“I came out this spring,” I told my parents at the end of that summer, just one week into the school year. I found it easier to report on things I’d done than speak to who I now was. We were in my parents’ hotel room in the Haymarket neighborhood of Lincoln, where I had moved to to study fiction writing, and they were both very surprised, which in turn surprised me. Mom asked most of the questions. Finally, when Dad spoke, he said this: “I’m worried that your life is going to be a lot more difficult now.” I heard the love behind his voice, the concern, but I was a graduate student, I told them, in a humanities department of all places. “It’s not like I’m gonna be a youth pastor,” I said.
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