Will Wilhelm’s Coming Out Story

When I came out the first time, I was in college. The majority of reactions were small smirks or eye rolls. As if to say, “I could have told you that” or “well, it’s about time.” Most of the people who had those responses aren’t in my life much any more.

My true friends were the ones that gently gave me the space to work through it and let me ask for help or comfort on my own schedule – when the moment was right for me. Sure, they’d known just as well as everyone else, but they graciously stepped back until I felt ready to catch up. If they felt any exasperation, they held it inside skillfully.

“I think your life is going to be so hard”

When I had my first boyfriend, I knew it was time to tell my mother. On a break from school, I visited my hometown. I told her in the car on the way to eat breakfast at a nearby restaurant. I’ll never forget the words she said to me: “I would never wish this on you. I think your life is going to be so hard.” She told me she loved me, and I believed her. That didn’t stop the tears, though.

We spent the whole meal looking at each other across the booth and crying, hardly saying a word. The poor server had no idea what the hell was going on. We ate some omelettes as quickly as we could and not much more was said for a while. She didn’t know what to say and neither did I. What I know now (and she does too because I’ve told her) is that my mom couldn’t have been more wrong.

Coming out to myself as a queer person was the first thing that gave my life bona fide meaning, the first avenue I’d found to true happiness. Of course, I don’t fault my mother for her reaction. She was speaking from her experience and all she wanted was to protect me.

I was much more afraid to come out to my father. So much so that it took more than another year before I had worked up the courage. We were watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (too on the nose?), and I was about to head out for a summer internship the next morning. He was the last person in my family I had admitted it to, and I knew it was time.

“Isn’t it strange that the affirming response is the one that’s hazy?”

Braced for his disappointment and anger, my dad surprised me. He stood up and hugged me. I can’t remember his exact verbiage, but he said something to the effect of: “I’d love you just the same if your eyes were blue.” Isn’t it strange that the affirming response is the one that’s hazy?

As a non-binary adult, I come out all the time. Every day. My family, many of my friends, and a myriad of coworkers and strangers react with well-meaning confusion. They just don’t have a reference point for what that means or what I’m asking for. Pronouns come easy for some and very slowly for most. Anyone in my life who addresses me directly or references me indirectly is someone I need to come out to. More often than not, a simple “I’m non-binary and ask that you use they/them pronouns” doesn’t change anything.

Most people I come into contact with understand the concept of a very particular notion of transness that goes like this: “I was assigned a [male/female] gender at birth by the medical community. I have always known that was incorrect and now, with the help of the medical community, I have undergone [surgery/hormone treatments/therapy] and changed my name. Now I can live as my true self: the [woman/man] I was always meant to be.”

“people just don’t really know what I’m talking about most of the time”

It’s a very important story, and one that I have watched many of my friends go through. It’s not the only trans story, though. Because there isn’t as much of a mainstream presence of gender diversity (e.g. non-binary, genderqueer, and gender non-confirming identities), I find that people just don’t really know what I’m talking about most of the time. When I talk about my queerness, most folks assume I’m talking about my sexual orientation. I understand (and share) the political motives that propel us to claim space for any culturally oppressed minority group.

However, at the end of the day, I don’t think that my sexuality is really anyone’s business. What I am trying to communicate to everyone in my spheres is my gender identity. Included in that is a set of cultural norms that dictate how I’d like the people around me to treat me and, perhaps more importantly, how I’d like them to not treat me.

I’d love for my coming out story to be complete by now. I recognize that accomplishing that goal would necessitate a culture-wide shift in perspective. So, for the meantime, I hope to be one of many catalysts for that change.