I struggled to write this. While I can speak only for myself, I’m confident if asked to describe me others wouldn’t settle on words like reserved, quiet, or shy. Yet, that’s exactly how I felt when I first sat down to look back and pen some reflections on my childhood and the man I've grown to be.

What follows is both an essay about my experience growing up in rural America and a love-letter to my younger self, a Kory who was so afraid of being found out; of being made to feel less-than; of being seen, analyzed, and judged foremost for the people he loved — rather than how he moved through the world. I see, now, looking back at that frightened yet hopeful young man how much he — we — killed off entire parts of our person, and used the scraps to fashion an armor to keep us safe.

Queer childhood is waiting for the day to be — to make — who we’ve been all along inside. We don’t fit society’s mold; instead, many of us squish ourselves into the prescribed shape for as long as we can. Whether out of fear or some other reason, we deny ourselves the treasure of being who we really are. In our “closet” years, we live without a present. We put our lives on hold, waiting for the arrival of that promising future when we’re free to live authentically.

Sure, it’s axiomatic that life continues in the closet. Yes, we go through high school and/or college, maybe we even try to force a heterosexual relationship, or play the sports and wear the clothes our peers do to fit in. But until we break down our own closet doors, we’re not us fully — not really. Queer people imagine, sometimes for decades, how profound it will feel to have acceptance and understanding from family, friends, and coworkers…only to find that for far too many of us those people shun, equivocate, and help craft or support draconian laws that punish us for our very being. In sum: Confirm our worst fears that kept shut the closet doors.

To the non-queer individuals reading this: The world doesn’t have to be this way. In doing nothing, or in trying to strike a middle ground, or in failing to forcefully defend queer individuals and their rights, you’re reinforcing the status quo — including queer folks’ closet doors, damning us to live in fear, and denying the world the full measure our beauty. I hope my story illuminates the real consequences of growing up in a world hostile to who you are.

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Let me set the scene of my youth. I learned to fish before I could talk — heading out to the lake in the early, cool mornings of summer to catch spotted bass, bluegill, or walleye with my dad before the sun and humidity chased us back home. I was a menace when blackberries were in season. All I needed was for my grandma to turn her back for a second and I’d be out the house, trekking across a field toward my prize, only to return with my hands, face, and clothes stained with evidence. I spent Friday nights running around and beneath what to me then were colossal metal bleachers, attempting to convince my mom between plays on the football field that my friends and I did indeed need another five dollars — this time for nachos and a Dr. Pepper. Overall, my childhood was mostly unremarkable for a kid in rural America. Outwardly, at least.

You see, I chose gymnastics over football, spent recess during my grade school years shelving books, and crocheted scarves or oven mitts as Teacher Appreciation Day presents. None of these were coded as explicitly queer but were plainly different from the norm. All the while, I guarded a secret I worried that if known would make me a pariah not only in the classroom but at home. I knew early on I was different — that I was gay — and my childhood was textured by the ever-present fear of being outed, shamed, shunned, killed. I knew the risks of being queer in rural America; I was afraid — I am still. If I could transport myself or deliver a letter to the 2006, or 2011, or 2015 version of me this is what I’d say.

Kory, it’s okay to admit you’re afraid for the world to see you as you are: loud, animated, hard-of-hearing, queer, poor. You’re growing up in a place hostile to who you are. It’s not going to be easy, and you shouldn’t have to struggle as much as you will. It won’t always be bearable. I won’t wave you off the journey you’re on. You are going to grow, most of which through learning how to love yourself, an act you still find radical and at times elusive. Know, though, that you are enough. You are enough.

You were so afraid of being othered that you carved off whole parts of yourself, and now a graying nearly-thirty-year-old man grieves those sacrifices. You didn’t have to do it, but I understand why. I only wish you’d learned to love yourself sooner — the pits, edges, ridges, and the truly beautiful parts. You are not defined by the parts of yourself you hate the most. What you hate isn’t bad or unwanted in the world. It’s just different. And difference isn’t always beautiful per se, but it is necessary. Queerness cannot be about the parts of ourselves society demands we shed. It’s being “the self that is at odds with everything around it and has to invent, and create, and find a place to speak, and to thrive, and to live.”[1] The real task — and beauty — is in creating a world wherein you don’t minimize yourself to survive.

Queer folk will make progress in law and policy, arguing that the Constitution demands our nation recognize their “equal dignity in the eyes of the law.”[2] The fight doesn’t stop there, it can’t. For too many federal protections remain out of reach, and they may soon be set aside in part or whole. You’ve tried to live out and proud since coming out. You abhor the thought of hiding who you are like you did for so many years. It’s your duty to be your whole self, always, in the hope that the world will recognize your humanity and dignity.

You were outed freshman year. You helped peers with schoolwork, volunteered at the local hospital, and demanded excellence from yourself — and in doing so made friends who had your back and endeared yourself to teachers who might otherwise have set you aside out of prejudice. You made plain (while unsaid) that you demanded to be judged on the merits of your work, not who you loved. A privilege you’ll learn is not afforded to everyone or even most.

You survived the deep hurts that color adolescence but hold yourself accountable for not doing more for others: classmates who were ridiculed for their perceived effeminate behavior — their mannerisms, their style of speech, and tone of voice. You were unabashedly queer in rural, small-c conservative America, but it took a few years for you to learn an important lesson: Taking space for yourself is one giant and necessary step, holding and advancing it for others is a privilege and duty.

Don’t beat yourself up; you’re not perfect. You did the best you thought you could at the time. Your legacy must be about clearing a path for others. The work to bring to fruition that world you sought after as an eleven-year-old is unfinished but not impossible. It’s in the doing each day that matters most.

You’ll face any number of situations that compel you to ask: Am I doing the right thing? Did I choose the right career? Did I earn a prestigious enough degree to be taken seriously? Am I seen as capable? charismatic? Boiled down those neatly fall back to: Am I enough for others to accept me? Kory, it doesn’t matter. Do work that matters to you. You’re going to fail, a lot. You won’t change every heart and mind to see your humanity. But you will create a family you cherish. Some of those folks are at Deloitte; others are from last-minute, hastily planned vacations; and still more are from merely showing people the unvarnished, unfinished you.

We had help. Advocates and allies known and unknown handed us the proverbial mic to test our voice; carved out space for us to try, fail, and grow; and fought on our behalf. I live authentically, today, because of their struggle to yank nearer that more perfect future. Take their gift and run with it. Don’t minimize yourself because others are afraid of your queerness. You’re not responsible for their bigotry but you are on the hook for how you respond; the space you take, hold, and advance for others; and the society you help build for the next generation of queer kids in the face of that hate.

I struggle, still. I’m a work in progress. I’m writing this to you during Pride Month; so, remember that you stand on the shoulders of giants — and you’re of a lineage not of blood but chosen community, wrought out of both necessity and love. Do your best. Be visible. Be authentic. Get to doing the good work and carve a path for which a younger version of you would be proud. I know I am.

—

And to young, queer folk in places like my hometown: You’re seen, cherished, loved, and wanted in this world. Do not, do not, do not give up the fight. We need you to flourish and then lead.

My struggle was my own, and it may not resonate or look exactly like yours. But know that it can get better. You have the agency to realize the world you wish you lived in, today. I encourage you to live visibly if you’re able. Harvey Milk said it plainly: “We will not win our rights by staying quietly in our closets… Rights are won only by those who make their voices heard.” Now, “[b]urst down those closet doors once and for all, and stand up and start to fight.”

This essay may be the last closet door I break down. The splinters and cuts are worth it.

[1] Dr. bell hooks. (2014, May 7). Are You Still a Slave? Liberating the Black Female Body. The New School for Liberal Arts. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJk0hNROvzs

[2] Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 664 (2015), slip op., J. Kennedy writing for the majority.