by Dan Savage
Growing up there meant being wary of how my churchgoing family might react if they discovered that I liked boys. We attended a Southern Baptist church that wasn’t all fire and brimstone, but it wasn’t exactly forward thinking either. I heard rumors of a gay bar in town called My Place, and rumors that guys found going in and out of there were beaten up. Keep in mind that this was the pre-PFLAG, pre-Will & Grace 1970s—not all that long after Stonewall. Jimmy Carter was in the White House, followed by Ronald Reagan; The Bionic Woman was on TV; and the Eagles were on the radio. Change was around the corner but it hadn’t arrived for this sixteen-year-old Normal boy. Not yet.
Being out in those days was unthinkable for me. I had a friend in high school who was more effeminate than I was and I remember how we would throw ourselves into school activities in an effort to shield ourselves from being perceived as different. We joined student council, wrote for the student paper, participated in the speech and debate club. And we excelled. I became editor of the paper; he was elected president of the student council. That’s how we protected ourselves, and that was the crux of our existence in Normal—being different could get you hurt, could get you fired, could get you in trouble. Neither one of us wanted trouble.
What I wanted was escape.
The closet was all I knew and being in it was killing me. My closet was small and dark and filled with frightening things; but the scary things in the closet were not nearly as frightening as what lay outside it. My crushes on boys left me sick with fear—both because I imagined I’d get beaten up if anyone knew and also because I had come to believe that I couldn’t possibly be happy and gay. I was terrified of my adult life and what I would become. I had no images or role models around me to prove that LGBT people could be happy and healthy. I was gasping for air and no one around me had any idea.
As I got older, I began to question the shame that came from feeling different. I had always been a big reader, and as I started reading more sophisticated books, I encountered people whose lives were startlingly different from my own. Happy people. Smart people. Funny people. People who lived in other places and led other lives. People, like me, who wouldn’t have felt at home in Normal. I started to imagine a different world, a different place. A Not-Normal. I began dreaming of the day I would leave. I spent countless hours fantasizing about what my life in Not-Normal would look like: where I would live, who my friends would be, what love would feel like. I imagined a safe place, a place where I could stop holding my breath, a place where people around me would love and support me. I had read about these places, so such a place must exist! It must!
Here’s what I really want to tell you: I found it.
I left Normal for college in Iowa. Overhearing my high school journalism teacher say that Iowa City was probably the most liberal town in the Midwest sealed the deal. My parents (whom I love dearly) couldn’t quite understand why I wanted to go all the way to Iowa when there was a perfectly fine college in Normal. But I knew that this was my chance. It was a baby step, from Illinois to Iowa, but it was a baby step that saved my life. I became human in Iowa City. I didn’t come out of the closet for a couple of years, but I could see the light shining at the end of the tunnel. I met all kinds of people and put to rest forever any notion that being different was a bad thing. I learned to celebrate difference; I learned that the world was full of people who thought, ate, dressed, spoke, and acted differently than the folks in Normal; and I learned to love.
One day I ended up in Seattle, Washington, specifically, in Capitol Hill, the city’s densest, gayest, greatest neighborhood. A place filled with art and music. Filled with other people who came looking for their own Not-Normal. There are some oddballs who grew up here, but they are well aware of how lucky they are. My first boss in Seattle was an out, proud, successful lesbian named Barbara Bailey. She owned Bailey/Coy Books, a magnificent bookstore where I went to work. Barbara was politically active and well respected in the Seattle community, gay and straight. I curated the reading series at Bailey/Coy for twenty years, hosting events for Armistead Maupin, Lily Tomlin, Tony Kushner, Dorothy Allison, Gloria Steinem, Quentin Crisp, and lots of other people who have made such a difference in the lives of others. I marched, I chanted, I worked, I played. I had come home.
After twenty years of running a bookstore that proudly welcomed everybody, I now run the Capitol Hill Chamber of Commerce. My job is to tell people about how great, how loving, how welcoming this neighborhood is. Every day I celebrate the place that I found, the place that my escape from Normal led me to. Make no mistake, the desire to find a new home is not the challenge of LGBT folks alone. Capitol Hill attracts people who come for its celebration of urban life, its embrace of culture and community, its texture, its energy . . . its funk. Some of those folks are LGBT, some aren’t. Doesn’t matter. They’re all welcome.
For me, it got better because I found the right place. The place I would have been born if I’d been given a choice. Capitol Hill is home, has always been home. It took some time to get here, but sometimes the trip home is a long one.
You can find your Not-Normal, too. Enjoy the ride.
Michael K. Wells was the manager and owner of Bailey/Coy Books, a beloved institution in Seattle’s LGBT and literary communities, for more than twenty years. Michael has worked as a neighborhood advocate, serving with the mayor’s task force on Broadway and working to bring economic vitality and a touch of the fabulous to the Broadway corridor of Seattle’s densest neighborhood, Capitol Hill. He is currently the executive director of the Capitol Hill Chamber of Commerce.
BORN THIS WAY
by Perez Hilton
LOS ANGELES, CA
If you’re in high school, or if you’re in middle school, and you’re finding it difficult to go to school or to be accepted by your family, I’m here to tell you: It gets better. Not everything gets better. You’ll still get pimples, but most everything in life will get better because you’ll be older. You’ll be wiser. You’ll have experience. And if you’re in a really unpleasant situation, in a year, in two years, in three years . . . you’ll be out of there. I know it may seem like a lot of time now but, when you’re thirty-two like me, a year, two years, three years is not that long.
When I was fifteen, I was so closeted. I went to an all-boy Jesuit school in Miami, and I remember once, vividly, in theology class (aka religion) the teacher said, “You know, there are studies that say that ten percent of everybody is gay.” And I was like, “Wow! That’s a really revolutionary thought for a Christian school, for a Catholic teacher.” And then, of course, she had to add, “But you boys are not like everybody else. So I don’t think that ten percent of you are gay. Your percentage is much less.”
Actually, the percentage was way more than ten.
High school wasn’t the easiest of times for me. I didn’t have that many people to look up to. I didn’t have role models—good, bad, or any kind of models—on television. I remember the only gay person I saw on TV when I was young was Pedro Zamora on The Real World. Now we have a whole gamut of people, from Neil Patrick Harris, who is amazing, to myself, whom a lot of people find annoying. But I would have loved to have had me around when I was a teenager. I might have looked at Perez Hilton and found him extremely annoying or thought he was really cool, but I would have loved the fact that Perez Hilton was able to create something from nothing and become successful, and not have to be something he’s not.
So you should be proud of who you are, too, because it’s not a choice to be who you are. You were made this way. As Lady Gaga says, you were born this way. So if you’re having a hard time, talk to someone. Talk to a friend. Talk to your parents if you can. Talk to a stranger. Call a hotline. Talk to somebody online. Talk about your feelings, because suicide is never the solution. I have been there. I went through a point in my life where I was suicidal daily. I was so depressed and miserable—hating life. I felt like I was in a black tunnel, and I saw no light at the end of it. I was thinking about how I coul
d kill myself daily: Today I’m going to slit my wrist. Today I’m going to hang myself. Today I’m going to jump off my building. But you know what got me through that? Time. Over the course of time, my problems got better. Things changed. I got fired from that job that I hated. So things you think are bad now, in hindsight, in the future, may turn out to be some of the best things to have happened to you.
If you need somebody to talk to, if you need advice, if you’re having a hard time, I am here for you. Okay? So know that you are special and you are loved. Your life and your spirit are of great value.
Cubano and Miami native Perez Hilton is the Internet’s most notorious gossip columnist. Perezhilton.com averages more than 280 million page views and 13.5 million unique visitors per month. Since launching in 2004, perezhilton.com has become one of the leading go-to sites for celebrity news. He has been featured in or on the Los Angeles Times, The View, The Wall Street Journal, MTV’s TRL, Larry King, CNN, E!, Time, Paper magazine, Life, Spin, CBS News, BusinessWeek, MuchMusic, Los Angeles magazine, The Advocate, Dateline, Howard Stern, Us Weekly, InTouch Weekly, The New York Times, Billboard, and many more. He is the author of two bestsellers, Red Carpet Suicide and True Bloggywood Stories. Visit www.perezhilton.com.
DARN IT
by Kate Clinton
NEW YORK, NY
It did not look good. I was a secret, serially and seriously, crushed-out, wildly girl-loving-girl, living in the proto-don’t-ask-don’t-tell world of my middle class, Irish Catholic family, in upstate New York, 1950s. Though the bully pulpit of the Catholic Church had not yet come out so stridently against gay rights, I got the message that the flames of hell surely awaited me. As a baby butch, I knew I did not want to marry or have children. I pictured myself as a sere spinster darning socks before my oldest brother’s cold, cold hearth. I had read Silas Marner.
My teens and twenties were a low-grade depression of overachieving, overeating, and being overserved. I did all the high school, college-y things—proms, homecomings, student government, pep club, protests—but since all my energy went into not coming out, I was in an emotional blackout. I have few memories of that time. When I became a teacher, I Peggy Lee’d, “Is this all there is?” And began to wonder idly about suicide.
But then, by something like gay grace in the form of one of my oldest high school drools who had come out as a lesbian, I met some defiantly gay and lesbian sexual liberationists. They threw great parties. I slept with a Quaker who had no concept of guilt. The next day, when she joyfully shared that she had told her sister the good news, I choked out, “You what?!” She said, “Why not?” I thought, “Really. Why not?” I came out. I was twenty-eight.
For almost thirty years I had been kept in the closet by the systemic bullying of the hetero-family, the church, and the state. Coming out was the most natural antidepressant ever, better than cold whole milk sucked through two rows of mint Oreos. I was no longer alone. I came into a community of courageous, out gay men and lesbians. We made love, trouble, culture, and changed politics so that LGBT people could come out younger and younger.
Now I have vivid memories. Of wild partying in spontaneous speakeasies. Of deep listening to friends. Of being heard. Of marching for AIDS treatments, the freedom to marry, against war. Of shared meals, created rituals, kiss-ins at the WNBA. Of supporting friends during family shunnings, breakups, child-rearing. Of arguing fully. Of beginning my career as a lesbian humorist. Of being with my gal-pal of many years. The more out and active I become, the better it gets.
Of course, I hope I can remember some of those stories when I am finally sitting with old friends in my lesbian retirement RV park and some young queers come by to sing old festival chanteys. I hope to be able to tell them how in the early decades of the century we blew the whistle on bullying and made the world safer for all difference. Then I’ll show them how to darn.
Kate Clinton is a humorist, stand-up comic, blogger, vlogger, and activist. She has written three books and recorded nine comedy collections. She lives with her partner, Urvashi Vaid, in Manhattan. For more information visit kateclinton.com
LOOK AT THE MOON
by Agustín Cepeda
COLLEGE STATION, TX
Imagine what your high school looks like from the moon: its shape from above, how big it is in comparison to your city, the country you live in, the world. How important it is compared to all the places and experiences and people you have yet to meet. Try to envision your incarceration as a good time to plan your escape. It can be a very elegant and stylish and fabulous escape—you can plan your outfit and pick out the song you want playing on your iPod, because when you walk out the door, you begin the adventure that is the rest of your life. And it’s going to be an amazing life.
Right now I’m studying in Italy so my life seems unusually better. But it wasn’t always this way. I grew up in College Station, Texas, home of Texas A&M University, one of the most conservative campuses in the U.S. This conservative spirit was alive and well in my high school, which was not a place I felt comfortable being myself. I was lucky enough to pass, so I evaded taunting and humiliation. I didn’t come out until my second year of college.
The struggle I faced was internal. Even though I knew my family would be very supportive, I couldn’t imagine a future in which I would be gay and also successful. It just wasn’t part of my plan and I didn’t even want to try to imagine it.
When I finally decided to come out, I told a friend who was very supportive and not at all surprised, which kind of surprised me. Then I came out to another friend who encouraged me to tell my family, so I came out to my sister, who was over it in a matter of seconds. My sister and my friends took it better than I had ever hoped for and it was their collective indifference and their capacity to love me unconditionally that laid the foundation for me to accept and love myself. When I told my parents, it wasn’t news, just an acknowledgment that I was able to finally say it. As expected, it was a nonissue for them as well. I had their full, unconditional support. I’m aware of how lucky I am.
When people ask if it got better, I always feel strange saying yes, because it’s such an understatement. It does get better but it’s much more than that. Once I came out, my life was split in two and I was able to take everything that was great about my life at the time and integrate it with a new, confident, proactive, assertive me.
I suggest getting your hands on some gay literature or gay media. It helped me a lot to see other people being gay and confident and loving themselves. You’ll find out soon, I hope, that gay people are some of the most talented, hilarious, capable people you’ll ever meet. And the world really needs those kinds of people, so stick around. There are amazing adventures to be had with really funny, attractive, open friends and lovers. You just need to get through high school so that you can have all those adventures.
You will most likely find Agustín Cepeda agonizing over some detail or other, whether it’s figuring out a design problem at architecture school, smoothing out a wrinkle on his bed, thinking of the perfect gift for each of his three younger siblings, or committing to memory the feel of a down-the-line, heavy-topspin, one-handed Ping Pong backhand, and always trying to go with the flow.
CRITICAL SHIFTS
by Jesse Barnes
BARCELONA, SPAIN
I’ll never forget driving down the freeway every day to school and looking at the light poles on the side of the road thinking, “Which one has my name on it? Which one is gonna end my life?” I felt like I had lost the battle. I felt like I was a huge disappointment and that there was nothing left for me. I was sixteen years old, and I had already been sexually active with men for a few years. Coming from a religious family, I felt like it was already over, that my life was over.
Fortunately, I didn’t give up. Seeking help, I started seeing a “gay reform” counselor who was supposed to make me straight. He was the saddest person I had ever met. He was “gay reformed” himself, married with children. Seeing the sadness beh
ind his eyes and in his life, I just realized that’s not what I wanted and that there still was hope inside of me.
So I moved. I moved far away. I left it all. I said good-bye to my family and I said good-bye to my friends and I started over. This is the power behind being gay. At some point, you have to make a decision in your life about who you are and what you’re gonna do. A lot of people don’t have to do that. They just go through life one step at a time. But when you’re gay, you have to make a big choice in your life to be who you were meant to be and to follow your heart. It makes you strong.
Make this decision. Be a part of a beautiful culture and a beautiful people—gay males and females who have all had to make difficult decisions and leave people behind in the wake who couldn’t accept them for who they are. But you will be accepted and loved by many other people as long as you’re true to yourself. So don’t give up. Don’t give up. It’s gonna get better. It gets a hell of a lot better.
Jesse Barnes survived high school in Anchorage, Alaska, and currently lives in Barcelona, Spain, and Paris, France. He’s an entrepreneur.
FOR AIDEYBEAR
by Ava Dodge
CHEVY CHASE, MD
In memory of Aiden Rivera-Schaeff
I met Aiden Rivera-Schaeff my first year of high school. He was soon my best friend. Aiden was transgender, female to male. He transitioned in his first year of high school, so, as you can imagine, the bullying was pretty intense. He was almost constantly harassed at school and online. About two months into his senior year, he dropped out. Some students in one of his classes started calling him his old name, Caitlin, and most of the class got into it. Some of them referred to him as “she” or “it.” He refused to come back after that. On April 22, 2010, he committed suicide. He was one month away from his eighteenth birthday.
