I grew up with a loving father, but he struggled with alcoholism for the better part of my childhood. He carried so much shame, which inhibited his ability to be an even better father. Growing into manhood and figuring out what it meant to be a man was a solitary journey. I count that as a success though; of course it was hard, but it made me stronger and has shaped me into who I am today. Another life challenge was losing my father in a car accident when I was 15. It forced me to grow up quickly, as the oldest man in the house and a source of strength for my mom and brother. I count overcoming that challenge a success too. Other successes I’m proud of include being a first generation university graduate; coming from a family with little financial means, I attended a private university and got my Bachelor’s degree. Immediately after college I spent a year and a half living in a slum in Bangkok doing community development work. I came out during that time, brought about by being away from home and being able to process things more clearly. Growing up in a religious household, not everyone in my life was receptive of it, and it’s certainly been a challenge learning how to love them or draw boundaries where necessary. The struggle is worth it though. Overall, my time in Thailand was difficult, but it made me stronger and I grew so much from it.

My coming out story is an interesting one. I grew up in a conservative, Christian world and I sincerely loved the Church and the ways it enriched my life. My views on queer people began to change my junior year of college when one of my professors came out as transgender. For the first time in my life I was challenged to think through my beliefs and figure out why I believed the things I did. It was through that time that I became affirming for LGBT people. Interestingly enough, I still thought I was straight and merely dealt with “same-sex attractions,” as it’s often called in the Christian world. Years later, while living in Thailand, I was so ashamed over my attractions that I couldn’t bear it any longer. I realized the only way to be free was to call my sexuality for what it is; I initially came out as “bi,” because that was the next safest step for me. Eventually though, I realized I’m solely attracted to men and began identifying as “gay.” Over the course of six months I came out to my closest friends, immediate family, and extended family, as we’ve always been close. I wanted to be transparent with everyone in my life, even if it meant potentially losing relationships.

There’s a decent queer community here in Portland. When I moved here I really wanted to be a part of a church that accepts queer people, so Portland being the inclusive and welcoming city that it is, that was easy to find. There’s a group of us queer people who always sit together at church and we often make jokes about the queer section we’ve established. It’s been a healing and restorative thing, being able to bring every part of me to church without hiding anything; I wish there were more churches like that. I’ve only experienced a little bit of the gay nightlife here, but it’s been more than welcoming. From my work place to walking around town, I never feel threatened or the need to hide my sexuality. I feel like I can be myself everywhere I go.

I didn’t always feel so empowered. I grew up going to Catholic school in the Midwest. When I told my parents I would be attending a demonstration for gay rights at the Kansas State House, my mother–she’s Italian–she grabbed the kitchen counter and burst into tears, repeating, “I just want to have grandchildren.” I was fourteen. Coming out, then, seemed impossible. It would be a part of myself that I would keep hidden, I figured.

I was lucky, though, because it was at my all-boys Catholic high school that I met my best friends: the Gay Lunch Table, we called ourselves. We were young and in this ostensibly repressive environment, but it never felt like that when we were together. We had our own lingo; we made each other laugh. If anyone ever tried to give us trouble, we made a game of it, coming up with unapologetically effeminate ways to make them uncomfortable. We felt tough, and not in spite of our homosexuality, but because of it.

I choose that term because it feels more inclusive and allows me to connect with many other folks in the community going through vastly different experiences, but also because I believe it’s versatility is powerful. Queerness gives me the reigns of my own identity — rather than being defined for me by politics or other peoples perceptions. It’s something that always rests in my own hands, and can be molded to serve a better me at any time. Like a lot of folks in my generation (maybe), I feel a freedom in my queerdom, not unlike a talisman or amulet of sorts.

This image of power and even magic contained with queer identity is something I’ve carried with me since coming out as a teenager. Early on I was very taken with the Native American (My grandfather was born in the Navajo reservation) term Two-Spirit. I liked it immediately because it seemed to suit me. It allowed for how I could dream of myself as a mother, express myself with a softness and emotional intelligence, and also be comfortable in my body. I generally refrain from using words like masculine or feminine, because I don’t think they exist, and question their role in how we define ourselves. But in those limited terms, I have always connected with both, and feel incredibly blessed to be queer so that I can dance between them without any self-doubt.

Of course, the years I’ve spent “out”, could be measured in degrees of how comfortable I am in that very thing. It can be challenging to know if one’s limits are self-defined or made by society. Am I disinclined to wear a dress because it isn’t in me? Or is it out of fear? In those instances lately, I’ve been choosing to do it anyway and evaluate afterward. Charge into the fear, as my roommate puts it.

Queer as I am now, I first came out as gay, though not quite in the traditional (if coming out can be seen as traditional?) sense.

I was lucky enough for my parents to find some incriminating evidence (**cough** porn) on my laptop when I was about twelve, and so I was thankfully spared having to come out to my entire Christian family and church for that matter. Looking back, I can safely say it didn’t go well. Having to answer questions of faith and heaven and hell (neither of which I believe in) early on, was far from fun and nothing I would have chosen for myself. The upside was that going through it all relatively young, allowed me at seventeen to casually say to friends “oh yeah, this is my boyfriend so-and-so.” I trusted that they could fill in the blanks for themselves. I had no interest in self-identifying myself for anyone and still don’t to this day. But I make a point of being open about my life — which includes my relationships and even sexual experiences — at all times.

This is relatively easy I’d say in Portland, so I am extremely grateful for that, knowing that in most of the world this is not the case. Though it’s true, Portland very much still lacks in diversity in terms of color, I can’t really say I’ve lacked for a moment queer connection of all sorts. I moved here just two years ago (new years day 2015) and it’s the first time in my life that I struggle to think of one friend in my personal life that isn’t queer in some way. Which is surprising to me, given that I spent the last decade in San Francisco. I’m not sure why it is but Portland to me has held a welcome sign for me that no other city’s queer community has.