1991

The road unwinds before me, both visually in front of the windshield and mentally in my mind.  How many times have I traveled this 40 mile stretch of highway?  Thousands?  Tens of thousands?  Over the years most trips have blurred into one prototypical Trip, making it possible to now negotiate the miles in any frame of mind from wide awake and alert to half asleep in the middle of a snowstorm.  Yet, for all its familiarity, I can remember singular moments and whole passages with a clarity that allows them to overshadow the average day's drive. Today will provide another of those memorable drives. I am negotiating the turns and usual truck traffic as if having never before encountered them. Logging trucks, Milky Way tanker trucks, the UPS delivery truck, state highway maintenance trucks, usually familiar faces now framed in alien windshields going the opposite direction.

I pause to wonder at that direction. Some of them have driven this road almost as long as I have and know it as intimately as I; they know what to expect around any given turn on any given day of the year. And therein I find the cause for my wonder. Though they are physically headed in the opposite direction, they are mentally commuting the same road, the same job, the same beginning and end. They know what to expect when they pull into the maintenance yard or weigh station or driveway. For me, today will reveal a different driveway at the end of my commute. For me, though I physically drive the usual route, I do not traverse the well known mental roads of yesterday. Mirroring the passing trucks, my mental route goes the opposite direction. Grasping this, this lack of familiarity - and my inability to create a mental image of what it will look or feel like to stop my car, climb out and walk up the steps to the house, to open the door and announce my arrival – reminds me how the past and the future can both don this cloak at unexpected moments. Suddenly, what we have seen or what we anticipate seeing conveys a new meaning, an unnoticed implication. I sense that change as I turn into the driveway and feel more than see the house.

The house. Home. Where I grew up. To this day it constitutes considerably more than half of my living experience. I could call it my parent's house, but that would be a misnomer; they don't actually own it, yet for 25 years our family has occupied its rooms, shoveled snow off its deck and stairs, cared for the lawn. We've laughed and cried in it. We've hated its isolation, while loving its remoteness. Here is where we've matured, learned the honesty of a day's labour, taken the first steps in creating our own sense of identity and character. Its walls witnessed our family discussions of religion, politics, education, history and the future.

The house… home… I still find myself uncertain as to which word to apply. I suspect it depends on my mood; it could stand for so many things in my life – literally or figuratively. A place of refuge one day, a prison the next. A basis for support and encouragement today, a thumb pressing down to keep you in line tonight. A source of information and ideas this week, a display of bigotry and narrow-mindedness next week. These opposing dynamics sometimes created the basis for heated discussions – discussions which seemed centered on stating more and more divergent viewpoints than actually delving into subtle nuances. The lingering bitter taste of some of those discussions-cum-arguments still flavour my memories.

Perhaps the one consistent aspect of home was the narrow path of right and wrong, black and white, left and right. Not much wiggle room fit in there. No gray area. A simple yes or no, thank you. No doubt it was that clearly demarcated line which fueled the contrasting viewpoints in family discussions.

While opening the car door, I find myself (once again) questioning my decision, my intent, my choice to walk this path and the need to follow it. Do I really have to drive the 135 miles from Seattle to home in order to talk with my parents? Ok, more than 'talk' – just cut to the chase and say it out loud – to come out to my parents. If I am going to tell my family – 8 siblings plus my parents – why not do it all at once? My plan to tell each family member on an individual basis will take over a month at 2 people per weekend! Why not write a letter and mail it? Why tell them at all? Surely they will figure it out in time, there is no need to expend all the energy over the next 5 weekends coming out to each individual parent, sister and brother.

The rhythm of my shoes treading the steps up to the house provides the answer I already know deep down within. For myself, I need to extend the honesty of a one-on-one coming out to each family member. Like the sounds of my footfalls revealing which child comes up the steps, I need to share this part of my being in a personal manner. I want to encourage each family member to be honest in their response – to reveal a part of themselves which might remain unseen and unheard should all 11 of us be sitting around a table when I say those three simple, yet so complex words: “I am gay.”

It is not working. When will I stop fighting and admit it? At what point will I gather the courage to embrace this part of myself? And why am I fighting it, anyway? Looking around the ski room strewn with skis, tuning gear, wax, ski bindings, tarps on the floor, extension cords snaking everywhere, I drag up the same old answer – gay men don't do what I do. At least not the gay men I see portrayed in magazines and books, on TV and the silver screen. Not the gay men as depicted in the AIDS articles and documentaries. I've known about this part of myself for near 20 years. Dating women hasn't slackened the fantasies of men. Sex with women hasn't lessened my curiosity and desire to have a man next to me. Yet, at age 26, I still run up against the same wall – where are other men like myself? True, I haven't been out hunting for them – I've not mustered the nerve to do that, as yet. But neither have I come across any nor heard of them in the lines of work I have chosen. I can't be the only one...

I think back on my brief 26 years – specifically the past decade. From work to pastimes, none of it resembles the 'typical' gay as portrayed or stereotyped. My life has seen me competing on the alpine skiing World Cup, working in heavy construction, living and working at a ski area in the National Forest, operating combines during harvest, climbing under my car to work on the brakes or almost any other repair, skydiving. Missing are pink chiffon, disco, interior decorating and hair dressing to name just a few. Missing are even rumours of other homosexual men with such interests as mine. I can't possibly be the only man – living, working and playing in this manner – who emotionally and physically desires other men.

I stand contemplating this, then return to the job before me. My hands move over the edges of my skis, feeling for burrs and dull spots. Satisfied with the tune job, I sigh a breath of relief; that's the last pair to be tuned. I pick up the iron and begin the task of waxing my skis – all six pairs. Today marked the last race of the season and, now, I want to put up my skis for the summer in race-ready condition. Kind of foolish, I think, as it looks like this will be my last season on the US Ski Team. I most likely won't need these skis next season. A string of injuries has forced me to spend more time in rehab than on training and competing. Now, at 26, I'll be viewed as too old and too injured to ever realize my athletic potential. Just another issue to muddy my already over-engaged noggin.

The iron moves in a rhythmical back-and-forth motion. The wax melts and flows out over the bases of the skis, coating and sealing them. Like the iron, my thoughts move along in a rhythmical pattern, back and forth over recurring topics. How many times have I hosted these inner conversations? Battled the internal demons? Gotten lost in the knotted and snarled ball created when self-image is placed against society's stereotypes of gay men and masculinity? Wrestled with self-worth? Tried to reconcile my person with religious judgments against this part of me? And the ever-present question: Am I any closer to an answer? I chuckle to myself and reflect on the knowledge that much of life begins on the inside with a thought, a question, a desire. All the internal dialogues act as so many rehearsals before actually bringing the internal idea out to the physical world. When will you admit to yourself your attraction to men, the internal voice asks? When will you decide to share that part of your life with others? I mull those questions over and over while waxing the last two pairs of skis.

Surveying the wax room, I take a deep breath and again begin the process of tearing it all down. It's time to move on. This past ski season has seen an extraordinary amount of moving; January saw the team averaging less than 2 nights per hotel/ski area. I pack the wax box and realize the next race is....... I don't know when. But a gut feeling says this packing up and moving on symbolizes more than just the end of the ski season. Regardless of my desire to continue in competitive skiing, regardless of any future results, this season marks the end of my World Cup career and the end of life as I have known it. New doors are cracking open even as this one shuts. College is now a possibility. New lines of work become available. New opportunities to learn about myself, maybe even risk answering that inner voice…. The coming months will most likely find me stepping on new paths and traveling unknown roads.

As I reach for the door to open it, I realize I am approaching the first and most formidable bridge I will cross today – the bridge of religious difference between my parents and myself. By this I do not mean the usual confrontation between a homosexual 'lifestyle' and Biblical teachings; that battle will wage forever as long as there are literal, conservative, fundamental and patriarchal interpretations of the Bible. Rather, I mean the differences between my parents' approach to spirituality and religion vs. mine. The religious and spiritual approaches that divide my parents and me revolve around the sublimating of yourself to the teachings of the Church vs. a need to answer that which is innately within you. I simply cannot blindly accept the Church's teachings when they run contradictory to what world history and my personal experience reveals.

My father has a blind faith in the Church and its teachings. I cannot and will not fault him for his faith. It has carried him through many painful experiences since his childhood; the loss of his mother at age 8, the death of an infant sister, the deaths of friends while mountain climbing, the passing of his father. He sees no reason to question the teachings of the Church. When the Pope speaks, you can take his words to the bank.

My mother doesn't have my father's blind belief, but she still keeps faith in her doubts. Her's is much quieter, a personal belief that the Church's leaders will do their best to accurately interpret the Bible and its teachings. Her religious questions give pause to reflect on what Christ taught and how his lessons relate to today's changed world.

As for myself, I question most every tenet put forth by the Church. I search out divergent interpretations of Biblical texts. I subscribe to perspectives that do not follow the exact teachings of the Church and its amnesia-driven selective view of history If I have a faith, it is not in organized religion but, rather, in the human spirit and a desire for each person to have the courage to find their own spirituality and beliefs.

I remember my first knock-down-drag-out argument with my parents over religion. It symbolized one of the key moments in shaping my relationship with my parents…

I was 14 years old and preparing for Confirmation (a Catholic's personal renewal of her/his belief in Christ and the Church, an adult's reaffirmation of Baptism). By this age I was well aware of my attraction to other males, and how that conflicted with Church doctrine and teachings. The inner turmoil had already begun as I tried to balance what I knew about myself as compared to what the Church taught about homosexuals.

Knowing I could not honestly carry out the Confirmation ceremony, I announced I would not go through with my Confirmation. My father's response immediately bypassed discussion and proceeded directly to denunciation of my young smart-assed thinking. He interspersed his iron-fist orders with exclamations of “No son of mine….” and intimations of physical hardships to be visited upon me should I carry through with my upstart idea. He would not listen to reason - not even to reminders of Church policy that Confirmation is the choice of the participant and not to be influenced by others. Reason and personal choice were not part of my father's religious views…. As a means of self-preservation and to keep the peace with my father I did receive my Confirmation. But I also confirmed within myself - because of being forced into the ceremony - I wanted nothing more to do with the Church.

Stepping through the door feels like I am stepping into another world. I can't help but think about what will transpire later today when I will tell my parents. The coming afternoon of quiet small talk sits juxtaposed against the foreknowledge I hold which amounts to a bomb. Ironic, I think, the simple division of left and right, right and wrong, will be put to its test today. No pleasure comes from the contemplation of such irony, only the hope that I will carry out this revelation with composure and grace.

My biggest fear centers on the gap created by religion. I feel that gap will once again impact the moment, causing it to degenerate into a polarized argument of Biblical teachings vs. heathen practices. I will speak from my heart and my truth and my own sense of spirituality, but I know part of it will be lost. As the afternoon unfolds, my mind continues to mull over potential ways to break the news, counter the arguments, expose this intimate part of myself and still try to reach across that gap.

By mid afternoon no plan has come to mind. No best way to steer the conversation to human intimacy and sexual orientation. No clever way to 'ease into' the subject and 'slip in' the comment that I am gay. Wanting a different setting than the walls of the family room and kitchen, I suggest to my mom that we take a walk. The Indian summer weather has turned the forest into a feast for the eyes and the nose. The fall colours combine with the smell of ripe berries and cedar trees, making you wish life would hold still for an eternity with each breath. Out amongst the trees and bushes, the running mountain streams and the trilling birds, I finally realize there is no way to 'ease into' the subject or 'slip in' a comment on my sexual orientation.

Our feet carry us over the forest floor as a break in the conversation fills with the sounds of the woods. The forest's noises appear louder and more distinct now, each bird's song sounding discrete from the others', the stream holding its own conversation with the rocks and logs in its path. Taking courage from Nature's display of life and the individuality therein, I draw in a deep breath and begin telling my mother about myself. No warning, no “I have something I want to tell you,” just a change in subject and the quiet beginning of my story. Our feet maintain their steady slow pace on the trail as my voice takes over and relates the untold story of how I arrived at this point in my life. My mother doesn't interrupt, but listens with her whole body, her whole soul. Now the forest seems to have gone silent and only my voice carries on the still warm afternoon air.

How do you convey 25 years of secretive thoughts? How long does it take to recount the whole process from budding awareness at age 6 to coming out at age 30? How do you truthfully tell your story and not leave out some crucial detail – for isn't every detail crucial when dealing with your heart and soul? I've forgotten how long I talked that afternoon. I've forgotten how far we walked, or how long we stood at the stream's edge where a small waterfall exists in the crotch of an old dead fallen cedar. Time became irrelevant as my mother came to know me in a fuller and more intimate way than she could have ever imagined.

I have never forgotten her response. I've always cherished the way she listened. Just as my coming out was a surprise to her, the same was true for me as I witnessed her answer. Of all the things she gave that day, she gave her love. Of anything I could have needed more, I cannot think. Regardless of other differences between us, regardless of conflicting beliefs, at that moment she communicated her love and compassion. Even as some of her dreams died and her personal beliefs were put to the test, she reached across the distance between us, making it recede to a level of non-importance.

Maybe it was the familiar surroundings that eased our personal apprehensions as we strolled. Maybe the forest's solitude contributed to instilling peacefulness and openness in our discourse. What ever the factors, we shared that late afternoon under the protective canopy of old growth trees, both of us quietly struggling with the questions and answers we exchanged. Anticipated questions merged with unexpected queries as our walk carried us along the well-known path. Awaited answers rested in the realm of hope, neither of us certain what to presume might underlie either's response.

By the time we returned to the house it was time for dinner. As we prepared the food, we both grew quiet as I contemplated telling my father that evening. If there is one uncertainty in life, it is trying to predict how any one person will respond to the announcement that your sexual orientation resides with the 10% minority – the homosexuals of the world. It doesn't matter if that person is your father of 30 years or your husband of 44 years. Mom had agreed that I should be the one to tell him in a one-on-one setting as I had told her. But neither of us could envisage with any confidence what reaction to expect from him.

As the evening grew late, mom excused herself and went to bed. My dad and I sat in the living room, reading the paper and exchanging brief comments on the day's news. News. Another irony worked its way into this day; the sensation of this quiet and normal setting contrasting with a known future event that is sure to be less than quiet. I look over the paper to where my dad sits, legs crossed and the paper laid out on his lap. Taking a deep breath, I decide this is the time. But, in a change from telling my mom, I get his attention and ask if he has some time to talk with me. The smile on his face as he folds his paper and says, “Sure,” reinforces the thought of how unfair life is; we never know what awaits us around any corner or at the beginning of any conversation.

“I've got something I would like to tell you about,” I begin, my nervousness increasing as his smile broadens. “You getting married,” he asks? His smile grows even bigger now as he let's that thought run through his mind. I almost grow queasy when I hear his question. In my mind I can only feel pity for him, knowing that what I am about to say is the exact opposite of his hope and the furthest possibility from his mind. “No,” I say, a nervous smile tugging at my mouth as I think it rather unfounded for him to ask that question; I haven't dated a woman or brought one home in over two years now. “No,” I repeat, “what I'm about to tell you is far removed from that.” His face still retains its humoured expression, but a quizzical look joins his features. Maintaining a quiet and composed voice, I utter the words that he cannot imagine will come from his son, “I'm gay.”

The silence that followed still rings in my ears. The living room seemed to contract and expand at the same time. The walls felt as if they pressed closer, trying to contain what I had said and not let it escape into the world outside, while I felt as if a void was growing between my father and me. Our respective seats appeared to move away from each other of their own accord. “It's not what you expected or wanted to hear, I know,” I continued. “But I've come to the point that I can't live the lie any longer. And I would rather be honest with you and have your respect for that honesty than to deceive you.”

Of all the responses I had imagined coming from my dad, he landed somewhere right of center. In comparison to future revelations with my siblings, his would be the most negative and conservative. What followed blurred together into a terse and tense exchange I barely remember. Neither of us gave an inch as we expressed the groundings for our respective opinions and decisions. I must admit, the anticipated religious diatribe came as a welcomed relief. For once I could actually state my religious beliefs – or lack there of – and know that he would have to listen; tonight he would have to listen to the arguments of the hypocrisy in the Catholic religion's teachings and practices. Whether he liked or wanted to hear it ceased to concern me. Of the conversation that ensued, most of it remains in my memory as general impressions of the words and emotions articulated; his disappointment, his belief that homosexuality is a sin, his sense of possibly having failed as a father, my relief at telling him, the weight removed by stripping away the lie, my appreciation of his honesty and willingness to listen to me. The only part I clearly remember came at the very end of it as we made our way to go to sleep. “I don't have to agree with this or support it, even if I accept it within you,“ he said. “And don't ever bring anyone home.” “I can respect that request,” I said, climbing the stairs to my room.

My body and mind feel drained as I crawl into bed. Yet, for all the emotional turmoil of the day, part of me floats above the bed in lighter-than-air tranquility. I have reclaimed part of myself today, and done so in such a way as to honor and respect what I was taught in childhood. My honesty had helped me bridge the gap between my parents and myself. Whether large or small, the size of the bridge did not matter. What was most important was to start the process. I also realized that, regardless of what may have been lost in today's exchange, my truthful coming out allowed my parents to speak openly and honestly in response – which is no less than what I expected from them as I told my story; the opportunity to speak openly and honestly about myself.