Spencer Smith, Arkansas

I believe that I have always been gay, and it is everyone else who had to find. I knew that I was "different" from the other boys in my grade even before I was eight, and I first called myself "gay" in middle school. Of course it was a word that only I said to myself – a word that only I knew applied to me. It was a word that I would write in the margins notebooks and scribble them out later. To everyone else I was just the shy, awkward kid who talked about Pokémon in homeroom. And I was fine with that.

I was fine with it up until I went to college. Well, it wasn't so much that I was fine with it – that was just how I had decided it had to be for the time being. I had to maintain the status quo. But college was different; it was the predestined time in life that was supposed to be fertile ground for change. It was a fresh start for me; I was no longer limited by who I had always been or the perception of who I was supposed to be. It was time to be the person I had waited all my life to be.

So I picked an arbitrary date. July 23rd. That was the day I was going to come out, and heaven, nor hell, nor high water were going to stop me. It was not just me coming out just to anyone, it was me coming out to my parents – the people who had cared for me and loved me my entire life. And yet I had no idea how it was going to go. My family never talked about that kind of thing. About being gay. My extended family would ask me every holiday if I had a girlfriend, and I would say no – but I would say that I was trying (which I had absolutely no intention of doing). Then they would respond with some kind of quip and that would be that for an entire year. And to my knowledge, both then and now, there has never been another member of my family, alive or dead in any direction, who is gay. I am alone in this regard, but that is nothing terribly new to me. I have always been different. I’m the rainbow sheep of my family.

The day arrived sooner that it seemed possible; it had been over a year ago when had I set the date. I had already come out to other people, but no one like my parents. All of them were my friends and peers in college; they were people I had come to trust implicitly. They had all quickly accepted me, even though I surprised more than a few of them.

July the twenty-third was a very hot day, bright and clear without a cloud in the sky. The sun was just making its way past the tree line on the west side of the house, casting long shadows across the yard outside. Inside, I stood in the kitchen washing the dishes in the sink after dinner. Mom was sitting in a chair by the family dining table on the other side of the stove from me watching the hummingbirds zip down and around a feeder full of sugar water that hung above the deck.

When I had finished with the dishes, I walked over and stood by my mom in front of the glass door to the deck. It was very quiet in the room – it had been quiet in the entire house all day. It was as if there was a great silence that was just waiting to be breached. It was the disturbing noiselessness that fills a room just before a plate shifts out of place and falls, shattering on the floor. My mom turned and looked at me with her hands clasped in her lap.

“Is there something on your mind?” she asked.

           

I looked at her, and for a second I considered saying nothing at all, but I knew that I couldn’t. My mind was set; there would be no turning back.

           

“Mom, I’m gay.”

           

I had said the three words that I had been waiting my entire life to say. I had released my greatest secret into the world. I had no idea how my family would react or what would happen, but I could not take the burden of lying to myself and to the people around me anymore. I knew that in all likelihood there wasn’t going to be a fairy tale ending to my story, and I had at least tried to prepare for that – the possibility of being put out on my own. But there are things that no one can prepare for.

           

“What? Are you sure?” she said.

           

“Yeah, pretty much.”

           

There was a long pause between us as we looked at each other – all the color and emotion had drained from her face. She looked away first, taking in one shaking breath and letting it out. She shifted in her seat, turning towards the table a little more, and laid her arms across the surface holding her elbows. My mom slowly lowered her head into the crook of her arm. I could not see her face; I could only hear her hard, shallow breathing. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just put one hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. I don’t know how long we stood there like that, but eventually she lifted her head and looked at me.

           

“This is like someone calling me and telling me that my son is dead.”

           

There are a lot of things that I had prepared for, but that struck me like a stone. It cut through everything and smashed into my gut. Those words took the air right out of my lungs. If there was anything I could have responded to that with, there would have been no way for me to even verbalize it. But I didn’t even have time to recover.

           

“This – this, is like you decided to wake up and become a serial killer,” and after that she just cradled her head in her arms again and shook.

I fell into the seat next to her. I felt like everything had just been wiped out of me. Two short sentences. That was all she had to say to reduce me to a borderline catatonic state. I managed to recover a bit, and I tried to talk to her. I told her that I loved her, and I tried to comfort her. She told me I should become a monk and be celibate for the rest of my life. She told me that I was better off loving no one than falling in love with a man. She said that college had done this to me, and I should quit and come home. She said she was not crying for me, but the grandchildren she would never have.

           

I just told her that I loved her, that I always would, but I couldn’t change who I am. 

Jonathan Bender, New York

I wouldn't really consider this a coming out story per se, considering I was never really "outed.” Unlike many who have experience incredibly adamant responses from family members, peers and teachers alike, my first steps out of the closet were fairly easy.

Growing up, I feel like every member of the LGBT community knows there's something a bit off about their internal desires and longings; whether it's Barbie's remarkable accessorizing skills or G.I. Joe's throbbing toy bulge, as examples. As a child I had the best possible parents and extended family members a little “friend of Dorothy” could ask for; I say friend of Dorothy because I literally was obsessed with "The Wizard of Oz."

When I was four Toys 'R Us had a sale in the girl's dress up section and there was a feature on the Jelly Ruby Slippers, so naturally my mother instinctively made the purchase. One problem: I was only allowed to dress up in the house. A natural born trouble-maker to the core, I skipped my way out of the backyard and onto the sidewalks, completely ignorant white suburbia. Later, in the fifth grade, I was taunted and teased to death grade, getting called "Big Gay Al” at a time when South Park reigned supreme, and the boys who admitted to liking "...Baby One More Time" were crucified on the playground.

Noticing a major change in my demeanor (and eating habits), my mother enrolled me into theater classes to work through it and make friends outside of school; proving to be more difficult, it was a predominantly Jewish theater school where I had to lie about my "faith" to make a friend or two. Middle school was more challenging, but as my stomach began to shrink my skin became tougher and my attitude became a little rougher around the edges.

Dating my "girl-friends" only proved only to be sham-worthy. I would look tense and robotic parading down the hall arm and arm with a girl that I simply could never crush on. The only real girl crush I had was Sarah Michelle Gellar, who I postered my walls with - but that's beside the point.

High school was where I first met an out and comfortable gay man who paved the way for my coming out process. A friend of a friend, Paul, graduated from my high school a year prior and was incredibly handsome, I knew this would be a problem. Unsure of how I felt, I became closer with his ex-girlfriend, Laurie, who always assumed I was a bit “light in my loafers.” But then again who didn't already assume that?

Paul and I would talk online when I'd get home from school. He had a break from college and would email me back and forth about his long distance boyfriend and about feelings I could only repress. What I had with Paul was special to me, which I'm not sure he even realizes to this day considering I never really thanked him for the mentorship and support along the way.

Through him, I decided enough was enough with my internal struggle. I had to face the facts and I skipped a class on a fake pass to go to the choir room, parading down the hall with sweaty palms and nerves that were boiling through my skin. My choir director had a “Safe Space” sticker on her door from a donation she had made a few years prior, so when I got to Mrs. Wade’s room I told her about my sexuality and finally opened myself up.

I told her how I felt that it was the only secret I had to myself, seeing as my father was a private investigator and knew damn well every step I took, everything I ate, and everything else down to where I went to the bathroom (most likely). He was who I feared the most. Having met my parents before, she knew when I had come to terms with myself and this "secret" I would open up to them when I ready.

One night, after I was out with my friends seeing One Hour Photo, I arrived home to a note on the oven: "We need to talk. Love, Mom." Cautiously, I tip-toeing into the den, my mother was in her usual position on the couch, curled up with Lifetime and her glass of Chardonnay. I sat down. I stare blankly at her.

"How was your night?" banter started the conversation, but I needed to know if what she was asking was regarding my sexuality.

"So, this note..."

"I know your secret."

"MOM, I'm BI!" my eyes were welling up with unmerited tears.

My mother coddled me with her quirky, liberal sense of humor: "I've pretty much known since you popped out of me."

We hugged and I told her stories about my confusion and the struggles I faced in middle school through high school to open ears. But the hard part was yet to come. The next morning I woke up, groggy eyed from salty tears to my father sitting at the edge of my bed./span>

"I just wanted to say this to you face to face," he began, "my brother was always suspected to be gay, and he was my best friend for some time before he died. I loved him, and I want you to know that no matter who you are, what you are, who you love, I will always love you. Do me a favor and remember that this is only a part of you, it's not all of you."

The hardest part of the experience was the easiest part, because I didn't even have to do the talking. 

AJ Bastardo, Illinois

After high school I decided to take a break from school and try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. At the time my close friend, Jenn, was planning on moving to Los Angeles. One night after pouring out my heart to her about my lack of direction; she asked me to leave Chicago and go with her. I was beyond excited to be away from my home and finally be free to live the way I wanted. I also decided that it would be the perfect time to come out the closet. I figured that no matter happened or what was said I would have somewhere to run to and another life I could start. I waited a week to go by, to make sure that coming out was what I really wanted, and I announced to my family that I had something I needed to talk to them about.

My dad and I have had a very close relationship, and I always knew that I could turn to him when I needed anything. Sadly though, my father was one of those guys who loved to joke about gay men and blurt out the word “fag” from time-to-time. This terrified me when it came time to finally open up to him.

The night of my big announcement started off on a sour note. My grandmother had gotten really ill and we had to rush to the hospital. The whole time my family prodded around for my big news. My sister was sure that I had gotten a girl pregnant, and my family was already giving me the “importance of being a good father” lecture. I knew it wasn’t the time or the place and decided to shrug of their questions.

We finally got home around midnight and I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but knew that this was now or never and I asked my family to meet in the living room. I never in my life felt more afraid and distant from the person I had made myself up to be. The person who they knew was starting to slip away already. I stared at them and took in their faces; imagining that this would be the last night I saw them.

I’ve always thought that it would be late in life when I would finally tell my family that I’m gay, because I did not think they would understand until then. I was already feeling myself paddling away from the conversation. I took a deep breath and clinched my phone tightly in my hand (I had already pre-dialed a friend’s number just in case I needed somewhere to go for the night). My whole body was tired and my brain felt like putty. The only thing that seemed to be moving and alive was my heart beating. I decided that I would start by telling them about Los Angeles – to ease the tension slightly.

“I’m going to move to Los Angeles with Jennifer”, I said, finally letting the words slip through my lips.

My dad and my step mom harassed me with questions about my willingness to move there with no prospects of a job and only enough money for two month’s food and rent saved up. After the conversation had died down I stood there looking for a way to move the topic. My step mom looked at me with worried eyes; as if she could tell that I was keeping something inside.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

I looked at the doorway and then at them and the secret I had held for eighteen years poured from my lips.

“I’m gay”

I walked out the room with tears streaming down my cheeks. I went into my room and closed the door with my body against it. I felt breathless and began to dial my friend when I heard knocking on the door. I opened it and saw my father. I looked at his face and saw no tears or sadness. He swallowed hard and spoke.

“I love you more than anything in this world. I am your father, and you have nothing to cry about. I know that I probably didn’t make it easy for you to be open with yourself, but I promise that I won’t be that guy anymore,” He took me into his arms and I wept.

“It might take time for you to share that part of your life with me, but when you are I’ll be ready,” he said.

Then he let me go and told me to collect myself and come out and hug my sister and step mom. After that day I let go of everything that held me back from who I really was as a person. I didn’t need to hide anymore because I didn’t care anymore. There was no more worry about being discovered, and I didn’t care who else knew that I was gay because the most important people to me were okay with it. I never moved out west with Jennifer, but it was okay because I didn’t need somewhere to run to anymore.

Joshua Lemmons, Alabama

It is difficult growing up in an area where there is a large number of people who don't approve of certain lifestyles. Well, let's be honest, they don't approve of any lifestyle that isn't their own. That was my childhood. I was raised right in the buckle of the “Bible belt.” Most people hear that I'm from Alabama and wonder how I've not been lynched or bashed every day of my life, but it's really not as bad as that. Mostly.

There was, however, an ever present feeling of just never really belonging. I never really understood why I was different as a child, but the other kids at school made it their personal business to ensure that I knew the fact as much as humanly possible. In my particular area it wasn't really common knowledge what being gay was or what it entailed. I didn't really even know what the kids were saying to me in school when they called me gay. I just disagreed vehemently because of the way they said it! Little did I know that not only were they right, but also that it was kind of a big deal in the area. People just didn't talk about it. You could have your sneaking suspicions, but you never out-and-out asked someone about it and heaven forbid someone proclaim it publicly and proudly!

Around puberty is when I started noticing that when asked what I thought about how a girl looked that I honestly didn't have an opinion. I knew something was up though when I saw the varsity boys’ soccer team practice for the first time though. Later on I got the internet and my journey to self-discovery began! I started looking into what being gay meant. Was I broken? Was it wrong? Can I be fixed? Should it be fixed? Is there even anything to fix? So I really have to thank the internet age for helping me come to grips with who I am. Little did I know that this would also be the method to which I would use to come out to those I love.

I had told a few of my friends about my major discovery, but that wasn't really what I considered my 'coming out' experience. It was more like me gathering up the courage to take the first step out of the closet. Ironically the first person to know was my “ex-girlfriend.” Don't get the wrong idea. We were essentially just best friends. The farthest we ever got was a peck on the lips. We were only around twelve or thirteen years old. It was middle school for goodness sake!

She was the one who really helped me feel like it was alright to be gay though. It all started with a simple, “I think I'm attracted to boys, I think I'm gay,” and that really got the ball rolling. She was the one who encouraged me to look more into it. I was probably around fifteen or sixteen at the time. I didn't actually fully decide to come out until I was nearly a senior in high school.

The big coming out is when you tell your parents, and I'm ashamed to admit that I kinda chickened out a bit. Actually, I chickened out hardcore. I was so scared of confronting my parents about it that I literally sat and took the time to write my parents and e-mail about it. That's right...I came out of the closet digitally.

That was the worst possible idea ever and I sincerely do not recommend anyone do it ever because it is the most nerve-wracking experience of your life afterward. Waiting after something like that can literally add years to your life! I was only eighteen at the time, and I swear that I have gray hairs because of that waiting period. I simply wrote from my heart to them though. I explained that I didn't feel like it was right of me to hide it anymore, and that I felt they deserved to know the truth. I declared proudly in the email that I was attracted to other guys, and that I hoped that they would still find it in their hearts to love me the same as always.

I sincerely told them that I hoped that they would still love me. I was so worried about being that person who was turned out of their home to wander the streets because of their sexual orientation. That was my thought process the whole time. I was thinking, “Good lord, Josh. What have you done? What if they throw you out? What if they don't love you anymore?” because that just felt like what would be the case because of the area that we lived in.

I could not have been more surprised by what truly happened. In fact, I would have never even dreamed of it happening the way that it did. I was sitting in my room in the middle of the afternoon doing homework and I hear some knocking on my door frame. I look up and it's my mother standing there, and my heart immediately just fell through the floor because I knew by the expression on her face that she had gotten my email. It was written clearing on her face. Tears. It was like all of the air in the room had been vacuumed out, and the temperature dropped a few degrees. I was very suddenly and acutely aware of my own heartbeat which had somehow found its way to the middle of my throat, yet had found a way to echo inside my ears. The only sound in the room for a minute or so was the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Finally the silence was broken.

She simply said, “I got your email. How on Earth did you think that we would not love you anymore? I thought you would know your father and me better than that.” I was floored. It was literally the complete opposite of what I had expected. Turns out the reason she was crying was not because she was ashamed of me being gay, but it was as she explained “because of hardship you are going to have to deal with for the rest of your life just to be yourself.” I immediately started crying. How could I not? She wasn't ashamed. She wasn't angry. She was concerned. She was worried about my well-being in the future. She hugged me very tightly and it was like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.

The next thing she said really just cemented the whole thing. She stated clearly, “I had a sneaking suspicion that you were going to end up gay when you were still a baby.” I could only just gape at her with my mouth hanging open. When I was finally able to reply, I said deadpan, “Well, it would've been nice if you had let me known this since I've been in mental anguish over it for a while now! Thanks, Mom!” We both laughed about it and ever since it has just been a fact of our lives. Just another facet to my being. I am proud to be gay, and I am proud to have parents that are so supportive. They have even embraced my boyfriend of three and a half years as a member of the family. My family is the exception to the rule and has kept the “Bible belt” from choking the life out of me. I could not possibly ask for better parents, and I thank my lucky stars every day of my life for having them.

A. McMahon, Oregon

I came out to my friends over winter break my senior year of college. I was 22 at the time.

The year prior I had lived with my best friend... we'll call him Marcus. For reasons I don't care to get into, Marcus was severely repressed. He was always ambiguous about his sexuality in high school, and after we attended the same college and decided to be roommates he came out to me and declared his love for me. At that time I didn't know I was gay, which now seems stupid. I should've known. But having him disclose his feelings escalated the process and I soon accepted my gayness.

Back to my senior year: Friends from out of town visited during break. After a night of heavy drinking, we all returned to my apartment. Marcus lived a few blocks away but crashed at my place with everyone else. In my drunken state I decided it would be a good idea to pick on Marcus. I kept pestering him while he was trying to chill and just generally was being an ass. That's what I did back then I guess. His best friend Robert, my frienemy and roommate, got annoyed with my antics. Marcus and I had not been getting along for several months at this point, and Robert had seen enough. He decided to defend Marcus. He chased me and based on his reaction I assumed we were about to get into a physical fight. I went to my room and locked the door, but my roommate, John, decided it would be a great idea to let Robert in to finish the argument despite my protests.

So we got into a fist fight.

Mind you, this was just before bed at like 2 or 3am and we were all in our underwear/pajamas. Fisticuffs ensued and it wasn't long before I was in a headlock on the floor of my room. Robert screamed "Why are you always so mean to Marcus!"

"You really want to know?!", I replied.

"Yes I really want to know!" Robert yelled.

"Marcus, stop this right now before I say something you'll regret." I told him.

Marcus, standing nearby with three of my other friends said, in the smallest voice ever heard out of a human being, "C'mon guys, stop it."

"FINE!", I said, "If you really want to know. The reason I'm mean to Marcus is because he's gay. I'm gay too. And we had sex!"

Time stopped.

The five or so friends staying over at my place were in shock. Mouths were wide opened.

For me the room was spinning.

Robert dropped me and ran off. He drove drunk, shirtless and shoeless in his truck to go tell his girlfriend what happened. Everyone else went to bed.

The next day I had to explain to friends on a road trip to visit a law school what had happened the night before. I need to explain why I looked like I lost a fight and was bleeding through my shirt the entire day.

I felt better though. Although I had outted someone who was supposed to be my best friend, it was also forcing me to stay in the closet. Looking back, I don't know what I would've done differently. I don't feel good about outting someone I care about. But I refuse to live a lie.

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.