Walk up: my coming out story

By Ray Rodriguez

It must have been a blurry sight. With all that salty water in his eyes and all those distressed sounds coming out of his mouth I couldn’t figure out how to make him feel better. He was on the dusty ground, head between his knees, so I figured I would lick him everywhere and with a grin no less. An occasional head tilt with ear flop for the win. This is what my half husky half chow dog Oso (Spanish for bear) was thinking about me as I broke the rule. You know…the “boys don’t cry” rule. With every ounce of my being I resisted, but after 16 years I was finally surrendering to the fact that I, Ray Rodriguez am what they call, “gay.”

While I sobbed with my dog consoling me, every jarring example of why I had to accept it played like random YouTube clips. My parents yelling at me in the kitchen when I was 9-years-old for walking “like that.” I kept asking them how I was supposed to walk but all they could say was to stop walking like a girl. My new classmates in my freshman year of high school calling me a fag while we stood in line for gym roll call. With each echo of that god-forsaken gymnasium, I cringed.

I was never good at sports, but at times I could convince coach to let me run laps instead of continuing to accidentally score for the other team in some “ball” game. Even then though, I learned I needed to run a certain way, otherwise the name “pansy” would echo in that god-forsaken gymnasium. When it came time for teams to be picked, however, I wasn’t always last. There was another guy with bright blonde hair combed to the side like Macklemore. He was “even gayer” than I. They would laugh and say we were meant for each other. I was so ashamed I couldn’t even talk to him. I knew he was facing the same treatment.

In another class I sat down at a two person table (they all were) and began reading as another guy sat down next to me. Was this somebody to talk to? Soon enough another kid in the room (who I thought was closeted gay) came up to him and told him not to sit next to me because everyone would think he was gay also. The words echoed in that god-forsaken classroom. He didn’t get up and flee right then, but I became used to sitting alone in those two person desks. Nobody wanted to catch the gay.

At the bus stop, the guy I had a crush on soon found out and made it his full time job to yell at me with his friends on a regular basis. “Fag” was followed by a push into the dirt. I could have very easily fought back or even worse, told one of my four very scary and tough older brothers. I didn’t blame him or anyone else. I was just as disgusted with myself, so I stopped going to my Honors Classes and began skipping school completely, failing class after class.

The name of the game was to be as invisible as possible. If nobody noticed me walking they couldn’t make fun of it. If nobody noticed me crushing on them, they couldn’t be pissed at me for it. If nobody noticed me, well that was a good day. Not only was I wearing this scarlet F for Fag like a billboard as I roamed the halls, I was also failing my future in academics. Every example played in my head all at once like a roast. There my dog sat, big brown eyes, tickling whiskers, trying to lick the tears away.

My parents and school counselors at Centaurus called a meeting to discuss why I had fallen from straight A’s to straight F’s. I didn’t have the guts to even say the word gay so they all tried to figure out what was wrong. They did their best to come up with theories but none of them came close. How could I admit to them something I and the rest of the world (as far as I knew) was so ashamed of? Hadn’t they been to church on Sunday? Didn’t they see the trash talk shows poke fun at my kind while my family members expressed agreement?

I decided I was finished being a disappointment and told my mom I didn’t want to live anymore. She sat next to me on the couch as I sobbed. My eyes meandered through the patterns of the carpet as my eyes became too heavy to face her. “Do you think you are gay?” I couldn’t even answer her. That word struck my heart like a hot iron. All I could do was nod yes to which my mom began to laugh. “Mijo, you are not gay. You are not one of them! I can tell one a mile away!” I was not one of “them” she said. I recognized just how well founded my fears were.

We ended up moving from Lafayette back to my small hometown of Fort Morgan. The town kissed tornado alley and if you squinted hard enough you could see the pearl blue Rocky Mountains just two hours of driving away, grassy tall corn fields in every other direction. It was so isolated, and I was so excited for it. I could go back into the closet and lock that door tight! I would talk to nobody.

I would look at nobody. Basically, I would BE nobody. Some of my old friends were a bit confused as to why I wasn’t the old chatty cathy I used to be back in Middle School. I remember even cutting off one of my old best friends who was so excited to see me. “It was good to see you I have to go now,” I blurted as I retreated into myself. I became close friends with the library and chatted up the daily paper USA Today in the dark private desks where nobody could see me rather than eating lunch in the cafeteria. My pre-emptive war to prevent word from getting out was in full tilt. No Prom, no parties, no friends, no football or other sports games on Friday nights. My quest to hide was working and my grades were reflecting it. So I thought.

“Are you gay?” I stared at his beady eyes with my mouth open as he shouted it right to my face and the entire class halted. I quietly denied it again of course; I would have given the world to change it still. I went home crushed and started crying from the failed acting campaign to my dog. There was simply nothing more I could do to hide it.

There were the occasional allies that always seemed to notice my battle. Among them were my sister-in-law Donna who would visit occasionally and brag about her gay friends from Boulder. I imagined Boulder to be some mecca with rainbow flags on every door and glitter raining to quench the tulips. Someday I might escape to live there I dreamt. I finally mustered the courage to tell her one late night. She didn’t scold me or laugh at me. I felt like I gave my heart to her and she put it on a pillow and locked it safely in a box. She still has it to this day. She would be my first ally.

My second ally was my doctor, who I saw once and never again. On a regular checkup, he asked me to fill out a questionnaire which included the question that simply asked me if I was happy. That was the easiest answer ever. I wrote “no.” When he asked me what the reason was, I told him the whole story. I told him I wanted him to fix me, no matter what he had to do I was up for it. When he told me there was no cure for gay, I told him to just castrate me. There was nothing I wanted to do with it. After praying literally every day for several years and with no change, I was convinced I simply needed to remove the opportunity to become a gay man. He laughed at me and said there was nothing wrong with me and that I could continue to waste energy trying to change that small part of who I am, or I could focus that energy into being happy and making others happy. After I finished talking to him, my mom talked to him. I saw her face fall. She then yelled at me for telling him. It wouldn’t be the last time she yelled at me for telling someone after that but I was a changed man. I had knowledge.

Dr. Nelson handed me the only piece of information I had ever read on the subject, since the library had absolutely nothing in the card catalogs and Internet was not yet available. He handed me a PFLAG pamphlet that described the process of coming out. He said it would take time for my family to process it. In summary, they would go through denial, self-blame, anger, acceptance and finally pride. He said the timeframe for everyone would be different and to be prepared that they might never accept me. I took that advice to heart and in the decades to follow, I began to stand up to the stereotypes that others had of what it meant to be gay. No longer did I allow them to define me. Not one more teardrop would fall. With the support and persistence of my parents and teachers, I even took enough summer classes to get caught up and graduated with cap and gown with my class.

My doctor was certainly correct. It would take years for my family to accept me. While the strength of their personal faith never wavered, it was simply no longer housed by one spiritual institution. They chose their love of their child over the love of a social organization that would have eventually disfellowshipped me. As in many Latino families, we were our own social network. We didn’t invest heavily in other social networks. Why would we when we had so many brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles? This is why respect was also so important. As a member of this family, I was taught never to disrespect the family to the outside world. Eventually my entire family became my strongest allies. My mother spoke on PFLAG panels and participated with my Grandma Helen in a film documentary. My father attended a Civil Unions rally and hearing at the Colorado Capitol. My siblings have marched with me at countless pride celebrations. My family is my rock.

Yes, my story has a happy ending. However, according to some estimates thirty percent of all suicides and forty percent of all homeless youth are LGBT. That means many parents were too embarrassed by their children to do their job of supporting them. That means kids at school continue to wield weapons of words. We as a society all have more work to do in our schools, places of worship, the media, the dinner table, the workplace, and yes even those locker rooms of the sports world.

No longer should children walk with their head down staring at the dirt. With our allies leading beside us, with lots of patience for those who need it, let’s lift our heads up, focus on the horizon and continue the advice my doctor gave me at the age of 15. “It may take some time, but we’ll get there.”