Coming Out in Mormon Heartland pt. 4 The Aftermath

 

After putting the message up, I baptized myself in Disney movies. I remember the sequence went Tarzan, The Little Mermaid, Toy Story 2, Ratatouille. 4:32 in the morning and I’m still not tired, but I bury myself in my blankets anyways.

By way of total coincidence, I’d needed to reboot my Facebook account only about a month prior to this, which meant I had to rebuild my contacts. It also meant the algorithm wasn’t particularly kind to me, and so my post was just going to be buried. Not a lot of people found my message right off, which is not how I envisioned this happening at all. I would be getting comments on my post for nearly two weeks after the news broke as it trickled out.

My message includes the disclosure that I would be stepping away from social media as a mental health precaution. That didn’t stop a lot of people from reaching out to me anyway.

            It was nearly a week after my post went up, just after I got home from church, that I got a phone call from an uncle. This was a guy I’d always been particularly close to. He was the one who took me through the temple to receive my endowments after my dad passed away some years before.

He is also one of the only men in my life who I have never been afraid to hug. Even years after my dad’s passing, when all the other volunteer inserts had retreated, this uncle still calls me spontaneously.

But I know that he and I also did not vote for the same guy in the last election.

I know he would never do anything to injure me, but my worries are never that far from JOE, who had managed to convince himself that sowing a continental divide between us somehow worked for my ultimate benefit. He’d left me on the ground clutching my bruising gut with the promise that I’d understand one day. I was prepared for a lot of that.

I got home from Church that Sunday when I got his phone call. He told me that he had just seen my Facebook post. I joked with him, “Oh? The one about the guy who invented pop-rocks?” ("Sugar is not enough—it must also detonate")

I listened as he told me that he always thought I was a special kid. He told me that I am always welcome to go with him to Disneyland, that even if I did have a boyfriend, he’d invite him too. He says, “I love you, Zach,” I say, “I love you too,” and I let him hang up.

The Ward Christmas party was that Friday. Somewhere in the range of five or six people, past and current Ward leadership mostly, would come up to me to tell me they loved what I had to say. But most people just asked me what I was doing for the holidays.        

But the scene is mostly … unchanged.

Jaws (1975)

In the wake of all this, I think of JOE. JOE, who had been the first person I really felt at home with. JOE, who I considered to be the template on whom I modeled my own brand of kindness. JOE, who had allowed me to feel so broken. JOE, whose wife had made me feel toxic. Radioactive.

To this day, I still don't know what was in JOE's heart, or his wife's, when they took the actions they did. I don't actually have any hard evidence that it had anything to do with me having same-sex attraction. Just the paralyzing fear that this would keep me from ever knowing true closeness. I have absolutely no idea how accurate or distorted my read of the situation has been.

But either way, I'm at a place where I don't feel living resentment toward these two. I feel tremendous frustration with the situation, and I wish someone on their end had found a different means for communicating their concerns, whether or not their stated concerns represented their lived truth. But neither can I fault them for stumbling through a situation that must have been tumultuous and confusing on their end too. But I also don't see myself as having "deserved" what I got through some selfish or foolheaded attempt to find connection with someone who made the most vulnerable time of my life feel less frightening.

I have long accepted that the status of that relationship is not up to me. And I’ve learned to live with the grief that the withdrawal of that connection caused me. But even now, I’m not beyond imagining that I might someday be in a position to explain to him, in person, the reality of my feelings for him. Partly to explain what it did for me to reject me the way he did, but maybe also to explain what it did for a kid who didn’t think he belonged anywhere to feel like he belonged next to someone like him, even if the relationship was ephemeral. Ten years since I last saw JOE, and that time has not eroded that imagination in me. I don’t think any sum of it ever will. 

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed ..." Wicked: For Good (2025)

After dropping the curtain, I get to reconcile with the reality that I was not canceled. I was not struck by lightning. Now the real work begins.

I met with bishop that Sunday (I needed to get my recommend renewed anyway) and I gave him my proposal: I’d like the opportunity to address the ward and tell them my story. Let the wider membership know a little about what it’s like to live with same-gender attraction. He agreed, which was good because I had already started drafting.

The specifics of the outline morphed a little. Ten minutes is about all they can afford for a Sacrament talk, and I told them I’d really like more. Can they just give me the podium for the whole hour? Surely this congregation is not vying for spots to offer Sacrament talks?

After pestering the bishopric for a time, they let me know that they were going to allow me to share my experience during a fifth Sunday lesson. March was the next window, but alas, Easter … So they dropped me at the end of June instead.

I ended up having six months to craft my message. During that time, the exact specifications morphed. Still, many of my main points, and at least a few of those original jokes, survived to performance day.  

            Anyone who knew my secret before the post went up was invited. Some could make it. Some couldn’t. I hoped that a lot of my friends from the ward are there. Mostly, I hoped that the closeted members are there. I hoped that those with gay kids they’re struggling to relate to are there.

            It begins:

BELLE (2021) Suzu makes herself vulnerable before the entire digital world if it means the one person who needs to hear her message will find it

I turn on my heel, rubbing my palms together, arching my eyebrow and giving my best Rod Serling voice saying, “You’re probably all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today …” It’s only when they laugh obediently that I proceed, “Well, brothers and sisters, I’m here to tell you all that I experience same-gender attraction, and with your blessing I’d like to tell you all a little about what that’s like.”

They heard about JOE, who I didn't name in this setting either, but I also worked hard to thread humor into the narrative, give them moments to come up for air while I detail some of the most shameful dots on my fabric. I couldn’t really gauge how it’s being received. I spent most of the time scanning the tops of heads. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I made eye contact. I was afraid of what I might find. I argued so fiercely for those fifteen minutes, rehearsed every word, only to clock in at about ten minutes anyways.

But no one complained that I was speaking too fast or that they had hard time understanding me. The words are heavy as I summon them from their dark places, but they somehow fall out gracefully.

After I said my piece, I rejoined the congregation in my seat, and a member of The Stake led a class discussion on choosing to stay on the covenant path. 

One of my neighbors offered his insight. This guy has served in many prominent leadership callings in our ward and is also someone I have known for a long time—literally since I was a kid. He says something along the lines of being bold in declaring our discipleship and not being scared of stepping on anyone else’s toes. A friend speaks up, “That may be true, but as Zach just shared with us, it’s possible to be so bold that we end up hurting someone and—”

“Stop!” This neighbor sticks out his hand and interrupts him midsentence. “That was not a normal situation. That was ‘my husband’s having feelings for a kid,’ and that’s illegal!” The prosecution rests, your honor.

His little interjection was like that unexpected first icy burst of shower water. Suddenly, I’m wondering if I have just glimpsed behind the curtain and heard what everyone was thinking.          

The feeling didn’t last. When I think of my neighbor’s comment, what I remember is that it came directly because my friend had spoken up for me. I remember how lots of people after the fact came up to me after the fact to ask me if his comment had hurt me. I didn’t come into this to stir any pots, so I assure them it didn’t bother me.

I got to answer all kinds of questions before I left the room. People really wanted to talk to me. I noticed, there’s a line forming around me. How did I become a Disneyland character?

It's a Wonderful Life (1946) "To my brother, George, the richest man in town."

Anyways, this neighbor? He accepted my Facebook friend request some two weeks later. In the time since, I have literally asked for help from him for fixing my car or treating my dog’s bee sting. He and his family absolutely got cookies from the Miller house the following Christmas, and I have been to more than one 4th of July barbecue at his house since. He and I are fine. 

The experience sharing my story like that sort of ratified what I had done some six months prior in going public. But it wouldn’t be the last opportunity I had to share my story. A few weeks later I was called as an Elder’s Quorum instructor. I would actually think very carefully about when I chose to draw upon my experiences with SSA as part of my lesson. I want to make full use of my opportunities to give visibility to an underserved community of queer members. But I also don’t want to make this my platform. I don’t want this to be the first thing people think of when they see my face. It’s a formula I am continuing to perfect.

About a year after my fifth Sunday lesson, I was walking my dog at the park when I ran into a couple from the ward. I’d had a few conversations with the husband, and I was Facebook friends with the wife. There we were, two parties from the ward meeting at the local park with our dogs while their children chased each other around the playground right in the heart of Utah Valley—somebody snap a picture and send it to LDS Living.

She knew about certain developments in my family and was kind enough to ask me about it, the way a neighbor does. And with little prompting, the husband started telling me about how much it has meant to him to hear my experiences and how he admires my vulnerability. He commended me for helping the membership learn how to love as Christ did. The word “brave” was tossed in there somewhere, I think. I don’t remember exactly where. It’s not a word that showed up a lot in my register, so I don’t always know what to do with it when it does surface. But I walked away with my heart feeling very full.  I’ve come to feel like this was as much a part of the Mormon culture as anything Divine Comedy had displayed, and I’ve often wondered what it would take for the larger society, in and out of The Church, to see this as a part of our cultural fabric.

Experiences like this have meant quite a bit to me. I’ve had enough to keep me warm through the winter, which is good because I don’t get quite as many these days, at least not from people who were there for my fifth Sunday lesson. Opportunities for this have become rare ever since I since started attending the local singles' ward.

Because why not?

The Wizard of Oz (1939) Scarecrow asks Glinda why she didn’t just TELL Dorothy how easy this was before she started this journey. Why didn’t she just give Dorothy the answers and save everyone the time? Glinda explains, “She wouldn't have believed me. She had to learn it for herself.”

So much of my adulthood had seen me internalizing this idea that I had never really experienced anything hard. That I had never needed to prove my discipleship. That I brought nothing to the table. That no one could possibly have anything to learn from me. I had also been told that "The Family A Proclamation to the World" was some kind of storm grate, and that it would never allow someone like me through unless I fundamentally reshaped myself. Terms like authenticity or liberation are often tossed around in these conversations, fruits that gay members who are “forced” to be a certain way must never taste, the poor dears.

But God’s light has illuminated all sorts of realities for me, including my capacity to experience and express love. Dare I say? I appreciate the nuances of human connection far deeper than my straight friends ever could.

I have had many experiences driving on my way to work and being overcome with emotion, sweet and rich. Being glad that I am alone in my car so no one can see the tears catching light on my face. They don’t always start in my eyes. I can usually feel them deep within my chest before it swells within me like the onset of spring.

I don’t dare imagine that my position is so prominent, my influence so wide, that I could have had any real impact with a Facebook post and a fifth Sunday lesson. What kind of person would have such a high opinion of himself? But the possibilities tease me. Excite me. Move me to tears.

It’s in these moments that God reflects back to me what he has always known about me. Over and over, I feel it moving within me, like a song stuck in my head, “I am loved. I am strong. And I always have been." 

Singin' in the Rain (1952)