Dear Hilary Clinton,

As a child, I looked for Alan Funt.  I looked for him around corners, under furniture, inside of closets.  He had to be somewhere and I wanted to know where and how it was that he had hidden his cameras so well.  You see, it just couldn’t be true that I was a vulgar monster (gay) growing up in a household filled with perfectly normal people.  Instead, I had to have been cast in some bizarre episode of Candid Camera.  This episode was sure to be so outrageous that it would, perhaps, be broadcast during sweeps.    “You’re not gay—HAHAHAHAHA! Smile!  You’re just on Candid Camera! Wasn’t that funny?!”

Even as a child, though, I must have realized that I was merely perpetuating my own charade because I also remember lifting couch cushions to see if Alan Funt was there.  Obviously, even I knew that this was not possible.  Or did I?  When you’re gay, you stop trusting things.  All things.  Every thing.  Because from the moment you’re born and it is assumed that you are straight, something very strange happens when you realize you’re not. You suddenly believe that the world is filled with lies.  There’s nothing to trust.  You question everything.  Perhaps, then, it is possible for Alan Funt to Cirque-du-Soleil his body into a pancake.  Maybe he really is under one of our plaid orange, 1970’s couch cushions.  Stranger things have happened.   And so I did, in fact, lift those cushions.  But, alas, to no avail.  (Although I did find some coins, some cookie crumbs, and some old crayon pieces…)

Close friends have wondered how I knew at such a young age that I was gay.  Some have suggested that they were “unaware” of their own sexuality until much later.  Despite their not intending as such, the question itself takes me right back to the monster-like quality I felt as a child.  “So, not only are you gay, but you were also aware of it when you were young?!” 

Yes, I was.  And despite growing up in Conservativeville, USA, I had it easy.  My parents weren’t going to beat me to death or kick me out of the house.  I wasn’t going to be stoned or thrown into jail.  Nevertheless, the pain I felt was intense and palpable.  One of the differences in belonging to this sort of a minority is that, unlike a person who practices a certain religion, or a person whose skin is a certain color, a gay child is even alone in his or her family.  The outcaste status is not shared with parents or siblings and so there is no real sense of security even in your own home, away from the outside world.

No, it is not poor me, however, it is true.  My childhood was very painful.  If I am thankful for it, it is because I believe that I enjoy life today largely because I have such memories of what life can feel like and what life must feel like to others who live in isolation and fear, for whatever reason.   The openness and freedom I’m allowed has made me content and appreciative on a continual basis. 

My life-experience and my understanding of how being gay affects my life actually changed a couple of days ago, when the U.S. Secretary of State delivered an unbelievable speech, for all of the world to hear.  Somehow, when listening to Hilary Clinton so eloquently address what it means to have human rights and dignity, I transformed into that seven-year-old girl I once was, and imagined myself watching her speak on our black and white console.  I stood alone, near our dial-up green phone, on the brown, shag carpet, with the plaid seat cushion in my hand.  I stopped my search for evidence that my life itself must be a joke because I turned toward some strong lady who miraculously normalized me.  Something about that speech in Geneva healed a very old wound.  I’m oddly grateful that the scar will always be there, but I’m glad it hurts much less today. I'm shocked and appreciative to have found a sense of solace in hearing what Clinton had to say.  And I have gratitude and admiration for her having the courage to say it.