A Coming Out Story in Words and Photos

Kenneth HillSome coming out events happen by accident (Dad finds your naked-man magazines under your mattress when you're 15), others are purposefully executed. Depending on who you are telling, coming out on purpose can be easy or uncomfortable, fun or miserable, casual or life-changingly personal, a secret you can't wait to tell or a revelation you're dreading to reveal. This is a brief story about the latter.

The time finally came one day in 1985 to tell my grandparents that I was gay. I was 23 years old and it was the scariest day of my life. Everyone else in my family already knew I was gay, either because I had told them or because they found out (see reference to Dad above). Grandma and Grandpa were the two remaining family members to whom I had never found the courage to come out. I had always sort of hoped that someone else would tell them, but Protestants don't do that I guess. We're too uptight polite.

Why I was so scared I'm not exactly sure. They weren't overtly anti-gay per se, but they were opinionated -- especially Grandpa -- and I was convinced that people of their generation weren't going to take the news well. I was also convinced that they had no clue, even though growing up I wasn't the butchest thing on the block and they knew and liked my previous boyfriend. Er, I mean "roommate."

But now it was time, and all because of a man, a one-bedroom apartment, one double bed and a Christmas party. Let me explain.



In 1984, I fell head over heels in love with a forest ranger on the shores of Lake Tahoe. He was skinny dipping, and when he emerged from the lake, beads of water trickling down his blonde hairy chest, I had to meet him. After we talked for a few hours, I knew I'd met my future husband, Jim Bradley. He was well educated, passionate about life, and a total stud. A living Marlboro Man, only smarter and without the cigarettes. We made a date for the next night, that turned into several dates, and a few months later we were married which, back in those days, meant we moved in together.

Our honeymoon cottage was a one-bedroom apartment in the sky. Nestled on the 14th floor of Reno's snazziest address, Arlington Towers, we had a magnificent vista of the Truckee River and the Sierra Nevada mountains that towered above the valley. Think 'Reno 911' with a view.

With Christmas coming, we decided to have a party. Invitations went out to our friends and to my family -- including Grandma and Grandpa. And it was that invitation that was the impetus for telling them since I knew that when they saw our new place, with one bedroom and one double bed, the queer cat would be out of the bag. Since I wanted neither to shock them into cardiac arrest or have a family scene in front of all our friends and family, I decided I better tell them in advance.

A week before the party, I called and asked if I could stop by. Driving over to the house, my heart was racing. Did I really have the guts to go through with this? What the hell was I thinking? They can't know! They will freak. This is the worst idea ever. When I got there, they were in their chairs, watching TV. We exchanged small talk. I thought my head was going to explode.

Finally, I got up the nerve to say, "Can I turn this TV off? I have something I need to tell you." I took a breath. My mouth was dry. I wished I could be home making sugar cookies.

"See, the thing is, Jim isn't my roommate. Actually, we love each other. I mean, what I'm trying to say is ... and I hope this won't change the way you feel about me because I really love you guys a lot and you mean the world to me ... but, I'm gay."

I said it. The words were out in the world, and now so was I.

Without skipping a beat, Grandma says, "Oh honey, we've known that for years."

"Oh honey, we've known that for years"? I just about died and wondered if I'd heard her correctly.

"What? Really?" I gasped. "Oh, sure," Grandpa said seriously (but not too seriously).

"Honey, that's just the way God made you. We love you just the way you are," Grandma confirmed.

Hugs and tears ensued, and that was the day I learned that fear is our worst enemy.

Jim and I were together for four years, moved to Washington, D.C. together, eventually split up but stayed best friends until he died of AIDS on Christmas Day, 1995. My grandparents loved Jim.

Now Scott, my husband for the last 18 years, is one of my grandparent's favorite people. We double dated for years until Grandma had to move into a nursing home. The private lunches reserved only for the four of us -- Grandma, Grandpa, Scott and me -- are among my favorite times ever. They have been 100% loving toward both of us as people and us as a couple. My grandfather is constantly on Scott's case to quit smoking and reminds him frequently about February 1, 1945, -- that being the day Grandpa quit smoking and drinking coffee cold turkey and hasn't had either ever since. He sends Scott articles in the mail about smoking cessation and scary statistics.

In other words, Grandma and Grandpa love Scott and me. My being gay never mattered, and my scariest coming out ever ended up being one of the best.


Mouse over and click photos to see the story illustrated from my scrapbook.




Want more juicy tales from my past? Try these:

The Day Judy Garland Outed Me
My Five-Year-Old Brother Outed Me to Santa
What Was Your First Car?