Browsing: Here’s My Story

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by Jon King
Over the summer, I found a group of friends. None of them seemed to like each other much, but they were united in sleeping with me. I was a sure thing. If they asked me to sleep with them, the word no would not leave my mouth. This was my summer life: days as a cobbler, nights as a clubber…

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By Chenoa Rai
A Black boy feeling like a woman and wanting to live as one: where was this acceptable? Definitely not in my world, and I didn’t have the language to properly express who I was. The only trans representation I had came from Jerry Springer, who did more to exploit trans women than to humanize them.

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by Ty Bo Yule
I hadn’t planned on transitioning at Harvard. No one would choose to invite puberty to graduate school, but I probably wouldn’t have finished my degree if I hadn’t…

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by Phil Tarley
In 1970, I met Michael Feigh in San Francisco and he quickly became my pimp. My English boyfriend introduced us when we were hippies living near Haight-Ashbury. I was nineteen…

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by Terry Wolverton
It’s been said that a thing does not exist until you have a name for it. When I was growing up in Detroit in the ’60s, no one I knew was talking about lesbians…

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by Walter Meyer
Suicide, rightly or wrongly, feels preventable. If I had listened better, been a better friend, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Bill’s death by suicide haunted me so badly that I couldn’t bear to think about him without it causing days of depression.

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by Walter Holland
In 1996, I was on the beach at Fire Island Pines. It was an exquisite summer day, and the sea was dazzling. But the beauty of the day belied the reality underneath: The Pines had become one of the epicenters of the HIV/AIDS epidemic…

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by Charlie Ceates
I technically have two coming out stories: coming out at school and coming out to my family. I’m grateful that I have more than one, because the former is a bitter memory…that I rarely revisit, even though it taught me a valuable lesson regarding trust. Luckily, I also have the memory of what it was like coming out to my family…

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by Emily L. Quint Freeman
One May night in 1969, along with seventeen others, I broke into the Selective Service office in Chicago’s South Side. We stuffed over 40,000 draft records into sacks, dragged them to the adjacent parking lot and set them on fire…

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by Jennifer Perrine
The Ramblers’ square dance lessons began with a question that might have proved daunting in another environment: Boy or Girl? Despite being nonbinary, I almost always default to “girl” when these are the only two options presented, a defensive habit meant to put other people at ease, but the other dancers made it clear my answer would in no way reflect on my gender…

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