My Coming Out Story: Marky Mark, a Coconut-rum Kiss, and a Teary Confession in a Fraternity Basement
Traditionally I’ve used National Coming Out Day to share and support those who made and continue to make sincere sacrifices for the LGBT community — every day I am thankful and more aware of the privileges I enjoy as a result of such individuals, and one of my goals this year is to do a better job of amplifying those voices (to start, please become a regular reader/listener to Black Girl Dangerous). There is so much more work to be done.
But in the spirit of transparency — and because this is my blog — I feel compelled to first fully share the series of events that eventually pushed me out of the closet. So… here we go.
There’s plenty of embarrassing stuff in this story, but the only shameful part is the very beginning: I think I first knew I was gay because I caught myself Googling Marky Mark’s ad for Calvin Klein. Even straight guys and lesbians, you know what I’m talking about:
How lame and stereotypical and kind of awful. But hey, I was like… 14 or something and I think we can all agree teenage boys are kind of awful too.
Speaking of which, my friends and I used to ride our bikes to Best Buy where they sold us softcore porn. I remember my friend purchasing, “Survivor Amazonians.” Huddled around my Xbox in the basement, we nervously inserted the DVD. For the next ~30 minutes, we stared in disbelief as topless women with giant black dildos hacked at trees in a forrest that more closely resembled Minnesota than Brazil. Not saying this video should be the proxy for heterosexuality, but sitting there in relative boredom I knew I wasn’t 100% straight.
Experimentation was frequent throughout middle and high school, usually a product of truth or dare or spin the bottle. I dated a few times, and had some genuine connections with girls (sexual and otherwise). To this day, I still occasionally do. But hearing all the stuff all my guy friends wanted to do with girls, it felt like I was wading upstream through a cold river.
Which is pretty much exactly how they want you to think about sex if you grow up in the Church.
I grew up an active and enthusiastic member of the conservative, relatively old school, Missouri Synod Lutheran Church. While young, you could find me judiciously lighting candles as an acolyte. Then praise band (where I played cello and bass guitar) and youth group were weekly activities. I loved the people in my church. Still do. But every time communion was offered, I asked god to take away the ‘evil feelings’ Pastor talked about in his anecdotal sermons (which for all I know were directly plagiarized from the humor section of a Readers Digest).
Eventually I moved from the church my parents attended to a larger Evangelical congregation because they seemed more willing to entertain my burning questions about science, biblical literalism, and religious hypocrisy. But mostly because social scene was much improved — I even took a church girl to Homecoming!
It wasn’t long before my burning questions were no longer entertaining. One of the scariest moments of my teenage years was during a youth group retreat in the woods of Wisconsin where a guest speaker shared his open struggle with his brother’s “fight” against homosexuality. He said that if we were experiencing any of those feelings, we should come forward.
So afterwards, in a dimly lit barn and choking back tears, I asked our youth pastor about my ‘feelings.’ He was ex-military. Big, tough, goofy, but dead serious when he needed to be. He tried not to show it, but he was visibly panicked. Told me I should “pray that they go away.” Said he would follow up with me after the trip. Everything would be ok.
But we never again made eye contact. I slowly stopped showing up to church. If I was going to find answers, I’d have to find them on my own.
My first “gay” kiss took place during a backyard campout sometime during the summer after high school. I don’t remember much, but I do remember Coconut rum was involved. Because none of us had really drank before, we decided it was the responsible thing to at least try to get drunk a few times before we went off to college. We chugged from the bottle around a campfire. Then suddenly everyone was gone except for me and this guy. I remember having to hold on to the grass because I feared the centrifugal force of the world would spin me off into space. But somehow we tumbled into each other and our lips met and it felt like we had re-invented gravity. An awesomely slimy, Coconut-flavored, event horizon of sexual energy that will never be replicated on this planet. Then one of our girl friends stumbled onto our scandalous rendezvous and we all freaked out Are You Afraid of the Dark? style, never to talk of it again.
Once I got to college, things accelerated pretty fast. The alcohol and freedom fueled more and more sexual encounters, and although I managed to keep virtually all of them a secret, it was tearing me up inside. The guilt and pain clashed with everything I was learning to be true: that gender was a performance and sexuality a spectrum. Admitting that trusted authority figures did not possess (nor care to possess) this knowledge became more painful than admitting it to myself.
But really, there was pain just about everywhere. College was kicking my ass. I went from straight A’s to B’s and C’s. Some of my best friends from high school had been hospitalized for severe depression, and I was not equipped to know how to help. I was cast as the lead in what would become an incredibly tumultuous production of Romeo & Juliet while working as an assistant drama coach in a southside Chicago high school (the only job I’ve ever been fired from. But that’s another story). On top of it all, I was pledging a fraternity. Which — to a closeted 19 year old — is just shy of psychological warfare.
But I was immensely fortunate to have a strong support system. There are so many people I want to thank and name, but out of respect for their privacy I have kept this as anonymous as possible. If you’re reading this, you know who you are.
But above all, my family. I eventually came out to them during an incredibly awkward meal at The Claddaugh and my sister had the best reaction, the reaction any sibling would pray to have: “Oh, ok.” Haha I love my sister.
But before all that, it was the depths of winter and I was having small panic attacks. I couldn’t muster the courage to tell my dad what was wrong, but riding in the car with my dad after Christmas I admitted, “Dad, it feels like there’s an anvil on my chest.” He jumped into action and set up an psych appointment. I went into counseling. A few weeks later he sent me this incredible email:
And we love you. You know I want to help you bust up that anvil and turn it
into hard, shining pieces of experience that you carry with you. This is a
refining period, Evan. In some ways you have to go through this to become
who you are going to be. But if you are feeling pain, do not let it rule
you. God is there for you. Ask for help there. I make a practice of giving
my toughest challenges over to God, or what I know of God anyway, and I
often get answers. Sometimes surprising answers, admittedly.And We are here for you.
Mom read this letter and gives it her “stamp of approval” and she’s still
worried about your teeth. “Take good care of your mouth…” and give her a
call when you have time.
In my darkest times I’ve returned to these three paragraphs. I’ve since lost my mom, but every word of this email rings true to me today (yes, even the God stuff; in my own way). Little did he know, that with his help and the help of so many others, in those few weeks I had begun to bust the anvil.
Here is an entry from my journal that very same day:
2/15/06
3:50am
I think I am finally doing it. I am coming out. Yeah, it’s about time.I have spent every single birthday wish and prayer in church asking for this to be taken away, but I don’t think it can happen that way. I don’t really have this figured out. I do know that I can’t lie like this anymore. I am tired of being fake in front of my best friends. Not being able to tell anyone the truth. Not being able to live and not act all the time. I think that’s why a lot of gay people go into theater and stage stuff, because it is seriously like you are acting at all times.
And I “officially” came out on February 15th 2006, first in a phone call to two close friends, but most vividly in the basement of my fraternity house after a particularly difficult “meeting.” Here is my journal entry from the next day, which feels as fresh and real and relieving today as the minute I wrote it:
2/16/06
12:22pmYeah, the past few days I have gotten less than 4 hours of sleep a night. Yet, I don’t feel COMPLETELY dead. Just half dead. Then, a pledge meeting. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.
Then, afterwards, was actually one of the best moments of my life. We all went down to the library, decrepit and exhausted, for a little talk. Everyone said a few things about how we need to get our shit together and how we are going to make it through together (which is completely true — they are some of the best friends I have ever had). Then, I took the ‘talking stapler’ (similar to the conch) and said what needed to be said.
The speech I have planned a thousand times a thousand in my head, but never gotten right. The thing that I have prayed for and wished for with every fiber of my being to be rid of. I came out and said it: “Guys, I’m gay.” Almost immediately Morgan stood up from his chair and walked over and started hugging me. Everyone followed. I broke down. I couldn’t stop crying. ‘It’s ok, man.’ I told them how scared and sorry I was. How I couldn’t lie about this anymore. It must have looked like a bad AA meeting, a group of guys group hugging a crying dude in the basement.
I don’t know what is going to happen. And I almost don’t want to. I’m going to take this a step at a time, because it is something that I have to do. I’m very happy. I’m proud of myself. There is no turning back now. This is crazy, but I know now that it is right. I just hope it all turns out ok. I am scared shitless.
I have still not been to bed. This is such an insane thing.
All of my creative energy is completely gone. Words only mean their simplest things right now. I don’t even know if this makes sense. Every time I write I end up straining to remember even what happened yesterday, let alone any sort of detail. I hope this will serve as a reminder of what this winter term has been like…for it HAS been insane.
Sam and I ran down to the Point last night and it was immeasurably desolate. This is my favorite place in the world. The lake was the darkest grey before black, just enough to contrast the iron of the sky. The Chicago skyline was a fierce electric glow, obscured by the nighttime fog. I tried to stand on the Point, but the waves were crashing and the space was vast and it felt too big. But then Sam and I sat down behind the limestone blocks and it was safe from the wind. I took a few breaths. And we ran back.
So if you ever want to talk, I’m here. I’m non-judgemental. I earnestly believe that sexuality is both a gift and a choice. I have a sense of humor and I want you to be happy and comfortable about who you are (or who you want to become). Thank you for reading and please go out into the world with the understanding that we need to keep asking though questions and telling our stories.
