How do you know you're gay?

“How do you know you’re gay?” 

That’s the first thing my older brother asked me when I told him.  

“I just know,” I said. 

His second question: “Have you slept with a woman?” 

“No,” I said. That was the truth.  

“Then how do you know for sure?”  

My sister-in-law answered for me. “Geez, Barry. Maybe you should sleep with a man to make sure you’re not gay.”

Ha! Love my sister-in-law. In fact, when I told her before he came home that day, you know what she said to me? “’It’s about time!”  Yep, some figured it out way before I did.  

So how did I know?  

I didn’t come out until the age of 39. It should have happened much sooner than that, but life just took its crazy twists and turns and that’s how it ended up. And that’s okay with me. We all have regrets, but I don’t look back and wish that I would have done things differently. I live by the mantra that everything happens for a reason. I am who I am today because of the winding road I’ve traveled.

There were lots of clues to my being gay throughout my life, but whether it was ignorance, naivety or avoidance, I rejected the notion from the start. Let’s face it; I grew up in the 70’s in Indiana. Not much liberation going on there, back then or even today. I didn’t have any role models to look up to - Ellen and Melissa were my age, just growing up and trying to make sense of it themselves. Oh, I know now there were lesbians out there…ones that I was drawn to like a moth to a flame. I couldn’t wait every week to watch Kristy McNichol on Family. When I was young I thought I was Jodie Foster’s twin. I wore out my Janis Ian records (yeah, I learned the truth at seventeen) and I loved Joan Jett more than Rock and Roll itself. 

It wasn’t just celebrities I was smitten with; there were quite a few girls and female teachers that made my heart beat fast. I knew I was different; I knew that my girl friends were gaga over boys and I wasn’t, and that I was drawn to girls and they weren’t. They were into makeup and dresses and I was into softball and button-fly jeans. I’ll never forget being at a slumber party - I was probably 12 - where the girls wanted to practice kissing on each other and I wouldn’t do it, because I knew it would mean something entirely different to me than it would to them. I remember the tingles after accidental touches of skin and allegedly innocent displays of affection between friends. I just didn’t know what to make of all that. So I did the only thing that made sense; that was ‘normal’.  I started dating boys. 

I only had two what you would call serious relationships. The first one lasted maybe a year and he never got past second base - I just wasn’t interested (go figure). I married the second one. He was a good guy; he liked the fact that I was into sports, fast cars and fishing. I liked that he didn’t mind me being a tomboy. I can honestly say that I loved him and we had happy years together. But there was always this missing piece of me, this pull towards women that I couldn’t explain. And then along came Melissa Etheridge on my car stereo and Ellen Degeneres on my television, shouting to the world that they were gay. And then I found out that a lot of those girls I was smitten with while growing up were gay too, now living with other women in lesbian relationships. Talk about a wake-up call! I finally realized that the feelings I had for women didn’t make me weird. Although different from the norm, I wasn’t alone.  

Those who say being gay is a choice are right in a way they don’t understand. I did have a choice – I could have taken the easy way out and stayed married. After all, I had a lot to lose: a good provider, a home, perhaps even custody of my son if his father chose to fight for him. Would my family and friends accept it? What if my employer found out? Would I be able to support myself? Where would I live? So yes, I had a choice. And I chose to be who I was meant to be. 

Ending my marriage wasn’t easy. There was guilt – lots of guilt. But coming out freed me. My shoulders felt light. I could breathe. All the little pieces of me finally came together and I discovered the real me. I was 39 and I felt like I was 18, starting adulthood all over again. I relished it. Every minute of it. And I still do. 

How did I know I was gay? Because facing the truth made me feel whole. Being gay makes me normal.

January 20, 2009

Here's another one from the archives:

Today, January 20, 2009, we inaugurated the 44^th President of the United States of America. It is already redundant to say that today is a historic one in America; a day full of emotion, pride and hope for tomorrow. I felt this too, but today was even more emotional for me as it marked the 21^st birthday of my son Bryan, who passed away nearly four years ago.

Bryan was mentally and physically handicapped, but in some ways he was much like our new President: strong and determined, with a wonderful sense of humor and the ability touch the hearts and souls of everyone he met. As I watched President Obama’s speech inspire millions, I realized that today was not a day for me to mourn my son. Rather, it was a time to not only celebrate the rejuvenation of our country, but to celebrate the day twenty-one years ago when God gave me the greatest gift of my life.

After watching the inauguration, I walked out into our back yard and released twenty-one balloons into the air. The wind was light and they soared high, perhaps touching the clouds, but surely touching the heavens. Each balloon was a different color: green, yellow, purple, orange; but most of all I will remember those that were red, white, and blue.

Congratulations President Obama. Happy Birthday Bryan.

A Three Day Walk is More than a Journey

My old desktop computer is about ready to take a crap so I started going through old documents and saving things off. I came across some old writings that I'd like to share.  This first one goes way back, but it's as fresh in my mind as ever. By the way, just so you know, I still don't drink Gatorade.

In the summer of 2000, as my best friend and I rapidly approached our 40^th birthdays, we both had just happened to see an episode of Oprah that focused on breast cancer. Two statistics stood out to us: Women over 40 had a much higher likelihood of developing breast cancer than those under 40, and that 1 woman in 8 would be diagnosed with the disease. We thought of ourselves and of our circle of friends and felt that this horrible disease was likely to touch us in some way in our lifetime. As we stood talking on the 5^th hole of a golf course, we decided we needed to do something – anything – to try to help stop this deadly disease.

            Within two weeks we had both signed up for the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk from Kenosha to Chicago. We felt like we were doing something for the cause - raising money and awareness - and creating a physical challenge for ourselves. But we had no idea what we were truly embarking on. In June of 2001, we drove to Kenosha to begin the journey. I arrived in Chicago 3 days later a changed person.

On Day Zero my friend and I and others we had met while training checked in, just a handful of the 3700 women and men ready to hit the trail. We attended a “mandatory safety video” that was really about thanking us for our efforts and participation; about making us feel that we COULD make a difference; that we COULD end breast cancer, and soon. The message was ‘HUMANkind...Be Both.’ If you didn’t leave that theater wiping a tear from your eye and feeling inspired, then you were neither of those things.

On Day 1 we all wore gray Avon 3-Day shirts to the opening ceremonies. Everywhere you looked, for as far as you could see, were gray shirts. I was pumped up, ready to embark on 18 miles...Then a group of women - all breast cancer survivors – formed a circle by holding hands and walked to the center of the stage, the inner circle representing all of those who had lost their battle with breast cancer. The crowd grew silent; we held hands, too. I watched a walker in front of me burst into tears, obviously remembering someone very special to her that was a part of that inner circle. Two other walkers held and consoled her. I cried too, as many did. It brought it home to me; it gave the event a human face. I was no longer there for the fight against breast cancer; I was there for a friend, for a mother, a daughter, a sister.

Throughout the walk, we saw T-shirts that said, “In Memory Of...” and photos of loved-ones pinned to walker’s backs. People cheered us on from their lawns, telling us of the ones they had lost to the disease as we passed by. We saw breast cancer survivors walking as well as a few being pushed in wheel chairs. I got a blister on my heel at about Mile 11 and my feet started to hurt at Mile 15...Big deal.

That night after dinner a few speakers came on stage including two survivors, and again I was touched and in awe. The first speaker was 39 - the same age as I. She was diagnosed while breast feeding her third child. She had finished chemotherapy just weeks before the event and was there walking the whole 60 miles. My blisters were insignificant.

Day Two - 23 miles ahead of us. I put moleskin over my lanced blister and hoped for the best. It was a beautiful day, but by midday it had turned pretty hot and humid. One of our group (we called ourselves The Hoosier Mammas) was also a Safety Monitor, and she made sure we all kept hydrated...forever saying, “DRINK!” till we thought our bladders would burst. Later that day we came upon a woman in distress. She was by herself and obviously dehydrated or suffering from heat exhaustion. She begged us not to call 9-1-1, so we called the Avon hot line for a sweep van instead. We laid her down, put ice at the back of her neck, poured cool water on her and gave her some salty chips while we waited. She told us she had come to the event with her mother who had just finished chemo but still insisted on doing the walk. She could only do 5-6 miles a day, so her daughter walked the rest alone, carrying the torch so to speak on her mother’s behalf. She was embarrassed and upset that she couldn’t make it and shed some tears. We told her not to worry, that this wasn’t an easy thing; there were lots of people who were struggling in the heat. As the medical crew helped her to the van, we told her we would see her at the closing ceremonies, along with her mother. After that, none of us complained when our Safety Monitor told us to “DRINK!”

After 23 miles we entered camp to the roar (and I mean ROAR) of other walkers and crew screaming, cheering, clapping and whistling at a near deafening level. Talk about inspiring. Did my feet hurt? No-siree.

Day 3. I lanced my blisters, covered them in Vaseline and moleskin, put on my shoes and hit the road for what seemed like a cakewalk after Day 2’s 23 miles. It was a gorgeous day. The crowds grew bigger, the anticipation grew bigger. Our group talked about how Day Zero seemed like an eternity ago, but I believe we all quietly contemplated how we wished it wasn’t going to be over. I made new friends within the Hoosier Mammas; I connected with people I will probably never see again; I also strengthened my bond with an old friend. Did my blisters hurt? Nope.

One mile before the finish we entered camp for lunch to a heart-wrenching display of camaraderie - There was a living tunnel of walkers and crew cheering and high-fiving us as we walked through them. The line stretched on forever. We joined the line at the end, and I saw both joy and pain on the faces that then passed by me. We had walked nearly 60 miles; we had endured blisters and pulled muscles and aching feet; we walked through rain and hot, humid weather; we had raised money to help fight a disease that could strike any one of us at any time - and maybe already had without us yet knowing it. We cheered each other on because of our determination and will, and for the heroes that battle a much bigger foe than a mere 3 day trip from Kenosha to Chicago. I will never forget these moments. Did my feet hurt? Not one darn bit.

After lunch we assembled and put on long sleeved dark blue shirts; Survivors wore pink shirts. They called for the Survivors to line up ahead of us, and as these pink shirts made their way through a sea of blue we clapped and cheered them on. I consider myself fortunate to have been in a spot where a pathway formed for these ladies to make their way. I thought the parade of pink going past me would never end. There were older ladies and women that looked like they were in their twenties. They were short, they were tall; they were white, they were of color. There were those that looked determined, proud, happy and joyous; others were overcome with emotion. This too, I will never forget. Did my feet hurt? No way.

We walked the last mile in silence through Lincoln Park, where families were gathered for picnics and men and boys were playing baseball or soccer, but the sight of a chain of over 3500 women and men walking for a cause stopped people in their tracks. We held hands; we waved to crew and signed ‘I love you’ to friends and family members gathered along the route. At some point or another during that last mile, we all shed tears. When they announced our entry into the closing ceremonies, we lifted each other’s hands high into the air; we screamed, we yelled, we rejoiced, and yes, we shed some more tears.  Once again, the Survivors formed a living circle and we honored our fallen mothers and sisters, wives and friends. We heard from women who had made not only the 60-mile journey, but also the biggest journey of all - survival from breast cancer. When it was all over, The Hoosier Mammas hugged each other and then danced in a circle, each one of us taking a turn in the middle. Did I dance? Yes I did. Did my feet hurt? Nope. I felt good on the inside. I felt good about myself. I felt good for everyone there and for the hope of tomorrow.

My blisters soon faded and within a few days I remembered that I was no longer using a Port-A-Potty and began to flush the toilet again. And maybe someday I will forget that I swore to never drink another Gatorade as long as I live. But I will NEVER forget this experience and what HUMANkind can do...Never.

I pledge allegiance to myself

Yes, it's been two months since I've blogged, but on a positive note I have been writing so I'm okay with it. I'm back to working on my book, a story about a woman who came out later in life. Yeah, it's a real stretch, isn't it? They say write what you know...

I've written the whole thing, and then re-written, and re-written again. Part of it is my OCD, the other part is fear. Fear that it's not good enough, not unique enough; that I suck as a writer. I've had enough courage to show it to a handful of friends who of course say it's great, and I've posted several chapters on writer's critiques and have gotten positive feedback. Yet something holds me back from taking it any farther. It's time to get past it.

Here's my declaration: no more pussyfooting around. I'm going to dedicate myself to writing every day for at least an hour, and get through editing each chapter within a week, to complete it all by the end of May. And then it goes off somewhere - contest, agent, editor, self-publish - somewhere.

And that's that.