In MAGA Coal Country, I Finally Came Out to My Grandparents. Here's What Happened
This Pride Month, I no longer have to hide my six-year relationship or that I report for an LGBTQ news outlet.
Editor’s note: This article includes mention of suicidal ideation. If you are having thoughts of suicide or are concerned that someone you know may be, resources are available here.
Earlier this month, my older sister Madison picked me up from the airport. I’d flown in to Pittsburgh from Seattle for my cousin Meredith’s wedding. While the drive to her home was only five minutes, it’s one I won’t forget.
“I have something to tell you and you need to let me finish before you freak,” Madison said.
“Mimi and Pappy know. Well, they don’t ‘know,’ but they know. So you should tell them,” she said.
“Fuck. They figured out my secret,” I thought.
Mimi and Pappy are my 79-year-old grandparents and the anchors of my family. From day one, they helped raise me in the 7,000-person town of Connellsville, Pa.—formerly a coal town, currently in the heart of a strong MAGA county.
Mimi was always doting, sing-talking to make me laugh and ensuring I kept the house “redd up,” a regional expression for tidy. I remember watching Barney and Mister Rogers with her as a kid and, as a teen, helping set up her Facebook page so she could play fake online slots.
Pappy drove me to and from school, to hockey practice and to doctors’ appointments. I have fond memories of calling Pappy every time the Pittsburgh Penguins scored a goal.
I love them so much. But as early as eight years old, after realizing I was gay, I knew I had a secret that could transform our relationship. As Mimi and Pappy got older, they’d become more religious. And through the years, I had memories of Pappy making comments about other minority groups that made me nervous about whether he would accept me.
Before I could even grapple with telling them, I had more pressing demons to address.
At school, I was bullied for being gay from 7th to 12th grade. Two guys would walk behind me and call me a “queer” and a “faggot” on my way to soccer practice. At study hall, they’d throw erasers at my head. In the parking lot, they’d throw chewing gum in my hair. I intentionally grew a bowl cut to hide the gum.
Nobody ever stood up for me and I never stood up for myself.
Being on the receiving end of this led to a deep depression that was compounded by a myriad of concussions from ice hockey. I don’t remember much about these years except for a perpetual sadness and guilt over my sexual orientation. What I do remember are the suicidal thoughts that were exacerbated by my classmates as they referred to me as the kid with “resting suicide face.”
It was brutal. And I was so afraid of telling my loved ones. What if they didn’t accept me because we’re Catholic? What if I became one of those gay kids with no family after they come out? What if they made me quit sports? What if they only saw me as a vicious stereotype of all the worst things people say about gay people?
But there was a silver lining: As I slowly came out to people in high school, I found my voice.
Will. Myles. Cole. Danny. They may never know it, but their affirming responses transformed my mental health and gave me the courage to tell my family.
I told my aunts first, then my cousins, then my big sister. Their reactions were positive.
Then, when I was 17, it was time to tell my dad: a barrel-chested, muscular guy who worked three jobs, including at the prison, to keep our family afloat.
We had just finished a set of pull-ups while working out in the garage. The knots in my stomach were overwhelming.
“Dad, I’m bisexual,” I spat out, thinking that if I didn’t reveal my gay identity, it could soften any negative reactions.
I waited with bated breath. I’ll never forget his response. “I was wondering when you were going to tell me. Are you sure you aren’t just gay? Do you want me to tell your mother?” And then he gave me a hug. I didn’t cry, he didn’t tell my mom and we had chicken and potatoes for dinner that night. I’d come out to her later, in my own time.
As I entered my 20s, Mimi and Pappy were the only ones who didn’t know. I was so afraid of losing them, but keeping this secret caused great strain on our relationship. I felt like I couldn’t share my life with them. I couldn’t tell them about Drew, my partner of six years. Others would hear me lie to them and they’d uncomfortably play along. I stopped calling them as frequently because… what was there to say? I couldn’t talk about my writing for Uncloseted or the adventures Drew and I got up to that week. Every story I told was twisted to make me sound straight.
But after Madison picked me up from the airport and told me they knew, I realized I needed to reveal my secret to them myself. And what better place to do that than at a wedding in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania with a bunch of blue-collar country folks?
So as the reception wrapped up and I finished the last of the champagne right from the bottle, I sat down beside Mimi. “I know you know I’m gay, I know you’ve known for a while. You should tell Pappy,” I said, pointing at my grandfather across the room.
Mimi started tearing up. “So you talked to your sister?” she said. She told me that they’d known for a long time but never knew how to bring it up. I told her I’d been dating Drew, the “roommate” they’d met several times on vacation, for six years.
“We’ll always love you. We’re proud of you,” she said.
As Mimi said what I needed to hear, my soul felt lighter. I had no burdens, no secrets, no weight on my chest. I hugged her and then I scampered outside to collect myself. I was so elated that I wanted to take a victory lap and celebrate my final coming out. But today wasn’t about me; it wasn’t my wedding. So I settled with hitting my vape—I’d earned it!
The next morning, I woke up with no hangover and no regrets.
I’m done coming out. I am officially Uncloseted. And I did it at the beginning of Pride Month.
It feels damn great.
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