Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men from the Rural Midwest (39 page)

Kevin came into the living room shirtless, wearing tattered, snug-fitting jeans. He usually worked shirtless and always wore long pants. He was a little taller than I, very slim and muscular, blonde hair, blue eyes, and very tan. He kicked off his boots, pulled off his socks, and reclined on the couch to watch TV. This was my first chance to talk to him. Seeing that he was interested in farming, I geared my conversation to that. How was the work? Was it pretty hot? How were the bushels running? Kevin seemed to pay pretty close attention to me and made good eye contact, so I went home fantasizing about how wonderful our conversation was, and hoping we would meet again.

A few weeks later I had built up a bit of nerve to ride my bike to Kevin’s place and invite him over to my farm. Much to my surprise, he said, “Sure, let’s get together tomorrow.” I had our date all planned. I needed to get Kevin upstairs to my room so my mother wouldn’t be able to horn in and become the focus of conversation. The next day, waiting for his arrival, I cleaned up my room, getting everything as spotless as I could. I dusted my dressers and even refolded all the clothes inside. I planned a menu of finger foods—crackers and Cheez Whiz, popcorn, and a selection of soft drinks. I had a phonograph, and wondered what kind of music Kevin would like. I had David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and one country-western record.

Trying to figure out what to wear, I went through four or five changes of clothes. I settled on a newer pair of jeans and a nice shirt, but not too dressy. We had a long driveway and I sat on the front steps of the house watching each car go by. Finally, Kevin turned into the driveway and I felt faint. I didn’t know what to do—should I run out and meet the car, or sit casually on the steps and look macho, farmer-like?

After Kevin and I had talked in the driveway for ten or fifteen minutes, my parents came out of the house and we visited with them for a short time. In order to break away from them, I invited Kevin to go for a walk around our farm. We had just built a new farrowing barn, my father’s pride. I explained all about the stainless steel pens and the slat floors, and the whole process from breeding to farrowing to working with the feeder pigs. Kevin was quite taken by this new building, so I showed him some of our other farm buildings and we walked through some fields.

After an hour or two of looking around, Kevin said it was about time for him to get home. That was not my plan, so I suggested we go up to my room to listen to some records. We sat cross-legged on the floor, the hors d’oeuvres on the floor next to us. My emotions were running very high, but I tried the best I could to make eye contact with him. When I put on a David Cassidy record, I said, “You might not like this,” but he said he was a Partridge Family fan, too. In no way did he mock or tease me. He ate my munchies and listened to my records and we had a good time. I wanted him to really like me and to come back a second time.

There was an electric energy. I wanted Kevin to touch me and to hold me, and I wanted to touch him. I was really thirsting for that kind of attention and affection from another male, but I didn’t know if it was appropriate or how to get it. I was certainly drawn to how Kevin’s jeans fit him, but I think what I really wanted was his attention and validation— for him to see me as a male on an equal level with him. When it was time for Kevin to leave, I walked him out to his car and told him how much I had enjoyed the evening and that I would like to do it again. We never did, but there has always been a fondness in my heart for Kevin and my first date with a man.

Feeding the Calf,
by Jeff Kopseng, based on a photo courtesy of Gary Christiansen

THIS ERA SAW
major mass-media attention to homosexuality, in print and on television. Sergeant Leonard Matlovich’s discharge from the Air Force after he made it known that he was gay became a
Time
magazine cover story in 1975. Superimposed on the cover photograph of Matlovich in uniform were the words, “I Am a Homosexual,” in large, bold type. In addition to detailing Matlovich’s case against the military, the article described “the gay drive for acceptance” and America’s response to gay people coming out of the closet. It provided a snapshot of urban gay culture, the diversity of gay lifestyles, as well as legal, medical, and religious perspectives.
Time
concluded that civil rights protections for homosexuals made sense, but that the “anything goes” attitude that fostered tolerance of homosexuality threatened our society’s well-being.
¹

The main event of the decade was Anita Bryant’s 1977 campaign to “save our children” by repealing a county gay rights ordinance in Florida. Her efforts and the reactions they provoked generated unprecedented discussion, debate, and gay community organization nationwide. In Rhode Island, Aaron Fricke’s determination to take his boyfriend to the high school prom generated nationwide publicity in 1980. Several major-studio movies with strong gay and lesbian images appeared in 1982, including
Making Love, Personal Best,
and
Victor/Victoria.
Also in 1982, Wisconsin became the first state in the U.S. to institute a wide-reaching gay rights law. This period also saw the election or appointment of many openly gay and lesbian individuals to local, state and national offices. By the mid-1980s, AIDS had become a powerful force for gay visibility in the mass media. This was exemplified by the jolting announcement in 1985 that actor Rock Hudson had AIDS.
²

Meanwhile, at the library or bookstore, farm boys in search of themselves might have happened upon Patricia Nell Warren’s gay-positive novels,
The Front Runner
;
³
The Fancy Dancer;
⁴
or
The Beauty Queen
⁵
In addition, James Kirkwood’s
Some Kind of Hero,
⁶
Andrew Holleran’s
Dancer from the Dance,
⁷
and Armistead Maupin’s
Tales of the City
⁸
presented homosexuality in a way mass-market publishers had never done before. Also appearing were informational books about being gay, some written for gay men and lesbians, others for their parents, other family members, and friends seeking understanding.

For many of the men whose stories are presented here, coming of age between the mid-1970s and the mid-1980s meant that they would come to grips with being gay between their teens and mid-twenties. Very few of them would marry, and these marriages would be short-lived. “It took me till I was twenty-five,” Rick Noss lamented. “I wish I had come out when I was younger.” Yet many men only fifteen to twenty years older than Rick would have considered themselves fortunate to have been able, in their twenties, to figure things out and proceed forthrightly to continue creating their lives as gay men.

These younger men were generally more inclined than those who went before them to inform their parents and other family members that they were gay. In many cases this revelation was provoked rather than self-initiated, but in all of these cases the response was a matter-of-fact statement of being gay. “When I realized I was gay, I didn’t try to run and hide from it,” said Gary Christiansen, who sent a coming-out letter to his parents and siblings when he was twenty-five. “Even though I knew my parents weren’t going to like it, I knew that was just the way it was.”

Those who were not open with their families about being gay seemed to be in unspoken but mutually “agreed-upon” standoffs on the issue. Todd Ruhter: “I’m sure [my parents] probably have a good idea, especially as I get older and I’m not marrying, but they don’t bug me about it. ... As long as they don’t actually know it, it’s not real.” Connie Sanders: “I suspect that on some level everybody in the family has an inkling. My parents are probably doing major denial.” Richard Hopkins: “How can they not know I’m gay?” None of these men was attempting to camouflage his life in order to appear to be heterosexual; they simply had not yet taken a proactive approach to revealing their homosexuality. That they intended to do so someday was often apparent. Unlike those who had been gay farm boys before them, these men were more likely to be empowered by a sense of gay community and by being able to envision and create a more open, mainstream gay identity for themselves.

David Campbell plans to move back to the country, in pursuit of the large garden, animals, and isolation that city life does not allow. For Jahred Boyd and Steve Gay, country life is already a reality. Rick Noss describes his strong sense of belonging—both in Omaha’s gay community and back home on his parents’ farm. After years of “lies and lies and lies,” Richard Hopkins contemplates telling his parents that he is gay and HIV-positive. Lon Mickelsen describes his ongoing task of reshaping a life of approval-seeking conformity into something more healthy and fulfilling. As the wounds of a defiant and abuse-filled childhood continue to heal, Steven Preston finds fulfillment in hobby-farming with his husband.

Connie Sanders ruminates on the incongruity of the southern Illinois farm culture of his boyhood and the gay culture of his Chicago community. After years of striving to be a parent-pleasing son, Ken Yliniemi credits his ex-wife with helping him develop the stronger self-identity that led to his coming out. Randy Fleer and Clark Williams reflect on the influence of anonymous sex in their lives. Joe Shulka embraces gay activism, both in Minneapolis and in his hometown, while maintaining close ties with his family. For Todd Ruhter, being openly gay is incompatible with the family and hometown ties that are so important to him.

1.
“Gays on the March.”
Time:
September 8, 1975, pp. 32-37, 43.

2.
Events of 1977 to 1985 described in
The Alyson Almanac.
1990. Boston: Alyson Publications, pp. 35-41.

3.
Patricia Nell Warren. 1974.
The Front Runner.
New York: Morrow.

4.
Patricia Nell Warren. 1976.
The Fancy Dancer.
New York: Morrow.

5.
Patricia Nell Warren. 1978.
The Beauty Queen.
New York: Morrow.

6.
James Kirkwood. 1976.
Some Kind of Hero.
New York: New American Library.

7.
Andrew Holleran. 1978.
Dancer from the Dance.
New York: Morrow

8.
Armistead Maupin. 1978.
Tales of the City.
New York: Harper and Row.

David was born in 1958 and grew up on a farm in central Ohio, with two brothers, one older and one younger. He lives in the Columbus, Ohio, area where he is co-owner of a floral business.

ANYBODY WHO KNOWS me knows I’m a mommy’s boy. Sometimes I rebelled against what she’d tell me, and we fought, but for the most part it was a good, close relationship. My mother always had a large vegetable garden, and flower gardens, and I was always so happy to be out there helping her. I preferred doing that over some of the other things that had to be done. One year I had chicken pox when she was planting the garden. I stood at the kitchen window, watching her and crying because I couldn’t go out there.

I know my daddy loved all three of us and my mom. He was a big, handsome man, very nice, always working and very involved in the community. He was on the library board and the county board, and we were all very involved in the Methodist church where he was a lay minister. He loved watching Ohio State basketball games at night, and when I’d hear him cheering I wanted to be out there watching TV with him. But we had to be in bed at 9:00.

Until my father died when I was nine, we farmed about eight hundred acres and had about one hundred head of Holstein dairy cattle. Except for one hundred acres and a few head of cattle, my mother sold our share of the farm to my uncle and grandfather who had been in partnership with my father. We farmed that hundred acres and raised a few steers for our own use and to make a little money. My brothers were more involved with the equipment and the plowing and planting, and I was more involved with feeding the livestock.

The night my father died, my aunt was staying with us at the house and my uncle had taken my mom to the hospital. My father had a brain tumor and had been hospitalized for a couple of months. He was thirty-four and my mom was two or three years younger. I looked out the bedroom window and saw my uncle basically carrying my mom into the house. She was devastated, but she came in and talked to us. In a way, his death made us
all a little stronger, and it made us very aware of money. We never wanted for anything, but we never had a lot. Everybody pitched in at the house— cooked and did dishes and the laundry. I cooked more than my brothers did because I enjoyed it, and Mom relied on me to do that.

In high school I weighed 285 pounds, so I wasn’t involved in sports at all. I was too big to play anything other than football, and I was really too fat to play that. I was class officer, Future Farmers of America president, band president, on the student council. My brother was an officer in FFA, and I was expected to follow in his footsteps, as he was expected to follow in my father’s and uncle’s footsteps. A lot of things were expected of us in a fairly small community, and in a family where everyone was always involved in the community and the church.