Ring Them Bells
An Anniversary of Revolutionary Love
Eight years ago today, I did perhaps the most revolutionary thing I’ll ever do: I got married. To a man.
Our wedding didn’t feel particularly revolutionary in the moment, at least not as I recall. It was 2015, and we were in the seventh year of the administration of the first Black president. Earlier that summer, after a decade of national uncertainty about the legal status of so-called “gay marriage,” the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges that LGBTQ+ Americans were afforded equal protection under the Constitution and had the fundamental right to marry the person they loved.
It was a time of hope and change, after decades of progress on civil rights, women’s rights, and gay rights. It really did feel as if we were on the verge of finally becoming a country where all men and women would be treated equally. I naively felt further advancements were all but inevitable.
True, there were some storm clouds on the horizon, and not everyone was on board yet, but I assumed they’d eventually come around. (Spoiler alert: I was wrong. Very, very wrong.) I would have never imagined then how forcefully many of my fellow Americans would come to rebel against the idea that marriages such as mine deserved the same legal rights, responsibilities, and protections as theirs. Nor could I have envisioned today’s increasingly nasty attacks on the rights of the LGBTQ+ community, as religious and political extremists seek to impose their views on others by controlling what they say, what they do with their own bodies, what books they read, even what clothing they wear. It’s a revolution of another kind, as they determinedly attempt to drag the country backwards.
But none of that darkness was on my mind that day, because our wedding day was full of love, tears, and celebration. Family and friends flew to San Francisco from all over the country and even from around the world to mark the joyous occasion. I still have people tell me it was the Best.Wedding.Ever. I’m not keeping score, but it certainly was a very special and meaningful day.
To mark the occasion on this anniversary day, I thought I’d share a short excerpt from Born Again, a book I recently wrote as my final thesis project for my master’s degree. I’ll also share some favorite photos from the ceremony, which was held at the historic Ferry Building on San Francisco’s waterfront. (My husband had served as project architect for the renovation of the iconic 19th century structure some years before, so it was a special place for us.)
The following excerpt is from a chapter entitled “Abomination.”
I came out of the closet to my family five times. This was partly because I came from a family where after something bad happened, we would all basically put blinders on and just pretend it had never happened. But as I’ve recently realized, it was also because I let it happen.
Each coming out was difficult, stressful, full of dread for me. None of it ever really felt liberating, the way you often see on TV or in the movies. Instead, it more felt like I was somehow doing something wrong and letting everyone down by simply telling the truth.
The first time I came out was the summer after my first kiss, when (via letter) I told my mom and a couple other family members, with great trepidation, that I struggled with “homosexual attractions,” so I wanted to be honest with them, but also I didn’t want them to think that I thought it was okay, because of course I didn’t, because I knew what the Bible said, and of course I believed it was wrong. Of course.
I think at that point I still thought that somehow I would be “healed” of it. I mean, this is what the entire fundamentalist Christian world taught: that homosexuality was a choice, and that it could be healed by God if one just tried hard enough to pray the gay away. I just needed to try harder and believe more! Plus—I now realize—I didn’t want to be too assertive about my truth, too much of a bother and inconvenience to those I loved. So I shrank back and made myself small in order to let everyone else be more comfortable, and we all resumed a don’t ask, don’t tell existence shortly thereafter.
The second time I came out was eight years later, when I was 30 and had really gotten my heart broken by a guy I’d gone out with for several months, only to have him one day claim that we were not, in fact, dating. (In hindsight, fault could certainly be found on both sides. But my real takeaway as I look back is that this was another instance of me living in a relational fantasyland, nourished by hopes and dreams and denial.) I wrote about this heartbreak in my annual Christmas card letter, sent to 60 or so people, which I guess counts as really coming out of the closet (and now really makes me cringe)! But then I basically retreated once again to a closeted world of half-truths and things left unspoken.
The third time I came out was four years later. By then I had a real boyfriend, who I moved in with about eight months after we met. Though I was in my mid-30s at that point, I endured a very uncomfortable, several-hours-long lecture about this from my father after I’d taken a sleepless red-eye flight back home for my annual family visit. Most memorably, he warned me that if I didn’t repent, the Lord might “take me home early.” (It says a lot that in the religious ideology he embraced, it was apparently not considered particularly problematic that his Loving Heavenly Father might actually kill his oldest son for having a boyfriend.) What my family didn’t know is that, by that point, my relationship was already in trouble, and in fact it ended just a couple weeks later. So I’d endured all that familial drama for nothing.
The fourth time I came out was seven years after that, when I’d been dating Andrew for several years, and I was ready to bring him home to meet my family. All kinds of drama and unpleasantness ensued (most of it best left unsaid here), but thankfully by that time I was assertive enough to stand my ground, and he did indeed fly back with me for a visit.
The fifth (and final!) time I came out was about seven months later, when Andrew asked me to marry him, literally in the same time period when I was trying to figure out how to ask him to marry me! Our news wasn’t exactly received by all with shouts of jubilation, but 11 months later, more than half of my family flew to California for the wedding, which meant a great deal to us.
The morning of my wedding day, as I sat in our kitchen drinking my coffee, with rain pouring outside, I was haunted by old voices in my head telling me to turn back, that I might go to hell for marrying a man. Old habits die hard, I guess, but thankfully I was able to shut them up and be fully present for our beautiful, moving, joyous ceremony.
Not all of the keep-it-in-the-closet family behavior ended once we were married, but by that time I’d had enough therapy to know that I couldn’t control other people’s decisions and wasn’t responsible for their choices, so I didn’t bother trying. And I didn’t shrink back, or make myself small, in order to make them more comfortable.
Last night, I auditioned for an LGBTQ+ choir here in Milano called Checcoro, a group which considers it their mission not just to entertain, but to raise awareness throughout Italy of gay people and to advocate for social and civil rights for all. Today, on my wedding anniversary, they told me I passed and invited me to join the choir! I’m so grateful and excited and eager to start singing! It feels like one small way to do something to make a difference.
Speaking of…I recently learned of an amazing organization called Free Mom Hugs when Jen Hatmaker interviewed FMH’s founder, Sara Cunningham, on her “For the Love” podcast. Sara talked about her journey from conservative Christianity to advocacy with faith, civic, business, and government leaders in an effort to make the world a kinder and safer place for LGBTQ+ people. She and the group's volunteers (now in all 50 states!) attend Pride parades and other events and offer—what else?—free hugs to those who have lost their families, friends, or faith communities after coming out of the closet. I found the interview to be inspiring, and I could think of no better non-profit to spotlight today than Sara and these other angels. Give them a follow on Instagram, make a donation to help finance their labors of love, or consider volunteering with them to distribute free hugs of your own!
I was particularly inspired by this group in Tennessee, a state I proudly called home for more than 10 years:
Finally, a number of you have expressed an interest in supporting my writing. I always find that very touching, but I am also still wrestling with how to respond to it.
I guess for starters, you can Subscribe to this newsletter, if you haven’t already. You can also Like and/or Share and/or Comment on my posts here on Substack. All of these actions help the Substack algorithm promote The Way I See It to others who might be interested.
For those who have specifically said they are ready and willing to pay for my writing, and even already pledged their paid subscription…THANK YOU. That is very kind, and I don’t take it for granted! I am still thinking about what this might all look like. I may just enable a paid subscription option here on Substack, and/or I may utilize a platform such as Tippee or Buy Me a Coffee to enable you to make a one-time donation in response to specific posts. I am also considering making the Born Again book available for purchase worldwide. What do you think? Do you have a favorite option among these? Or another idea altogether? I welcome and value any input.
As always, thank you for being here. I know you have a million demands on your time, and I’m grateful for each and every one of you (especially those of you who read this far!).
Have a great rest of your day, wherever in the world you are.
Michael
Happy 8 Years! It was an absolutely joyful day and I'll always be glad I got to celebrate it with you. Congrats, too on the choir. That's a BFD and I'm super excited for you!! When can we come to Milan and hear a concert?!