THANK GOD AND KRISTI KENLEY
Kristi Kenley predicted it all back in the 8th grade. Her prophecy came in the form of a cryptic message written inside the cover of my junior high yearbook. Kristi was one of the first of my classmates that I asked to sign my yearbook. After all, we had been friends since the third grade when we were founding members of our own chapter of the Shaun Cassidy Fan Club. She had even come to my defense when the clubs other two members, Teresa Hanson and Lisa Malcolm, wanted to kick me out of the club because they began to think it odd that a boy would be such a devoted fan of the most popular Hardy Boy.
“Good luck in San Francisco!” That was how Kristi had signed my yearbook. At first, I was confused and wondered what had given Kristi the impression that my family and I were moving to California. I was just about to say something to Kristi, when it hit me. I didn’t know much about San Francisco, but I knew one thing. San Francisco was known for…Oh my God! Did she know? Could she tell that I was… gay? Of course, by the time I was in the 8th grade, I knew that I was different than the other boys. I knew it when I was very young and developed my first crush—on Rhoda’s husband. By the 8th grade, I’d had a series of crushes—my 7th grade social studies teacher, the high school boy who lived down the street, and Brad Reaser. Brad, Kristi, and I were all drummers in the 8th grade band. Had Kristi noticed me staring at Brad? I was mortified.
I grew up in Sturgis, South Dakota in the heart of the Black Hills. My childhood in South Dakota was wonderful. My sisters and I rode our bikes all over our small town. We played Hide and Seek with our neighbors on hot summer nights. In the winter, we would sled down the hills near our house and build giant snowmen in our yard. My childhood was nearly picture perfect, but with adolescence came a sadness that I fought desperately to hide.
In South Dakota, like most of the Midwest and Great Plains, gay men have only one lifestyle choice—life in the closet. By the time I was thirteen, I knew my closet well.
In places like South Dakota, the closets are comfortable and well-lit, furnished with the assistance of all those well-meaning folks who know the truth but who have a vested interest in keeping it under lock and key. They are our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, and our friends and co-workers. They hide from reality because acknowledging the truth would force them to make profound changes in their ideologies and moral convictions and at the same time, would open the door for public scrutiny and criticism. My personal closet was well-constructed, complete with a wife and a job teaching music at a Catholic school.
On September 7, 2000 at the age of 31, I left my closet. I must admit, I was dragged out, kicking and screaming, but nonetheless, I was out! After nearly two years of marriage, my wife decided she had made a terrible mistake and no longer wanted to be a wife. Shortly thereafter, my sexual orientation came into question when I was seen at an establishment frequented by gay men. The result was a forced resignation from my teaching post at the Catholic school. The life that I had created for myself in a desperate attempt to be what I thought I was supposed to be lay around me in ruins. But, in the midst of that rubble I discovered the unconditional love of my family, who were finally able to embrace me as I truly am, and the support of friends, who were applauding me for what seemed like a small victory.
There is only one thing that is worse than being closeted in South Dakota—being OUT in South Dakota. Realizing quite quickly that my options for dating were slim to none and tiring of my mother’s words of caution, “We don’t need to tell everyone,” I closed my eyes and clicked the heels of my ruby slippers three times and… followed a man to the San Francisco Bay area. The man was a huge mistake, but California was not. Although there are times when I miss the fresh, pine-scented breezes of the Black Hills, I find that I am now most at home in the city by the bay where I now live with my partner Freddie and our Boston Terrier, Butch. I have learned that life does not often turn out as we or others have it planned, but if we are lucky, it turns out as it should. Thank God…. and Kristi Kenley!
Grandpa has been gone more than 15 years now. That doesn't seem possible. I still see the twinkle in his eyes and remember the sound of his laughter. Most of all, I remember the music... His accordion singing as he gently opened and closed its bellows--crooked fingers flying across the keyboard....
