Coming out

I’m sitting in one of my favorite Portland coffee houses. It’s a beautiful “winter” day here. A marvelous blue sky. A shining sun. The glass-empty side of me is certain Mother Nature and the meteorologists are deceiving us into thinking spring is on the way, but I’m not complaining. I’ll take all the sunshine I can get.

A few minutes ago, the early 40s-something man across from me was on the phone with a friend or relative. I like to think I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping, but you could say I was half listening. My ears perked up when he started talking about his 15-year-old daughter who had recently been outed at school. (Perhaps this drew my attention because I immediately had flashbacks to middle and high school. The thought of being publicly outed at that age—or, really, any age—horrifies me.)

Aside from being appalled that her classmates could do that, he went on to have a nonchalant conversation with his friend. He shared relief that society is changing, albeit slowly, toward more acceptance of gays and lesbians. He articulated concern, almost sadness that his daughter would likely face more challenges and bigotry than her straight counterparts because of who she is moved to love. (Please read Frank Bruni’s brilliant, poignant piece in Sunday's Times.) He expressed his unconditional love for her. He was relieved she had the courage to be honest with herself and their family about her identity, rather than coming out well into adulthood after hiding her true self for decades. He said he had lost a friend over it, but now recognized who his true friends were. (The friend said he needed to "reform" his daughter.) After a few minutes, that was that. Back to work.

I imagined what their conversation could have been like. For some reason, I picture her telling him in the car. (Wait a minute. This is Portland. They’re decked out in rain gear riding bikes.)

     She looks up. “Dad, I’m gay.”

     “You’re gay?”

     “Yea, I like girls.”

     “OK, I’m cool with that. Thanks for telling me. I love you no matter what. You know that right?”

     “Cool. Thanks, Dad. What’s for dinner later?”

He hadn’t crashed the car. (Or his bike.) The world hadn’t fallen apart. His daughter was still just that—his daughter.

While half-listening to him for those few minutes, I realized a few things. I’m proud of this 15-year-old girl, even though I know next to nothing about her. I’m proud of her Dad for being a rational, reasonable person. His daughter will be more likely to be stronger and surer and more confident of who she is because of his support and love, even if she faces backlash from others.

I realized I couldn’t imagine being outed—ever—but even worse, in high school. I know that things haven’t changed a whole lot since I was a timid freshman at Binghamton High School. Kids can be truly ruthless to each other. (See this excellent New Yorker piece on Tyler Clementi’s suicide.) Kids can also, however, surprise you by their empathy, understanding, compassion. (Thanks for helping me understand that, 17-year-old version of Myles.)

For me, coming out, saying those three words I was so terrified to say, even whisper—“I am gay”—, was the hardest journey I’ve ever gone through. I say journey because it took me around 14 years to fully accept and embrace not just a part of me, but all of me. (I think I was about 7-years-old when my first girl crush developed, even though I didn't know that's what it was then.) And in many ways, that journey continues today.

Growing up, I knew there was something different about me. Something inherent. Something I could never pinpoint as a kid. I looked normal. (Except for that oh-so-awkward-braces-and-pimples phase.) I tried my best in school and always held myself to high expectations. I didn’t act out. I developed good friendships. I was, generally, a “normal” kid.

But I felt different. And I didn’t know why or what that difference was.

I struggled to articulate my feelings. I remember feeling anger build up inside of me, sometimes for no real reason. A bad grade, perhaps. A poorly played basketball game. A disagreement with a sibling or parent. Sadness, frustration, helplessness all swirling together within. And the result was often a complete meltdown.

I feared others would see what made me different, even though I didn’t fully know what that was myself. I feared they would ridicule me. I worried they would think I was no longer ME, even though I was still ME. I worried they’d see me only as that difference, not me in my entirety.

My girl friends in middle school had crushes on handsome male teachers. I had a crush on our substitute math teacher. She was blond, pretty, and so sweet. She must have been about 23. While others acted out or messed around, she had my 100 percent attention.

Ten years and a bumpy rollercoaster ride later (similar to the time I rode the Comet at Hershey Park and almost fell out), I finally uttered those three words. Not out loud, but to myself in my dorm room in Australia, a world away from my reality. My world both fell apart and came together at the same time. Those same fears I had as a kid still resonated loudly. But now it was real. I had finally accepted this huge part of my identity and wanted to gradually tell my parents and loved ones.

Hearing the father across from me express his sincere support of his daughter sparked a reliving, a remembering of each moment I came out to my family and friends.

He didn’t support her, but not really support her, by saying “Well, I love her, but I’d prefer she’d end up with a guy.” He said unconditionally, emphatically, “I love her regardless of who she loves.” Without the outpouring of love (and, often, welcomed humor) from family and friends, I wouldn’t be who I am right now. It has certainly never been easy, but expressions of support and understanding built my courage. To tell others. To face the world. To take risks. To deal with others' intolerance.

I’m not sure I’ve personally thanked all of my family, cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends for their emails, hand-written notes, phone calls, or conversations, but I think about them often. They gave me strength to truly be myself.

As I reflect on my years post-coming out, sure I’ve made mistakes. I’m not perfect. But, I’m convinced I never would have had the courage to join TFA, move to New York City, and teach in the Bronx. And I certainly wouldn’t be here, sitting in my favorite café in Portland.

I can’t imagine a life where I am still hiding from myself and others. But, I understand why it takes others years or decades to accept and embrace who they are. Maybe it’s blatant homophobia. Perhaps they hear comments, here or there, subtle or not, that drive them deeper into uncertainty and confusion. 

Coming out is a process, and everyone grapples with it in their own way, in their own time. When I was finally honest with others and myself, I became a happier, kinder, more confident, empathetic and productive person. 

At that moment, I met myself—my whole self—for the first time. And I liked that person, even though I knew I had a lot of work to do.