I felt like such a grown up. I was 15 at the time, maybe 16. It was a casual dinner at my friends’ house and, yes, I felt entitled enough to call them my friends though they were much older than me. At that point I had known them for about a year or so. Without going into too much detail, I met this crew in what I’ll call a “semi-professional” setting. We were often wearing dress clothes and couldn’t say what was on our minds, not fully. We’d started to spend some time together socially outside of this “semi-professional” setting, usually out to dinner. During these times, we were much looser, looser of tongue and looser of spirit. However, there were often periphery people with us.

This would be a far more intimate affair though. It was going to just be me, Matt, George, and Detwaino (aka D’Twain). The core group. The age gap between us always seemed inconsequential because of how they embraced me. George and Matt were middle aged men and D’Twain celebrated her 30th birthday while I was in high school. That gap seemed even more insignificant now that I was being invited to the inner sanctum. No periphery, just core. These actual grown-ups had invited my awkward, acne-ridden, teenage self to dinner. I was certainly cooler than every other 15 year-old. 

George was, in many ways, the ring leader. He was, and is, one of the funniest humans I’ve ever met. His wicked sharp tongue could cut you down faster than your brain could comprehend. Fortunately, a healthy dose of self-deprecation and a big heart make him more like a security blanket and almost universally well-loved. Matt was, and again, is, pure warmth with a generosity of spirit and laughter. He’s one of the best huggers and can’t remember the names of actors to save his life. D’Twain, though she denies it, may be one of the smartest people I know. She’s scientist-level cerebral and knows everything about the human body. Her sense of humor is one of the grossest ever. One time, in Target, she ripped the loudest fart to come from a human butthole, whereupon she turned to me and said at full volume, “Oh my God! Patrick!! That’s disgusting! I can’t believe you just did that!” I was rendered useless as I was mortified and couldn’t argue my way out of it but was also laughed to the point of tears. 

The dinner was at Matt and George’s house. I couldn’t tell you what we ate but I’m sure it was delicious. George is an amazing cook and Matt likes to play host. There are always hors d’oeuvres and drinks are never empty. The adults may have had some cocktails. At 15, though, I didn’t ask for booze and they didn’t offer. It was understood by all that was a no-no given the “semi-professional” context of our friendship. They also knew my mom and thought it best not to give her teenage son alcohol. My time for sloppy, drunken nights of debauchery were coming in due time. 

When describing their house, the word “lovely” comes to mind. Phrases like “grown-up” and “tchotchkes galore” also come to mind. The foyer opened up into the dining room which looked freshly pulled from a magazine. As I remember it, they had a low chandelier over a beautifully stained wooden table that was host to a bronze peacock of a centerpiece. Perhaps it was a pheasant. Crimson velvet curtains swooped down gracefully to cover the windows and a scenic watercolor painting set the perfect dining ambiance. 

The dining room was just a snapshot of how the rest of the house was put together. It was lovely and filled with lovely things. Every item, every tchotchke, had a story and intention behind it. All things displayed were cherished. The house was open, both architecturally and figuratively. As high school went on, that house would become one of my favorite places. 

Before dinner was served, D’Twain and I sat at the kitchen counter munching on various dips and crudités. George was putting the final touches on dinner while Matt ran around making sure their dogs weren’t terrorizing anyone. There was much laughter, as was always the case with this group. George eventually had a moment to sit down. 

At one point our fluff-filled conversation pivoted to one of Matt’s past romantic flings. I’m not sure how it started but I’d bet it was an off-handed comment by George. Suddenly my ears perked up. Matt was using words like “he” and “his” in describing this former romance. As comprehension settled over me, my hands started to shake, and my eyes must have been as big as the plate holding my crudités. George then leaned over to me and loudly fake-whispered, “by the way, Matt is gay.” The three of them erupted into laughter. 

A wave of hot terror rushed to the surface of my skin. 

It’s funny to write about this in 2019 as a 30-year old man, the great irony of it all. However, back then it was the first time anyone said those words out loud, expressly, explicitly. Looking back, if the bronze pheasant and velvet curtains didn’t give it away, I should have at least given more credence to the fact that two grown men were “roommates” and had moved from city to city together for decades. But that was just the thing. Given the context of our friendship, that “semi-professional” space steeped in inuendo and side glances, we were never able to fully profess those words. Truths can never be whole in a space like that. 

But here we were, in the comfort of a gay couple’s neatly manicured home. It was the definition of a safe space and, yet, I was terrified. I was terrified because I knew what was next. The laughter, including my own, died down. The joke being that, clearly, George was gay too. As this happened, he looked at me. Again, George was the ring leader. His kind gaze silently communicated both “your turn” and also “unless you’re not ready.” My face felt hot. This was the moment.

Until that point, I had only uttered the words “I’m gay” to myself alone in my car. In fact, I distinctly remember driving down North Druid Hills Rd one afternoon when they spilled forth from my mouth. They were unsolicited. I was shocked I even said them, having felt as though a mouth other than my own was the culprit. Then I said them again. And again. And again. And again. I was laughing. The whole thing seemed completely absurd and, yet, entirely ordained. 

That was certainly not the moment I realized I was gay. Without having the vocabulary for it, I’ve known that truth since I was 3. It was the first time I said that I was gay. It was the first time that my diaphragm contracted, pushing air from my lungs into my vocal cords, and used the articulators of my mouth to say those specific words in that specific order. While I never pretended to be something else, my feet were firmly planted in the closet. Throughout middle school and high school, it was very clear to everyone that I was gay. But it was never discussed, not by my friends, not by my family. Ironically, only school bullies felt emboldened enough to call me what I was. Outside of that, I was the elephant in the room. Always. 

So there I sat, at that kitchen counter, feeling my heartbeat in my temples. I could feel my mouth drying up and my feet going cold. I knew if I didn’t say something, one of the loving adults would graciously guide the conversation elsewhere. This was my chance. 

“Well, I’m gay too,” I mumbled, trying my best at playing a grown-up. George put his hand on my shoulder and said with infinite compassion and infinite humor, “we know.” There was more laughter. For that one moment, the weight was taken off my shoulders. I could breathe in a way I had never before. People much stronger than me, who’ve walked that same path and had for a long time, helped me set that burden down. They saw the truth in me, the truth of me, and lovingly knocked on the other side of that closet door, letting me know it was safe to open it if I wanted. 

We sat down to dinner, as we would often do for years to come, bringing our full selves. Matt and George told us their love story. D’Twain talked about being lesbian(ish). I was asked questions I had never been asked before: what’s your type, have you ever kissed a boy, do your parents know. The most shocking thing about the evening was how unshocking it was. I had visualized what it would be like to “come out,” assuming all I would l do was talk about being gay. The beauty in being with others like me was that I didn’t have to talk about being, I just was. This was perhaps the greatest gift to come from that evening, knowing what fully honest being, in the company of others, felt like. 

That, my friends, is pride. It is what, in my opinion, the entire thing is about. It isn’t about parades, rainbows, camp, drag, leather, booty shorts, harnesses, flesh, or glitter. It isn’t even really about celebrating. It’s about honest being and being honest. It’s about being seen, even if just by strangers, for the human you were always designated to be. So regardless of who you love, what kind of sex you like, how you look, what genitals you do or don’t possess, remember that. And maybe one day, without realizing it, you’ll become that safe space for someone else to be seen, to be seen honestly. 

Check out some of this week’s photo contributors:

Artem Beliaikin

Henry & Co

Steve Johnson