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GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE
October, 1989
National Coming Out Day
October, 1989 GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE
In observance of National Coming Out Day on October 11, the Chronicle asked a few people to share their coming-out experiences Coventry Books
by Marty Webb
So, I'm slow. Slow to pick up on the signals with which I surround myself. I'm drawn to the women's feminist movement. I know I need to move to a "big city." In Cleveland, I volunteer in a local women's organization, meeting my first "out" lesbian. I eagerly await each issue of What She Wants, fascinated by the idea of a women's production company (Oven) and almost attend one of their events. I thrive at Coventry Books, feeling at home, although nonchalantly avoiding the lesbian materials. The spring of 1980, I don't attend a feminist retreat, because the word "lesbian" is in the title. In speaking to a good friend of mine who had come out to me a year before, we discuss my reluctance to attend my rationalizations are classic.
Knowing that my traditional counseling job will be eliminated at the end of the school year, I begin working sundays for Coventry Books in January 1981. I decide to start getting massages. I always had liked back rubs. I realize that my co-workers at the bookstore are lesbian, so is my massage therapist, but it's okay, I'm liberal; some of my best friends...
My immersion-into the women's community continues with Judy Chicago's Dinner Party. I volunteer to help with the set up and throughout the show, I surround myself with powerful images of
women.
My awareness begins to gel when I await fearfully for my massage therapist to come back from a vacation with "important news" for me. I know she has figured out that she loves me and I rack my brain for the right way to let her down gently. After all, I know that I am not a lesbian. I am furious and hurt when her "important news" turns out to be that she is in love with another woman. I am suddenly aware of my own jealousy and my feelings for her.
Later that summer I attend a workshop in New York where I am
Summer of learning
by Carlie Steen
My first true" love came when I was 15. It was spring, and the Licking Valley High School marching band was going to a parade in Virginia.
I was hyper and needing to the center of attention. So before we even left the school ground I was half-standing in my seat and scr aming out jokes to the rest of the bus. In the seat in front of me, laughing away at my antics, was Beverly.
We spent the rest of the trip together, and when we returned for the few months left of the school year I followed Bev around like a puppy, carrying her books when she needed to use crutches, and writing long, silly notes musing on
drawn to several women-one of whom says her significant relationships have always been with women. She says she'd be happy to talk with me about my questions. I am drawn to her and spend the rest of the workshop focusing on how I can get closer. We do, and I leave New York with a new view of the world, a
wholeness and a ring to symbolize my loving of women.
The next few weeks are a bar. The women of the bookstore hug congratulations and say, "It's about time." The women on my volunteer shift have a "coming out" party for me. I go through the heartbreak of ending my brief, but powerful, first lesbian relationship (New York is a long way away) and discover that Jane was not the only woman I could love.
The bookstore proved a haven which allowed me to ground myself in the women's community and continue to grow in my own identity. It also provided an opportunity for me to re-meet a woman I had talked with during the Dinner Party. This lanky, sweaty runner would stop by the bookstore during her daily jogs, determined to befriend this relative new-comer to the community. She did. Eight years later, Deb and I are still together.
the challenge and excitement of such academic chapters in my life as Health Class. That summer I rode my bike 20 miles roundtrip almost every day to see
Bev.
I didn't let myself think about the relevance of my relationship with Bev until many years later. Just before leaving school at the end of my freshmen year, my closest friend Diane had, in drunken confidence, talked with me about strange feelings she was having for a lacrosse teammate. She marveled how I, in my quiet acceptance, could understand her confusion. Inside I was wondering about the same thing.
Returning back to Licking County that summer, I spent a lot of time in the library reading books about homosexuality. I began to question a gut
I came out to my mother in the fall of 1981. Her first response was to ask which role I played. We talked. She said whatever makes you happy. We often spend holidays at home, and Deb is accepted as a part of the family. During my parents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration, Deb was included at the
head table by my side because, as my mother said, "She is important to you and it's important she be there as a part of our family."
I used to worry about coming out at work-when, if, who to tell... I did once; her response was, "I wondered when you were going to tell me." Others figured it out because of their relationship with Deb outside of work. They
would be sure to mention how much they have enjoyed meeting my "friend." Of course, Deb's going to all the Christmas parties and summer picnics could have been a hint. I used to worry about who knew or didn't know. A therapist once suggested to me that I just assume everyone knows and act as if... That's my normal stance at work now and it has taken a lot of the strain out of trying to decide about coming out.
It feels like I make choices about coming out daily. Whether at work, in casual
feeling I had felt for a long time a feeling that I was somehow different from many of the people in my life.
I became so obsessed with the growing possibility that I might be gay that I set out to prove my heterosexuality. I called my on-again, off-again high school boyfriend Thom, and invited him to a private picnic at a nearby park. We drank a lot of wine and set off for the woods. We rustled in the bushes for some time, but Thom couldn't meet my objectives. It was years later before Thom told me he had been sleeping with another man since I left for college.
I returned to school that fall not realizing I had already unconsciously made a number of decisions. When some members of the lacrosse team invited me out dancing the first weekend back I un-
interactions with people, or in decisions
I make about how much to share of my personal life, I chose not to be on a TV show with Deb. I choose to do this article for the Chronicle.
Six months after I came out, I found myself on stage at the Women's Variety Show. I remember Deb telling me what a cute dyke I was on stage. I remember saying to myself that I was not a dyke; I just happened to be in this perfectly natural, loving relationship with another woman. Eight years later, I can say I am a dyke who happens to still be in this perfectly natural, loving relationship with another woman.
Out of Africa, out in Akron
by Bob Downing
For many people, coming out seems to be, first of all, a battle with themselves, in accepting that the are gay. The next step is deciding what to do about it. I had no problem with the first step. It was the second step that took me many years to resolve.
I was raised in the Cleveland suburb of Euclid. My mother and father, Mary and Bob, came to Cleveland during the depression, and in the 1940s, they moved to Euclid to get out of the city. I went through the Euclid school system, graduating from Euclid High School in
the late fifties. From the time I was 12 years old, I knew that my sexual desires were for males rather than females. I had an active sex life with other boys all through high school. I had no problem accepting this as natural. I did not know what to call it. I knew that I did not lisp and I did not feel like a "fairy" (what do fairies feel like anyway?). I certainly did not feel "queer" and I did not have a desire to wear a dress. I found nothing written on the subject. It was never discussed in any school setting. The Euclid public library had nothing on the subject.
hesitatingly said "yes." One of my friends pulled me aside to tell me that they weren't going to a "normal" bar and asked me if I was certain that I wanted to go. I was sure.
By the time we got to the bar, my friends-finding themselves a bit more nervous than they expected about bringing someone out of the closethad gotten me quite drunk. They sat me down at a table and took turns guarding me. The pulsating strobe revealed a number of familiar faces.
The next evening I told a jealous Diane of my escapades. We spent a long night in serious discussion about my evening, remarking on the well-known faces and laughing about our buddies.
It was that evening Diane shared with me that she'd had a relationship with a woman the previous summer. She answered my hundreds of questions and asked as many of me. I talked of my summmer confusion and unfulfilled attempts at proving my "normalcy." The discussion became more intense as we revealed our attractions toward women around us. Feelings and sexual energy were bouncing off the walls of the dorm room by the time we began talking about our own friendship... we kissed.
It was with that kiss a weight lifted off my shoulders. I felt my body finally relaxing from a summer of confusion and frustration. I knew at that moment that I was, indeed, a lesbian and I knew that it didn't matter. I began to feel more comfortable and accepting of myself than I had ever felt in my life.
.
I figured I was probably the only one who felt his way.
I only found veiled references to the subject in journals published by my church. My mother was very active in Jehe.ah's Witnesses. I was being swayed by their teachings more and more during these years. From reading in the Watchtower publications, I learned that hosexuality (I finally figured out that word by 1959) was evil, caused by Satan, andyould end in everlasting death, I was led believe that I could be "cured" by deving my life to serving the will of God (as explained by Jehovah's Witnesses, of course). I became a full-time worker for Jehovah's Witnesses. I attended their col' in New York. Upon graduation in 1960, I was sent as a missionary to northern Rhodesia (now Zambia) where I'
ained for almost all of the sixties. Dug this time I thought the final cure would be marriage, so I married a fine South African woman of the same faith. We had a daughter in Zambia and then can to live in Streetsboro, Ohio, where our son was born in the early seventies.
I am sure I need not tell you that all of this did not "cure" me. Some time during the ties, I heard the word "gay" and thought, "Yes, that describes me." During those years, I clandestinely read anything I could get my hands on about gaye. I read the newspaper accounts of Stonewall (poorly covered by the local press). I never saw a gay newspaper or anything truly positive about gay people. I be me aware that there was some activity in certain Metroparks and at rest stops, but that was really rather negative. At the end of the seventies, it became evident that my marriage was breaking up. My wife and children had gone back to Africa, and I was living alone in the family home.
I decided to find gay people. I thought thero may be some in Cleveland, Perhaps, if I looked hard enough, I could even find one of those "gay bars" I had read about. I had seen written on a rest room wall, "For Hot Men ... Akron Steam & Sauna." I thought this was some sort of health spa, but maybe there was a little gay activity there. I went one night
Thanks for gay group
by Geno Taylor
I consider myself to be very fortunate and blessed that I came out during the seventies. Those were the "liberation" yeat. Everything and everyone was being liberated. There was black liberation, women's liberation, and most and best of all, gay liberation.
Ievas liberated as a gay man in March of 1972 at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Although I had known since junior high school that I was attracted to men, ituired leaving home and getting away from family, small town attitudes, and religious restraints, and experiencing freedom, responsibilities and maturation before I could openly face and accept and put a name to those secret but precious desires. And I thank God, to this day, that there was a gay support group on campus that offered counseling for people like me who finally had had enough of being in the closet; I didn't have to be alone.
I "came out" to myself that cold winter eving and felt relieved and set free. I "came out" to my dorm roommate several weeks later, and we still laugh today about the hell I put him through during the days leading up to my escape from the closet. I guess that I was a real bear for awhile. My "coming out" to my family was not pleasant, but it was necessa:! It was one more step toward my development into a secure gay man. Perhaps you noticed that I did not say "gay
and was delighted with what I found! A whole steam bath full of gay men! In this setting, there were very few who would actually talk to you. Many were very closeted and would not talk at all about gays. I finally found out that, indeed, there were gay bars in the area, even one in Akron near a hospital. The person described the bar but did not know its name. That night I rode around several hospitals in Akron till I found "77 Adams Street." I sat in the car outside the bar watching the patrons until I decided this was the place. I did not have the nerve to go in. The next day at work I talked myself into going to this bar. I went right after work around 6 or 7 p.m. There was no one there but the bartender. We talked a while and he gave me a copy of High Gear newspaper. This opened a whole new world to me. I not only had a list of all northern Ohio gay bars and businesses, but actual positive news items about gay people all over the country.
As they say, "the rest is history." I came out with a vengeance. I have been active in many gay organizations. My home that I share with my lover, Jamie, is one of the meeting places for gay fathers. I was so grateful to the newspaper High Gear that when Charlie Callender started the Gay People's Chronicle, I volunteered to deliver the papers to the distribution points. And now, I am now one of the owners of the newspaper and still feel that it provides a great service to people who are just coming out. I still deliver the paper to many of the distribution points, but now I need the help of three others because the circulation has grown so much.
My coming out process took at least two decades. I do not regret the past nor would I change it. However, things would have been much easier and quicker if the Hotline and the youth groups had existed in 1956. They are here now, and it is our responsibility to support them and see that they remain a viable part of the community.
black man," or "black gay man." That is because that subject would require an entire article in itself.
I am still coming out to this day-to people at my job, new friends, and acquaintances. But it is not a difficult task for me, for I know who I am. I am comfortable and secure with myself, and I am Geno no matter where I am or with whom. I'll be coming out until I die, and while I am, I hope that I can help someone else to "come out" and experience the joys that I have enjoyed, being who I am; a gay man.
"Breaker one-nine"
by Theodore R. Wilson
It was a warm, inviting spring day but I had spent my birthday quietly at home. A call resulted in the visit of five friends who had travelled west to east to get a glimpse of life in the valley, known as the Chagrin. Leaving the porch we settled in the living room to chat and dish. Much of the conversation had to do with that tired topic: east vs. west, and I don't mean Beirut.
Shortly thereafter, as evening began to close in on the valley, I heard cars come into the driveway. Through the backdoor came my sister and brother-in-law with their two boys, ages 13 and 10, singing "Happy Birthday." I had no words, only a deepening red face as they proceeded into the living room. There for the first time, Valley people met Lakewood's latest. A small room cannot hold tank tops, running shorts, early Laura Ashley and plaid pants. Fortunately, a friend who spoke both Valley and Lakewood was present to interpret. I was without words. Nothing but the banal came out. Shortly afterwards, everyone claimed they must be going. I did not object as I felt for a pulse.
About two years later, my sister and I had a heart-to-heart in Stouffer's Cheese Cellar. During the evening, she said: "you must hate Dad a lot," "the family name," "you will always be my (little) brother," and "no, I am not interested in learning more about what it means to be gay." I drove home more confused than ever about telling the family. I sort of felt better, but I sort of felt worse.
During the evening, she mentioned that after they left my house that birthday night, my older nephew CB'd to her in the ranch wagon and asked if Uncle Teddy was gay. She replied, "Roger, and Out."
In my worldly sophisticated ways I had rehearsed many scenarios for the "right" way to discuss my sexuality with my family. But to learn that it had occurred on a CB transmission on River Road left me nonplussed. I was without words then; I am without words now. And, that's something.
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In the fall of 1984, I was called by a Plain Dealer reporter about some recent development in AIDS. At that time, I was the chairperson for the Health Issues Taskforce but that was not why he was calling. He wanted my reaction as a gay man to the event. I responded. An ultimate fear strikes!
I returned to work and went through the rest of my day hearing everything through a filter of fogged anxiety. When I reached home, walking up the driveway I was sure as the neighbor's dog greeted me that he was the only friend I had left in the world. For assuredly, when the paper came out in the morning, family and friends would abandon me due to my newest notoriety. I don't recall the rest of the evening.
Before going to work the next morning I quickly scanned the paper and, sure enough, the article included "Ted Wil son, a gay man . . . " Red-faced, I attempted my daily tasks while searching in the face of each passerby for some hint, awareness that they had read the article.
Only three persons said anything. After the first person said he had read it and I blurted, "What do you mean?" only to have him say, with halting alarm into my piercing gaze, "I liked it," I concluded I had better back off.
Nothing happened. How could this be? My life was certain to be destroyed. It could have no other outcome, for what else had those years of homophobic conditioning prepared me? Nothing happened.
Came, oh so slowly, the realization that nobody cared about my sexuality. I was usurped by cost overruns, mortgage rates, changes in the weather, getting laid, et al. I was braced, ready for everything, except indifference.