allows "subject-subject" relationships. Gay men certainly still objectify one another, but one of the few nice things about the taboo nature of the subject was that it allowed me to grow up without anyone attempting to civilize my heart of hearts. The tragedy of normalized sexuality is that everyone thinks it's their business to systematically prune and cultivate exactly how you relate to potential partners. Both the blessing and the curse of being raised with the assumption I was going to love women rather than men is that I was relatively free to fantasize and desire naturally, rather than having my lusts and longings clipped into some sort of monstrous socially-constructed topiary.

Alejandro Fonseca, Indiana

I’m pretty sure most gay men will attest to the fact that they always knew that they were gay, or at least that they were a little bit “different” from everyone else. And there is no exception for me. I was the boy who tried to belly dance around the house to Shakira with a headdress on. I went to my across-the-street neighbor’s house to play Barbies every day after preschool. It shouldn’t have been such a mystery to connect the dots. I was born and raised into a Roman Catholic home. The whole idea of being gay was never really talked about and was never an option for the good Catholic boy that I was supposed to be. I guess that’s why I covered up with false infatuations with Hermione Granger and random girls in my grade school class. I even had a mock wedding during recess with the most popular girl in our grade. It seems that all I ever did was cover up who I was. 

All throughout my childhood I grew up as a dancer taking professional ballet lessons for roughly eleven years, starting in the summer between first and second grade. Now you can imagine how odd it was for sassy little Alejandro to find older boys like me who were obviously gay and still very happy with themselves. My parents called these boys and young men “bad influences” and told me to not pay too much attention to them. 

It was easy to hide who I really was in Catholic elementary and Catholic Middle school when all I experienced was torment and ridicule. And because I really didn’t understand yet who I was. But that all started to change when my “friend” got mad at me in the fifth grade and called me a ‘queer’ on his AIM profile. I didn’t even do anything wrong, and it was this name-calling that made a connection with me possibly being gay. I’ve been called every name in the book: queer, homo, pansy, sissy, tom-girl, twinkle-toes, and fag. It definitely affected me when I was eleven, but it’s made me even stronger today at eighteen. 

As I graduated from my private Catholic middle school into the public high school, I grew petrified of the imminent changes that were sure to take place. I didn’t have any male friends growing up and I was uneasy with the idea that high school would change nothing. So, in hopes of gaining new friends, I auditioned for and made it into the school’s show choir. That’s where I met my first real male friend. It’s sort of ironic that this also was my first real crush, but I didn’t have a clue about what these feelings meant. I guess I assumed that it was just me appreciating some positive feedback from guys, and the fact that he was a very kind person probably didn’t hurt. We soon became best friends and hung out a lot during sophomore year in high school. But later that year is when I suppose things started to stray “out of the norm” of things for two straight male friends to do. We experimented a lot with each other; it was the first time that either of us had ever done anything with any girl, let alone another guy. The experimentations were quickly followed by intense guilt on both of our parts and we abruptly stopped. 

Even though the experimenting was through, the feelings I was experiencing weren’t. They threw me into a confusion that was full of depression and a lot of tears. My best friend would not talk to me after an intense argument about what we had done with each other and what had happened between us, and it made my emotions even more jumbled up because I had to unravel my thoughts on my own. 

Eventually, during senior year of high school, I figured out that this feeling towards my former friend was love. I had never loved anyone before, excluding family, in my life. It took me seventeen years to finally accept the fact that I loved someone of the same sex. I was initially uncomfortable with the idea, but I figured that I better get comfortable with it if it was who I was as a person. I loved him. He hurt me. I still love him.

I probably would not be out to my parents if it weren’t for their initiative and snooping around. One night, my parents called me down to the living room and asked me if I had anything to tell them. I immediately shot out that no, I had nothing unusual to tell them (Right. Other the fact that I was very, very gay and hiding it from them). Well, it turned out that they had read some of my journal entries and figured it out for themselves. A normal son would be pissed that his parents went through his private entries in his journal, but the only thing that filled my mind was fear. My anxiety lessened when they asked me if I was sure that I was “this way.” I told them that I had been confused for a long time, but that I was positive. They told me that they’d love me no matter what I did or who I was. The only concern that they had was that I would experience negativity from society. But that was the least of my worries, because I finally could stop hiding myself from them and realized that I am truly happy with who I was, who I am, and who I will continue to be.

Nalley Smith, Arkansas

I knew at the age of five that something wasn't "right". I remember always feeling different from the other little girls. I was infatuated with my kindergarten teacher, who was a woman, and the girls I went to school with. I wasn't interested in little boys for anything except playing at recess, and I remember feeling oddly about other little girls wanting to have boyfriends. I've always been a worrier. So of course I worried myself sick over this matter until I worked up the courage to ask my mom what was wrong with me. She assured me by telling me "Lots of little girls have crushes on other girls. It just means that you look up to them and think they're neat. It doesn't mean anything bad. Don't worry." 

I continued on like I had been all through elementary school and middle school, the crushes growing stronger and deeper, but never bringing it up again to my mother - always in denial about it, even to myself. 

I had my first girlfriend when I was fourteen and in eighth grade. We were both young and unsure of ourselves and our sexualities. I was struggling with my Southern Baptist upbringing too. I kept trying to change what I ultimately knew to be true about myself; no matter what I did I knew I was gay. I was afraid that if my mom found out she would hate me, send me away, or never let me see my girlfriend again. 

I had thought about telling my mom for a long time, but it took me years to work up the courage. Something came over me and I had to get it out. It was like a fire inside that needed to be quenched. I called my mother and asked her to pick me up from a friend's house because I needed to talk to her and wanted to come home. She came and picked me up and we began the long drive home on the back roads. I asked her to pull over, but she refused. After a lot of hesitation, I finally spit it out:

"I think I'm gay." 

Silence.

"...I think I'm gay." 

"I heard you the first time. What do you mean?"

"Well, I like girls. I always have."

"Do you think this could be a phase?"

"No, I really don't, but I wish it was." 

"You know this means that you'll go to hell..."

That was the one thing that frightened me more than admitting those words – more than losing my mother or my girlfriend – going to hell. Immediately my mother was determined to squash my gayness like an insect. She tried to scare it out of me. She sent me to Christian counseling. Then she tried to send me to a Christian boarding school. She grounded me from life. My mother tried everything under the sun to "help" me. Unfortunately, I was just as ignorant and afraid of this thing that plagued me as she was, so I hated myself for a long time. 

Luckily, I had two best friends with very liberal parents through the rest of junior high and high school that influenced me, and paved the way for my mind and heart to blossom and learn to love myself again. 

By the time I was seventeen, mom and I had definitely had our problems with my sexuality, but I was very confident in myself and in my lifestyle. There was no going back. 

I am now twenty one years old, and am so in love with the person that I am that it's hard for even me to believe who I used to be. My mother has had a lot of time to adjust to the fact, and will always struggle, but she has opened her heart and her mind enough to become and LGBT supporter and tries her hardest everyday to support me in every way possible. 

Craig Fredrickson, California

I have always been attracted to guys. I grew up in Fresno, California. I never thought of myself as “gay”, not until I moved to Collierville, Tennessee in 1992 when my parents moved there. While attending college at Memphis State I started to realize I was gay, but never really considered coming out at that time since I grew up in the eighties, and it was not something you wanted to be. After college in 1997 I moved to Little Rock, Arkansas – it was my first time being on my own. I decided that I would no longer hide it, but I wasn’t going to shout it out either.

In January of 2001 I moved to Cleveland, Ohio for work. While there I again decided that I wouldn’t hide it, but I also wasn’t going to let it rule my life. I meet a friend from work, and we hung out all the time. I knew he was straight, but always worried what he would think if he found out I was gay, so again I kept it to myself.

I didn’t mention anything to him. We just hung out - went to movies, went to bars with other co-workers. We became good friends in the process. About a year later we took a weekend off to go to his hometown for a friend’s bonfire party and just to get out of town for a little while. The first night we were there we stayed at his dad’s house with his younger brothers. His youngest brother was making comments all night like “that’s so gay,” “Don’t be so queer” and other typical insults. None directed at me, but towards some of his friends.

The next day while we were hanging with a couple of his female friends the subject kind of came up – the discussion of gay things. One of the women asked me if I was gay rather straight forward, and I just said “yes” not even thinking about it. Then my friend got up and went outside. I became worried. I started thinking he was going to hate me, or that he was going to be upset that I hadn’t told him. When I went outside to talk with him I was relieved to see that he was not angry or offended.

“Why didn’t you just say so? I knew the first time that we went out for a drink and you ordered a wine cooler; gay guys don’t drink beer.”

I was shocked by the fact that he had known for over a year and was totally cool with it. I was also surprised to find that he thought that all gay guys dislike drinking beer, but that is neither here nor there. Since then our friendship became stronger and we are still very close, even now that I am now living in Arkansas again and he is still living in Ohio.

Hollis Profit, Arkansas

I had never really felt out of place in straight society. I had a series of (rather effeminate) boyfriends throughout high school, and I was comfortable with this. However, I had always experienced an undeniable attraction to women, and as soon as I got to college, I decided to act on it. I came out to my friends the minute I got to college.

I returned home one weekend soon after, unsure of whether I was going to tell my mother. I was telling her about my two gay friends in college who wanted to go to seminary, easing her in to the fact that I had gay friends in college, and you can be gay and Christian at the same time.

She cut right to the chase: "Hollis, would you ever consider dating a girl?"

"I sort of...am."

She started crying. I remember sitting on the couch for what seemed like an eternity, just wanting the moment to be over. I went somewhere else in my head because the situation was too difficult to bear. I started smiling to myself, from wherever I was. I was suddenly snapped back into reality by her voice. 

"Do you think this is FUNNY?"

I will never forgive myself for disrespecting my mother like that. She made it clear that she still loved me unconditionally. She left the note that she had read at my high school graduation on my pillow that night; it was about all the things she had learned from me as her daughter. I do appreciate that she still wants to be a part of my life, and loves me as a person rather than who she wants me to be. But the whole "love the sinner, hate the sin" thing has been so painful and confusing for us. I know that she could reconcile my sexuality with her faith if she just tried.

Robert Harper, Arkansas

In school I was always made fun of for being “gay” or “queer,” even before I knew what those words meant. I remember one day in church, after I started going to the youth group, I learned what the words meant. An older boy yelled at me and called me queer, and I broke down and started crying. I can’t explain the emotions that I felt at that exact moment, but it felt like a mixture of fear, anger and hate. But mostly what I felt was fear.

I was scared of being found out. I was angry at him for making face the thing that I was trying to hide. I hated the way that what he said made me feel. And still more fear about what would happen to me. That moment defined how I would act for the rest of my years in middle school. I was the quiet kid in the back, often times with my nose in a book, who never spoke up and did his best not to be noticed. I floated around the school like a ghost.

However, things began to change my freshman year of high school. After the first semester my bipolar sister made some accusations against another member of our family. As a result I ended up getting shuffled around in the foster care system for a year. Before my aunt got custody of me I stayed at two different places. The first was a residential type place for kids called Vera Loyd. It was there that I had my first experience with a guy, his name was Woody. After that I decided to be true to myself, but not openly or in public. Not yet. I just wasn’t ready. 

While at my aunt’s I got online and starting looking for answers to the questions that I had. I wanted to know what the feelings I had been suppressing for so long meant. I wanted to know if there were others like me. Eventually my aunt found out about the websites I was visiting and decided to send me to a therapist. In two days I was able to convince the therapist that I was a “normal heterosexual boy” and end the therapy. After a while I moved in with my grandparents and continued living a quiet life of self oppression.

Brandyn Smith, Texas

My entire life I have dealt with being different. Being half black and being totally gay all in the same body is naturally grounds for torment and ridicule. But as my mother would later tell me, “it takes a very strong person to be gay.”

My mother and I have always had a pretty close relationship. I always knew that I could tell her anything and not fear what she would say. But when I accepted myself for who I was, I still feared the worst. All of my friends knew; my kid sister knew; all that was left was to tell my mother. 

In my heart I was certain that she already knew. Mothers always do. But uttering the words, “I’m gay,” was harder than I could imagine. I remember trying to drop hints to her, and in turn she also had hints of her own. The most poignant one to me was exactly one week before I announced my “gayocity” to my mother. We were watching Lifetime and the movie was about a seaman who tells his mother several times that he’s gay, but she never believes him. He goes to the Navy, meets a guy, falls in love and records everything they do into journal. Eventually he is found out, but his lover is not. The lover then has to watch as they beat him and throw him overboard for being a “fag.” The Navy tells the mother it was freak accident and gives his personal belongings to her. As she reads the journal she discovers that her only son was gay and sets out to prove that he was murdered. In the end she succeeds.

After the movie, my mother said, “That would be a horrible way to find out. I would want to know before he died so that I could love and accept him for who he really is.” And in that moment I knew I could tell her. 

Scott Medelline, Georgia

Growing up I was the type of young boy who liked to play with Barbie’s and do gymnastics. I was basically thrown into sports – the usual ‘manly’ ones like baseball, football, basketball and. However, once I was in them, things started to get a little strange. In baseball I would just do cartwheels and didn’t care about the game, football I would just stare at the cheerleaders. Not for the reason my dad thought though, but because I was trying to learn the cheers. In basketball I pretended that I broke my toe so I wouldn’t have to play.

Finally I convinced my parents to let me try gymnastics, which I took to and loved. No matter what actual injuries I had gotten I still wanted to compete and learn the craft. Although my parents were not supportive of my new found passion they accepted it because it was a sport that I finally found I loved. They wouldn’t however pay for me to compete at an elite level because they thought it was just a phase that I would grow out of. Needless to say once I was seriously injured they were happy about it.

Eighth grade rolled around, I had already been sexually active but only with girls. Don’t get me wrong I enjoyed it for the most part, but I always felt that something was missing. I had my first ‘gay’ experience in March of that year and it seemed right even though it was nothing major, just two boys experimenting with our bodies together. Even though it seemed more right to me I had convinced myself that I was straight because that’s what my parents wanted. They wanted the whole marriage, perfect wife for me and perfect grandkids for them to spoil. So that’s what I tried to be, the perfect son. It tore me apart because I was so internally confused about whom I was and who I was expected to be so I began cutting my wrists, and it all went downhill from there. By the end of eighth grade I was suicidal, had no appreciation for anyone especially myself. That summer I felt all alone like I had no one to talk to do, because let’s face it, who really does at that age.

My freshman year in high school was no different than eighth grade except my feelings towards killing myself grew stronger. I finally gathered up the courage to go and talk to my schools counselor who recommended that I see a psychologist. We all spoke about it and decided to give it a try. Once psychologist heard my story and knew I was suicidal she sent me to a psychiatric hospital. When I first got there I thought that was the worst thing that had ever happened to me because I was in an environment I wasn’t familiar with being forced to talk about my feeling with a group of strangers. I couldn’t tell the private therapist there because I knew that he didn’t care about any of us, so I was forced to face my demons and talk about it in one of our group sessions. In doing so may have been one of the best things that have ever happened to me. Once I spoke out and shared my story with the group I realized that most of the teens there were feeling the same way. When I was more comfortable with whom I was, I felt almost inclined to try my best to help these other teens. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was determined. I remember asking one of the therapists if they had anyone in the facility that we could talk to who would actually understand what we were all going through. Of course they said “No, whatever anyone wants to say they can say in the group sessions”. That’s not what these teens wanted to do; they needed someone, like I said; that they could relate to them and understand where they’re coming from.

Once I was released from the hospital I had the burden of telling my parents. I remember I was so scared about what they would think and what they would do, but I knew I had to do it. Not just for me, but for the others still in the hospital. As most gay men tend to do, I told my mother first. She was shocked but she had told me that she sort of already knew. We sat down and talked for what seemed like hours, we were both crying and it was truly a very bonding moment for us. I knew the next step was telling my father, which scared me even more because let’s face it; it’s not something a father wants to hear. But again I mustered up the courage, with the help of my mom, and I told him. His reaction was different than my mom’s was; he just sat there with this blank look on his face, disappointment in his eyes and said “okay” , that was the end of that.

Coming out to my initial counselor at my high school, to my therapist, to the psychiatric hospital, and to my parents made me realize something; my calling. Since the group incidents in the hospital I had come to realize that these kids need someone there to tell them that it’s okay, I understand, I’ve been there; and I knew that person was going to be me someday. Everyday I’m inspired to keep on living my dream of helping the next generation of GLBT youth have someone they can rely on.

Andrew Striker, Florida

I didn't come out until my first year in college. I didn’t even figure out I was gay until my senior year of high school, but I never even once considered telling anyone my secret. My plans for the future were as an officer in the military, not as a part of the same group of people I saw getting made fun of every day in school.

I started college in Air Force ROTC. I never once questioned where I wanted to go in life, but in the back of my mind there were always those thoughts and desires I had to suppress. The only time I let those thoughts resurface was when the semester ended, and my health took a turn for the worst. After discovering how difficult it was going to be to pursue a military career, I left my plans for the future and changed my field of study.

I spent the entire winter break thinking about my future and who I wanted to be for the rest of my life. When I finally came back to school I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to be honest with the people I knew about who I was. I knew that if my friends were really my friends, being gay wouldn’t matter to them. So I did it. I came out to my closest friends at first, testing the waters to see how people might react, and gradually I came out to everyone else.

I didn't tell my parents until several weeks later when I drove the four hours home to see them. Although my father took it well my mother wasn’t as understanding. I consider myself lucky that at least one of my parents took it well.

I had a great group of friends and no one I know, besides my mother, took it badly. I don’t know what I would have done without all of them to help me. The best advice I can give anyone is to have that person, or group of people, or counselor, or teacher who can be there for you when you need someone to talk to.

Never be afraid of losing yourself in that small part of who you are. Being honest with myself and everyone else has shaped me into the person that I am. Now I have even more friends, and I’m a big advocate in the LGBT community. Coming out has made a really positive impact on my life.

Cody Henslee, Arkansas

My childhood was plagued with close calls and complete red-handed captures, but my parents never really put it together. I remember staying home while my brother would have his baseball games during the summer. I would use my Sega Dreamcast to access the internet so as to not leave a history or an endless cache of graphic images. I remember clearly my mother coming home early one afternoon because my brother had forgotten his bat bag. She never saw the compromising situation I had found myself in, but did speak to me through my locked bathroom door. After I was assured she had gone, I left my bathroom to see that I had never shut down the system, nor even turned off the television. Nothing was ever said about the situation, this pretty much confirmed my fourteen year-old perception of my family's view on homosexuality.

Fast forward four years and you find an insecure high school graduate who has had a handful of junior high girlfriends, but chose to sit the game out in high school. At this point I was sure of my sexual orientation, and upon entering college I found myself contemplating how I was going to deal with that always prevalent question, "Are you gay?" My only solution to this almost rhetorical question, given my clothing choices and demeanor, was to answer the question the easiest way possible: Facebook. Before I knew it, word spread quickly among the UCA students with whom I had history with back in Bryant, my home town.

This quickly raised concerns of the word getting back to my parents before I had told them. I felt it would be better received if they heard it from me. So I made a pact to tell my dad the first time I came home from school, which happened to be Labor Day 2005. Upon getting home I became very hesitant about the discussion that I knew I needed to had. My dad found me lying on the sofa just staring at the ceiling while he vacuumed the carpet. He looked over and turned off the vacuum, and asked if I had anything on my mind. I looked at him and affirmed him that I was fine and that I was just daydreaming.

About fifteen minutes later my dad had finished vacuuming the house and was putting the vacuum away when he looked at me and asked again, "Are you sure you're not thinking about something?" It almost felt like he was pulling it out of me so I stared off into space and said, "Dad, I told myself that the first time I came home from school I would tell you that I'm gay." I'll never forget the next two hours of discussion and disbelief. I wanted to eject myself out of the situation, and even suggested that I leave; however, that very suggestion changed the tone of the conversation and let me see that my dad was did love me. He told me that, "I was of his flesh and that no matter who I was, I would always be of his flesh."

I know that my sexuality is a sore subject for my father, but I do believe his concerns are genuine and are reflective of his background and upbringing. On occasion we do talk about it but only in the context of my issues with relationships and other guys, but never just about me.