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.