by Chely Wright
I couldn’t really say, “Hey, I think I’ll head out your way the day after Christmas because I want to spend Christmas Day with my partner.” I was no different from my siblings—I had a partner too. We had a home together, and she had a family that we would have liked to have visited.
I was hurt that Chris never acknowledged that I had shown up for my family even though I had other choices of how to spend my time—and what that must’ve been like for me.
For more than three years after I told Chris that I was gay, we carried on as if nothing had happened, talking on the phone occasionally (albeit less frequently than usual, which made me feel a little rejected). He wouldn’t ask me how I was, and I would mostly inquire about him and ask how his family was.
Recently I called my brother, thinking I would get his voice-mail, and instead he picked up. We each gave our usual friendly greeting, and then I cut to the point.
I was calling to ask him if he’d consider being interviewed for a documentary being made about my coming out.
“Chris, the filmmakers want to know if you’d be willing to sit down and talk to them on camera. I was sure you’d say no, but I figured I’d better let you make that decision. I love you, and I care about what you have to say. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.”
“Well, it depends on what you want me to say.”
“I want you to be honest,” I said to him. “And if they ask you something you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to answer.”
I was on Lexington Avenue in New York City. The traffic was loud as it rumbled by me. I had the cell phone pressed tightly to my ear and was just steps from the train. I was just about to tell Chris I’d have to call him later, and we could discuss it then.
“Sis,” Chris said, “I don’t think you know how much I love you and support you.”
My eyes filled up with tears. It was the first time he had said anything like that to me since I’d told him I was gay. Chris is a Master Sergeant in the Marines, and he is tough as nails. He had always been unable to go beyond our customary telephone salutation of “I love you too.” This discussion about my homosexuality—and his declaration of his love and support for me—was different. Hearing my brother say those words made me feel happy and hopeful.
“Wow, Chris, that makes me cry. I didn’t know.”
“Have them call me,” he said. “I’d love to be involved.”
We both said good-bye and hung up.
Where Do I Fit In?
I’m willing to fight for myself and to live an honest and fully realized life, but I still have a lot to learn. Trying to find my place in the gay community is enough to make my head spin at times.
I had heard about Gay Pride events for years from my gay friends. They’d told me how magical it was to be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people who are different, like you.
On June 30, 2008, I attended the Gay Pride Parade in New York City. My friends were excited to show me around for the first time. We left my apartment in Chelsea and headed downtown to Fifteenth and Fifth to another friend’s apartment.
A block away from our first glimpse of the parade I couldn’t believe the rumble and the roar I was hearing. I’m no stranger to large gatherings of people, but for some reason I was shocked at the thousands of people lining the streets on both sides up and down Fifth Avenue—people of all ages and of every ethnicity imaginable. For the first thirty minutes or so, as we stood on the sidewalk doing our best to peek around the shoulders and heads in front of us, I saw marchers and floats. Most of the floats were clearly marked, identifying their group, and I was astonished that all of these people had somehow found one another and decided to make a float.
I saw BUTCH LESBIANS written on a sign, and sure enough, about fifty women fitting that description walked together with a purpose and with visible comfort. There was an ornate and colorful float announcing the “Drag Queens of Detroit.” There were scores of musicians playing at high volume strategically placed in the parade so that when the sounds of one group would start to fade, those of another would become audible.
I had wondered the night before the parade and all day leading up to it if I would be emotionally moved by what I would see. In the first half hour of the parade, although it was entertaining and exciting to see, it wasn’t an emotional experience for me. Then Chuck nudged my elbow and said, “Here comes the PFLAG* float.” I stretched my neck as far as I could and saw about a hundred people walking arm in arm. They had signs written on poster board and stapled to tall wooden slats, T-shirts with individual messages stenciled across them, and even a few signs with no wooden post or poll.
Some marching in the PFLAG group held both arms up over their heads, hoisting their signs with overwhelming commitment. As I read the words of their signs, I began to cry. PFLAG: WE LOVE OUR CHILDREN JUST AS THEY ARE. MY DAUGHTER IS A LESBIAN AND SHE IS TEACHING ME ABOUT LOVE. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY SON. As I read the heartfelt messages, I thought about my dad and wondered if he would walk out in that street for me. I thought about my aunt Char and how, shortly after I came out to her, she asked me what books she should purchase. I thought about my mother, in whom I hadn’t confided, and wondered if I would ever see her holding a sign for me.
As I watched the parade, I searched and searched for the group where I’d fit in, but I never saw my group. I fast-forwarded to next year’s Gay Pride event and tried to imagine myself marching in the parade. What would my float say? GAY COUNTRY SINGERS?
I had this notion that if I attended this Gay Pride event I’d feel at home, like I finally belonged. But I didn’t. Perhaps once I’ve come out, I will find my place.
* Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays
Hate Crimes Are Down?
Looking back at my school days in Kansas, I can’t help but wonder how much worse I would have been treated had my tormentors known I was a lesbian. I know that for many gay children and teens—especially those who cannot or don’t hide their sexuality—school can be a nightmare.
When I have discussed harassment and violence against gays, I’ve found that many believe hate crimes to be a thing of the past. And when I hear that, I think of Matthew Shepard, who was tortured and murdered in 1998 by two young men who hated and feared him simply because of his sexuality. I think of Lawrence King, a fifteen-year-old boy murdered by a classmate in Oxnard, California, in 2008 because he made the mistake of giving his killer a Valentine’s Day card.
When you grow up gay, you fear that others will strike out at you simply because of who you are. The intent behind bullying and more horrifying acts of violence against gays is the same: to make sure the victims know that they need to lay low, keep silent, and above all realize that they’ll never be accepted because they are defective and have no place in society. For many young people, that rejection is too much to bear and they turn to suicide. Even if the hater isn’t the one to swing the bat or pull the trigger, it’s still a hate crime. Even if the hater gets the victim to do his dirty work by committing suicide, it’s murder just the same. When a gay child commits suicide because society cannot bear his existence, I believe it is a hate crime.
When a gay teenager slips into depression or drug addiction because she has been conditioned to hate herself, who’s to blame? She grows tired of trying to numb herself with drugs and alcohol, and she knows that she’s never going to be able to change the fact that she’s gay—so she takes her own life. Then when people hear about her death, will they say, “Oh, she was a mess. She was strung out on drugs. She was a real screwup”? We may not hear about it as the top story on the six o’clock news, that another hate crime against a homosexual has taken place, but it has and it does.
I don’t like bullies. I never have. It hurts me when I’m picked on, and when I see others being picked on, it stirs a lot of emotion in me. It’s not funny or clever to pick on someone—it is mean and it’s wrong.
I got picked on at different times in school for many reason
s. My sister was picked on because she was overweight; my brother was bullied because he was not quick to swing a fist—we were all made to feel like we didn’t belong.
Exclusion from others causes pain, and it can be as dangerous and damaging to a person as getting a bullet in the heart or being shoved headfirst into a toilet in the locker room while the attackers laugh and slap high fives. “You’re not one of us. You don’t belong. We don’t like you. You’re not good enough. There is something wrong with you, and there is nothing wrong with us.”
That feeling I had in fourth grade when Mrs. Lawyer encouraged me to do the right thing—to defend the innocent—hasn’t faded much. I felt a relief when I sat on those stairs with Mrs. Lawyer and told the truth in the name of justice.
I feel a familiar relief about coming out and telling my story.
Turning the Page
Moving to New York was a big change for me. It is a place where I can be myself—eventually. This city is one of the most diverse places on earth, and it is much easier to blend in here than anywhere I’ve ever lived. That being said, I haven’t quite turned the page. I’m not living openly as a gay woman here yet.
I’ve never really had the opportunity to date women. I have a close friend who suggested that since I could blend in here, I should go to a lesbian bar. Although I do get recognized in New York on occasion, I was confident that I could go to a lesbian bar and not be noticed.
The week I moved here, my sister, Jeny, was with me, and we took a break from painting and cleaning my new apartment to have a little fun. We met up with Chuck and we went to have a drink at a lesbian bar in the Village, just to see what it was like.
We sat in the back corner observing the women in the bar. A jukebox hanging on the wall displayed a photograph of the artists as their music was played. Chuck went over to see what kind of music was available. A minute or so later, he walked back to our table and said, “Chels, they’ve got all of your records on the jukebox.” As he sat down, one of my songs, “Jezebel,” began to play.
As soon as it started, several of the twenty girls in the bar shouted out, “Yeah! I love this song!” and started to move in their seats. They knew the song and they knew me. I got up and walked out the door. Jeny and Chuck didn’t understand why I got anxious. I tried to explain to them that being in a lesbian bar and being recognized was not funny to me. It’s going to take some time for me to feel comfortable in my new life.
I’m not suggesting that everyone in Nashville will be shocked to know the truth about my sexuality, but they’ll probably be shocked that I’m telling the world.
After I come out, there will be no shortage of people who will say, “Oh, I knew that. People have said that about Chely for years. We all knew that.” I can assure you that thinking and knowing are two different things. And telling the world is in a league of its own.
As I have mentioned several times in this book, a compelling motivation for me to come forward is to comfort young people as they come to realize and deal with the fact that they are gay.
If that’s you, hear my story. I want you to know that you are not sick and you are not alone.
I look forward to speaking to young people—gay and straight—to their parents and their loved ones to help further understanding of what it’s like to face a society that largely condemns homosexuality.
There are still horrific acts of violence being perpetrated against gay people, and those atrocities should be a wake-up call to those who feel unsympathetic or disconnected to the suffering of any minority group. Our society simply cannot allow ignorance and hate to be acted upon. Physical, emotional, social, and religious crimes are committed against minorities every single day—at work, at school, while trying to hail a cab, or while walking down the street. You may think that you’re not a minority so you don’t have to worry. You might want to think about that again with a bit more examination. Are you, in any way, a minority? And if you think you’re not, you’re lucky. If that’s you, what will you say to those of us who are minorities and need an ally? Will you turn away or will you stand up for someone in need?
I hear the word “tolerance”—that some people are trying to teach people to be tolerant of gays. I’m not satisfied with that word. I am gay, and I am not seeking to be “tolerated.” One tolerates a toothache, rush-hour traffic, an annoying neighbor with a cluttered yard. I am not a negative to be tolerated, and I don’t think that other minority groups would feel comforted and equal to hear leaders of the general public self-righteously proclaim that “we” should “tolerate them.” That’s not equality.
I have noticed that when other well-known people in entertainment come out of the closet, they do sometimes enjoy a certain overwhelming acceptance. I think it’s good when those who have come out say in interviews that they can’t believe how much support they have received from their peers, from the press, and from their fans. I have no doubt that the support is real, but I can’t help but think of the people they didn’t hear from.
For the most part, I believe that those who don’t approve are less likely to come forward and say so. Perhaps it’s the private, secret disdain and hatred that are the most dangerous. Generations of clandestine haters have done their most effective work cloaked in white sheets, without a single public statement—allowing them to remain nameless and faceless. That’s what scares me the most.
I consider myself lucky to have people in my life who have accepted me and cradled me in support. My dad’s response upon learning that I was gay was shocking and inspiring to me. I’m not saying that he understands it or that he is “cool” with it, but every time we talk he makes sure to tell me that he is proud of me and that this experience has forced him to think.
Not too long ago he told me that he thought he knew what “gay” was and that it represented sinfulness, deviance, promiscuity, and a lack of goodness. After I came out to him in that Midwestern hotel room, he had to reconsider what “gay” is; he knew that I didn’t fit into his old definition of the word. I am proud of my dad, and I am thankful for him.
Since my aunt Char and my sister, Jeny, found out, they have each sought education about homosexuality through books, articles, and documentary films. I don’t tell them what to believe and what not to believe. I simply encourage them to continue listening and to use their hearts and their minds. Their love and support mean everything to me.
Learning to Say Good-bye
It would be wrong to blame my breakup with Julia on John Rich—he was merely the catalyst. The real killer was my hiding.
I have never loved anyone the way I loved Julia. Even writing her name causes old feelings to be stirred up. I ask myself if things would have been different had I been able to stand up and openly declare my love for her. But I didn’t stand up. Too much was at stake, and I lost the only thing that mattered to me.
I still dream of Julia—dreams that feel so real, that’s what makes them so painful.
I see us walking in Radnor Park in the fall. We’re side by side as we walk through the blanket of gold-and rust-colored leaves. Occasionally I have to adjust my step to slow down for her, because my legs are longer than hers. Walking together was something we became good at over the years, and it was as much a part of our being a couple as finishing one another’s sentences or making love—moving together along paths, sidewalks, and trails as one. I knew her stride and she knew mine.
In the dream, we’re walking. I look over and see her profile, the familiar lines of her chin and her nose, the way her bangs brush her brow, and I think to myself that she’s even prettier than the day I met her. She became more attractive to me as the years went by, and when I see her in my sleep, she’s beautiful.
In February 2002 I gave Julia a ring. I’d given her jewelry before, but this ring signified something more; it meant forever. She and I had been through the toughest of times, and even though I didn’t know exactly how we would manage the complexities of staying together while continuing to hide in the closet
, I knew that I couldn’t stand the thought of being without her. As I shopped for months to find the perfect ring, I spent a lot of time thinking about what that ring would mean to us.
I was nervous about taking the step, but I assumed that uncertainty and anxiety were likely the same in heterosexual couples at the crossroads of commitment. I relaxed and went with my heart.
It was Valentine’s Day and we were upstairs on the floor of the guest bedroom, playing with our dogs, as we did most evenings after we got home from our workdays. The bedroom was carpeted, and the dogs preferred playing up there because they could get traction to run. Knowing that we’d end up in that spot, I had placed the gift-wrapped ring in the top drawer of the bedside nightstand.
My insides were shaking, and just when I couldn’t take it any longer, I said, “Close your eyes.” She resisted and asked why—reminding me that our date the night before had been our Valentine’s Day gift to each other and that if I’d gone ahead and gotten her a gift, she was going to feel bad because she had stuck to our pact and didn’t buy me one. I convinced her to close her eyes, and I gently put the small silver box with the little red bow in the palm of her hand. She opened her eyes and knew instantly what I had done. Perhaps she flashed back to the months before, to the times I had steered her by a few jewelry stores and casually taken note of what she liked and didn’t like.
Julia slowly peeled the paper off the box, took the smaller blue box in her hands, and opened the lid. “I love it,” she said. She put it on her finger and extended her arm out in front of her, tipped her head to one side, squinted her eyes ever so slightly, admired her gift, and smiled. Then I handed her the card that I had carefully chosen, and she read what I’d written inside.