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In Celebration of
National Coming Out Day,
October 11,1988
Read these stories. Read them carefully. They are stories
about that ambiguous, ambivalent process that we have have all
experienced in one way or another. And one that we continue to
experience: coming out.
Read these stories. Notice that none is exactly like the others.
And that none is exactly like your coming out story.
The bad news is that announcing that we are, in some way,
different to a world that values and rewards conformity isn't
easy. It's an act that takes work and courage and support. And
finally trust. Trust that there is room in this world for you.
That's the good news. Almost anyone who is "out" will tell you
that life on the sunny side of the closet door, even with all its
risks, is a damn sight easier and a lot more fun than lurking
around in the shadows.
Read these stories. See the courage. Feel the love. Find the
proof that, no matter what our differences, there is room in the
world for all of us.
Thanks to Susan McKay for modeling the series of photos for
us. Photography by Pamela J. Cole, Photo Editor.
Queering Off
My first memory of coming out was more to the tune of "found
out," busted by the Hormone SWAT Team Captain more
commonly known as my stepmother. In 1969,1 was sixteen and
as of early April had logged eleven months of experience with
heavy petting, fondling, and other exciting arts with my first
girlfriend. However, in the fall of 1968, she had to move away.
We vowed to span the hardships of time and space and never
would our UNDYING love die. And it flourished and grew, as
did the prosperity of the U.S. Postal Service through the
wonderful world of LUV letters. I guess after a few of them
soaked the Sears bill once too often, ol stepmo started collecting
them. Then, she calmly walked in the living room and dropped
about fifty at my feet She read me my rights, flashed me her
badge and told me and my daddy of her plans to mail these to
girlfriend's parents. In shock, I dashed from the house to my
friend Susan's. She came outside, took one look at my face and
asked who died. I started pacing back and forth in about a four
step pattern and kept saying, "Susan, something awful has
happened. I need to tell someone, but I just can't I just can't
You'll hate me." So she kept saying to tell her, tell her, it was ok.
Finally I stopped and blurted out "Me and 'you now who' have
been, well, QUEERING OFF!" Yeah, that's how I put
il-queering off. I told her the rest of the story. She put her arm
' around me and said, "It's ok, Jane. That ain't so bad. You didn't
do anything wrong."
But cessation of my "alternate" lifestyle, thought and deed, was
the result for five years. I did think I was wrong. I didn't fight
back. I had no sense of tribe. There were no other people who
felt like me. I saw no choice but to hide and forget this energy and
love.
Coming out, step two, kicked off in Memphis when I became
frustrated and curious with my desire to wink (or something) at
half the Twana's, Dawn's, and Sherry's who crossed my path.
Miraculously, a person appeared in my path that identified
herself as a "gay person." She warned me that to associate
with her might mean that I, too, might be assumed queer
and dangerous. Something told me I was on the right track.
She is the one who led me to this fair city of Atlanta, and on
my first weekend visit, I arranged to move here the next I
saw drag queens and had seminars with my friend and her
inner circle on the do's and don'ts of leisure and formal
butch and femme attire for the "go be cool at the bar"
routine. I learned and relaxed quickly, but my learning time
with my first lesbian tribe did not last too long. Their basic
"I became frustrated and curious with my
desire to wink (or something) at half the
Twana’s, Dawn’s and Sherry’s who crossed
my path. ”
focus was upper middle class material success, and their
skill in closetedness was believed to be the only way that
dream could happen. They had no desire to be involved
with any gay political matters, nor did they associate with
any female persons who did not shave their legs. Needless
to say, they did not like the new ALFA dykes I met roaming
around Little Five Points.
Quickly moving through the Sweet Gum Head School of
Etiquette, my consciousness raising continued. The
experience of people joining forces for women's rights and
gay rights was a step in the right direction. I was constantly
feeling myself opening up and claiming my life for a
change. Honesty started being a real important thing
because I never felt I had been in my life. Separatism was
an accepted form of belief around my new politically correct
friends. I went for that for a while, too. Yeah, those men
did this to us. They don't need to be here. Well, I understand
a brief cycle of this early in a lesbian's development, but as a
way of life, it’s not for me.
This leads us to coming out, stage three, which is where I
am going. As far as the "world in which I live" goes, I
believe I've got it sewed up pretty comfortable. All the
important people I have in my life know I'm gay. These
people include doctors, dentist, landlord, neighbors, and most
of my customers (I freelance). My lawyer is gay, so she
knows. And on the subject of legalities, if you will. When I
die, I have prearranged so no strangers, mainly blood kin,
won't drag my dead ass back to south Alabama, throw me in a
polyester dress and bury me. Just 'cause they're blood don't
make them kin. I love the slogan, "Love makes a family,
nothing less, nothing else."
Back to coming out, my policy has rarely been "Oh, hello,
I'm gay, and by the way, my name is Jane." It is not
"politically correct," in my book, to share intimate details of
your life with people you don't trust with the information. On
the flip side, it is not emotionally correct to spend great
amounts of time around people that you can't trust with some
realities about who you love and call family. That wears us
down in such a subtle, nagging way.
I am very blessed with acceptance from most people who
drop into my life. My ability to expand to share myself with
people on different levels is increasing. I don't hoard my
privacy like I used to. These days sharing instead of avoiding
gives me that sigh of relief unplugging the phone used to
provide. I enjoy finding avenues to give of my time and love
to bond with others who devote the same to launching
thoughts of trust and peace. The people who organized
Southern Voice I am very proud to include in my family.
Telling those people who moved me to stretch a little farther
is important, and don't it feel good to hear?
-Jane Black
A Brilliant Flaw in the Universe
There are thousands of "normal" stories about coming out-those relatively devoid of
conflict, sometimes full of anxiety, but balanced by love and support. Here follows nothing
funny or dramatic-dike my friend in Chicago who came out on her wedding night
My experiences weren't so much a series of events as a long, slow process of "myself 1
stirring beneath almost three decades of denial, like a sleeping giant I was trying to be a
farmerette in Minnesota when I decided to write letters to my brother and sister delineating my
sexual preference in as positive a manner as I could muster. I thought I'd hold off until later for
the big "M". (Dad was dead.) This may have been the chicken's way out but in a Catholic
family it certainly saved the cost of renting a big hall.
I waited for those responses-pensively milking goats and weeding the garden-and they
arrived one by one. And each was thoughtful, loving and kind in their own way, and I cried
with relief. They were nice people-I was nice people.
I saved those letters from my brother and sister and sisters-in-law, like saving reviews on a
good play I'd written-the play of My Life. Three years passed before I told Mom, tete a tete,
and she murmured platitudes, as I thought she would, filing me away as her "special child" a
brilliant flaw in her universe. Sometimes it’s enough just to present the IDEA of the future to
the past
Ironically, at this time I was not out at work, being the only female engineer in a research
and development firm. I thought at the time it would save me grief, but I realized later that it
was imagined grief, and that my strength of character would always save me from ridicule by
those who truly love me. That was four years ago. And that's the path I've taken since then.
-Michelle Martin
Son, You’re Not Military Material
I never had to tell my mother. She just seemed to know. My father was a different matter. I
remember when I was fourteen or so he looked at me one day and said, "Son, you are not military
material." The words were spoken in the matter-of-fact, authoritarian manner of this man who had spent
thirty years in the Army.
My mother died when I was sixteea My father died when I was eighteea During the two years
between those deaths, my father and I became very close. We only talked about sexuality once that I can
recall.
We were fishing. I rarely went with him, but occasionally I could be persuaded to go along for an
afternoon or early morning. He would go any time-day or night. Most of the time we spent fishing was
silent One of us would occasionally speak and the other would respond or not depending on the moment
and mood. "John, I wanna ask you a questioa" He spoke first
"OK." I answered Then, there was a long pause like he was searching for a way to ask a hard
question.
"Do girls 'do anything for you?" He didn't explain, he just waited looking at the water.
It was my turn to search for the way to say difficult words.
"No sir, they don't"
"That's what I figured." I felt flushed and afraid waiting for the next words.
"Do other boys do something for you?"
I took my time answering because I wasn't sure. I was a virgin at seventeen but I knew there was
something about other boys that I really liked "Yes sir, I guess so."
"That's what I figured." There was more silence. And I wondered if he would ever say another word
tome.
'Is that OK?" I finally asked looking for some reassurance.
"Well, you're my son and I love you," he said I believed him.
-Johnny Walsh