NCOD
1980, 4 years old: John Lennon shot. Mother says he was a fag, then defines the term, crudely, in response to my query.
~1983, 7 years old: first memorable incidents of mother's nonspecifically directed venomous anti-gay screeds and fag jokes.
~1987, 11 years old: first inkling my perception of girls was nonstandard. At a synagogue function of some kind that involves a barbecue lunch, I see one of the congregants tending the oildrum-type barbecue out back. He looks very much like Tom Selleck; I hope I get to be as hairy as he.
~1989, 13 years old: first furtively obtained and stashed skin magazines and facsimiles thereof. First fruitless attempts to be turned on by the women instead of the men.
-1990, 14 years old: Phone call to a Denver gay community center's counselling line, placed when everyone else was out of the house: "I think I might be gay". Counsellor suggests I come to kids/teens discussion/support group. Eep! I hang up.
~1991, 15 years old: mother asks if I'm interested in any girls at school (No, not really). "But you're not interested in any boys, right?" (No!)
1992, 16 years old: mother finds "Men's Health" magazine under front passenger seat of my Valiant. I deny any idea how it got there.
1993, 17 years old: Overheard sneering rumours that two guys at school are gay: a bleachy-blond looking guy, but also a besideburned ginger with a workout body, a halogen smile, and a purple '65 Valiant with a 170 slant-6 engine, but I don't remember any details. We exchange a couple of words every odd and then, and I viciously stomp down even the shadow of a crush or any clever ideas about striking up an actual conversation; far too dangerous. Bleachy-blond guy walks past the school bus I'm on one afternoon-I'm not looking or watching, which makes it all the more terrifying when another bus rider says "Hey, Daniel, don't get a boner." I retriple my vigilance regarding everything I say (and how, and when, and where, and with whom) and everwhere I look, and strive to shorten my lag before laughing at jokes that aren't funny.
1994, 18 years old: I go off to University of Oregon. Math class taught by grad student: big arms, big chest, big calves, big permanent 5 o'clock shadow, big tufts of dark hair at collar and cuffs, big Liverpudlian accent. I have to use the washroom-again. Paying attention in class is hopeless, which means I have to go to office hours, which makes things worse, not better.
1995, 19 years old: I ask the library assistant for help with the persnickety scanners hooked to the persnickety Macintoshes. Somehow or other the subject of her website comes up-it's all about Pink Floyd. I've heard of them, but my awareness stops after knowing there's a band by that name. By and by (and by), we wind up spending a lot of time together. We have a lot of laughs, cook a lot of spaghetti, listen to a lot of Pink Floyd, have a lot of fun. But holding her hand as we walk feels scripted, obligatory, unright, fraudulent. We almost have sex one night after dinner. She's into it but to me it feels even more scripted than handholding-I'd read a lot of books and had a lot of theoretical knowledge. Lack of a condom and Spaghetti's Revenge derail things: whew. Someone I do news with on the campus radio station comes out to me as bisexual: Eep! Someone else I hang out with (she drives a slant-6 Duster) convenes a movie night; about 8 people in attendance including me. The movie: "Longtime Companion". Eep!
1996, 20 years old. Over winter break I go visit my sister who's working in England. We go from London up to Edinburgh for New Year's. We duck into a sweaters-and-woollens store and are looking around. A dark-haired guy strikes up a conversation with me, says he's studying massage, offers to show me. Sister whisks me out of the store several years before I realise the guy was chatting me up.
1998, 22 years old: I'm growing increasingly bitter, sour, peevish, depressed, and socially desperate. I go home for October break, and start a big (no, really big ) argument over who's going to cook the potatoes for dinner. Lots of ugly shouting and banging around. After a very unpleasant dinner I spend until late at night on the computer, in unix text-based chat with a then-friend in California-an unmedicated bipolar husband, father, and Pentecostal lay minister-trying to figure out why I exploded so spectacularly over such a trivial matter as potatoes. Sometime around 2 in the morning, he says, with tongue in cheek, "Wait, wait, I've got it: you're gay and cracking under the closet-stress! LOL." A few minutes of halfhearted textual tapdancing later, I type "Enough of this. Yes. I'm gay."
The next morning my sister's going out to walk the dog. I go with her on condition I explain the previous night's shenanigans. It takes me a trip and a half round the block, telling her I'm getting there and I'm working on it and I'll tell her as soon as I can. Finally I tell her. She swings into action pointing me at PFLAG, etc. I call my aunt (mother's sane sister), tell her she may be getting a freaked-out call from her sister, and tell her why. She's terrific about it, very affirming, wishes me good luck with mother.
At dinner that night I feel like a condemned man eating his last meal. Double helpings of everything, forestalling the inevitable. Finally there's no more ice cream. I set down my spoon and issue an unrehearsed, stilted, stiffly formal announcement that includes the phrase "my very unpleasant task to inform you…that I am gay".
Dad says "Hm."
Mother says "Y'know, I think I knew."
Dad says "No problem."
Mother says "Are you sure?"
Dad says "You lived with this by yourself for how many years?"
Mother says "Stay out of bars, don't get HIV."
Then one or the other of them tells me to resume breathing. Over the next while (days, weeks, months), mother asks a lot of questions, many of them thoughtless, some of them offensively so. Dad offers to tell her to knock it off; I thank him but I've told her I'll answer her every question in detail, so make sure she really wants to know the answer beforehand. This strategy sorta works.
Back to school-University of Michigan, by this time. My two (straight) friends +Chris Schooley and +Dave Jordan buy red shirts especially for Coming Out Day.
1999: In January I'm pointed at the bears (scroll back up to 1987-occasionally one gets one's wish). I've told the majority of everyone I interact with regularly. In April, in Seattle one morning at grandma and grandpa's house, I thoughtlessly wear a bear-themed shirt. Grandpa asks what it means. I explain. He asks for clarification on the term "gay". I explain. He says "Oh! Well, I hope you find a nice redhead at your bear party."
2000: May: rejected on coming out to an ex-Navy (now former) friend who's never had a girlfriend longer than a month or two, works hard to work strained boob jokes into conversation, and drinks himself unconscious each and every night. Gee…!
2000: I'm given Bill's phone number.
2012: Bill and I mark twelve years.
It gets better, as it seems.
~1983, 7 years old: first memorable incidents of mother's nonspecifically directed venomous anti-gay screeds and fag jokes.
~1987, 11 years old: first inkling my perception of girls was nonstandard. At a synagogue function of some kind that involves a barbecue lunch, I see one of the congregants tending the oildrum-type barbecue out back. He looks very much like Tom Selleck; I hope I get to be as hairy as he.
~1989, 13 years old: first furtively obtained and stashed skin magazines and facsimiles thereof. First fruitless attempts to be turned on by the women instead of the men.
-1990, 14 years old: Phone call to a Denver gay community center's counselling line, placed when everyone else was out of the house: "I think I might be gay". Counsellor suggests I come to kids/teens discussion/support group. Eep! I hang up.
~1991, 15 years old: mother asks if I'm interested in any girls at school (No, not really). "But you're not interested in any boys, right?" (No!)
1992, 16 years old: mother finds "Men's Health" magazine under front passenger seat of my Valiant. I deny any idea how it got there.
1993, 17 years old: Overheard sneering rumours that two guys at school are gay: a bleachy-blond looking guy, but also a besideburned ginger with a workout body, a halogen smile, and a purple '65 Valiant with a 170 slant-6 engine, but I don't remember any details. We exchange a couple of words every odd and then, and I viciously stomp down even the shadow of a crush or any clever ideas about striking up an actual conversation; far too dangerous. Bleachy-blond guy walks past the school bus I'm on one afternoon-I'm not looking or watching, which makes it all the more terrifying when another bus rider says "Hey, Daniel, don't get a boner." I retriple my vigilance regarding everything I say (and how, and when, and where, and with whom) and everwhere I look, and strive to shorten my lag before laughing at jokes that aren't funny.
1994, 18 years old: I go off to University of Oregon. Math class taught by grad student: big arms, big chest, big calves, big permanent 5 o'clock shadow, big tufts of dark hair at collar and cuffs, big Liverpudlian accent. I have to use the washroom-again. Paying attention in class is hopeless, which means I have to go to office hours, which makes things worse, not better.
1995, 19 years old: I ask the library assistant for help with the persnickety scanners hooked to the persnickety Macintoshes. Somehow or other the subject of her website comes up-it's all about Pink Floyd. I've heard of them, but my awareness stops after knowing there's a band by that name. By and by (and by), we wind up spending a lot of time together. We have a lot of laughs, cook a lot of spaghetti, listen to a lot of Pink Floyd, have a lot of fun. But holding her hand as we walk feels scripted, obligatory, unright, fraudulent. We almost have sex one night after dinner. She's into it but to me it feels even more scripted than handholding-I'd read a lot of books and had a lot of theoretical knowledge. Lack of a condom and Spaghetti's Revenge derail things: whew. Someone I do news with on the campus radio station comes out to me as bisexual: Eep! Someone else I hang out with (she drives a slant-6 Duster) convenes a movie night; about 8 people in attendance including me. The movie: "Longtime Companion". Eep!
1996, 20 years old. Over winter break I go visit my sister who's working in England. We go from London up to Edinburgh for New Year's. We duck into a sweaters-and-woollens store and are looking around. A dark-haired guy strikes up a conversation with me, says he's studying massage, offers to show me. Sister whisks me out of the store several years before I realise the guy was chatting me up.
1998, 22 years old: I'm growing increasingly bitter, sour, peevish, depressed, and socially desperate. I go home for October break, and start a big (no, really big ) argument over who's going to cook the potatoes for dinner. Lots of ugly shouting and banging around. After a very unpleasant dinner I spend until late at night on the computer, in unix text-based chat with a then-friend in California-an unmedicated bipolar husband, father, and Pentecostal lay minister-trying to figure out why I exploded so spectacularly over such a trivial matter as potatoes. Sometime around 2 in the morning, he says, with tongue in cheek, "Wait, wait, I've got it: you're gay and cracking under the closet-stress! LOL." A few minutes of halfhearted textual tapdancing later, I type "Enough of this. Yes. I'm gay."
The next morning my sister's going out to walk the dog. I go with her on condition I explain the previous night's shenanigans. It takes me a trip and a half round the block, telling her I'm getting there and I'm working on it and I'll tell her as soon as I can. Finally I tell her. She swings into action pointing me at PFLAG, etc. I call my aunt (mother's sane sister), tell her she may be getting a freaked-out call from her sister, and tell her why. She's terrific about it, very affirming, wishes me good luck with mother.
At dinner that night I feel like a condemned man eating his last meal. Double helpings of everything, forestalling the inevitable. Finally there's no more ice cream. I set down my spoon and issue an unrehearsed, stilted, stiffly formal announcement that includes the phrase "my very unpleasant task to inform you…that I am gay".
Dad says "Hm."
Mother says "Y'know, I think I knew."
Dad says "No problem."
Mother says "Are you sure?"
Dad says "You lived with this by yourself for how many years?"
Mother says "Stay out of bars, don't get HIV."
Then one or the other of them tells me to resume breathing. Over the next while (days, weeks, months), mother asks a lot of questions, many of them thoughtless, some of them offensively so. Dad offers to tell her to knock it off; I thank him but I've told her I'll answer her every question in detail, so make sure she really wants to know the answer beforehand. This strategy sorta works.
Back to school-University of Michigan, by this time. My two (straight) friends +Chris Schooley and +Dave Jordan buy red shirts especially for Coming Out Day.
1999: In January I'm pointed at the bears (scroll back up to 1987-occasionally one gets one's wish). I've told the majority of everyone I interact with regularly. In April, in Seattle one morning at grandma and grandpa's house, I thoughtlessly wear a bear-themed shirt. Grandpa asks what it means. I explain. He asks for clarification on the term "gay". I explain. He says "Oh! Well, I hope you find a nice redhead at your bear party."
2000: May: rejected on coming out to an ex-Navy (now former) friend who's never had a girlfriend longer than a month or two, works hard to work strained boob jokes into conversation, and drinks himself unconscious each and every night. Gee…!
2000: I'm given Bill's phone number.
2012: Bill and I mark twelve years.
It gets better, as it seems.