Coming Out, Part I

When donkeys fly

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I used to love saying the phrase “when donkeys fly” when I was a kid. I’d learned it from the sassy waitress Flo on the TV sitcom “Alice” that my mother used to watch. It’s used to convey the impossibility of an occurrence, typically in a dismissive way — similar to the more frequently used “when hell freezes over.” I found it very amusing and my friends and I would giggle endlessly when we said it, especially in response to a request. When the nearly impossible actually occurs, however, it can be earth-shattering. Such an event occurred for me in 1996.

I grew up on a farm in a small, tight-knit community outside of London in Madison County, Ohio. Despite being relatively close in proximity to neighboring Franklin County and the capital city of Columbus, Ohio’s largest city, it felt like a different planet. We were surrounded by miles of fields and pastures, dotted periodically with homes, churches, streams, and forests. The immersion in, and symbiosis with, nature was inescapable. To a tomboy like me, it was paradise. Stepping outside the front door of our home to the yard, barns, trees, and animals under the expansive sky caused me to pulse with excitement at the endless possibilities. I spent countless hours playing outside, climbing in the trees, shooting hoops, riding my bike, and wandering the fields.

Our community was extremely homogeneous. My high school, situated amid corn and soybean fields, had around 400 students. Every one of the 110 kids in my graduating class was white. With the exception of a single black family that had two or three children who moved to the school district during my middle school years and a black foreign exchange high school student who attended one year, there were no students of color throughout the entirety of my K-12 education. To my knowledge, there were no openly gay or transgender students (or even residents); no Muslims, and no Jews, either. The county seat of London was slightly more diverse but, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, 90% of London’s population is white.

My community was also staunchly conservative. Though some people voted for Democratic candidates, most people by far voted Republican, including my parents. I don’t recall much political discourse in our household when I was child, and my parents weren’t politically active, but based on adults’ reactions to news events and statements I overheard during elections, I definitely got the message that we were a Republican family in a Republican community.

My first opportunity to vote was in 1996 during my sophomore year of college at Otterbein University in Westerville, Ohio. Otterbein is a small, private liberal arts university affiliated with the Methodist church. It had been heavily involved in the Underground Railroad and it was founded upon notions of social justice, which was part of its appeal to me. Despite its small size, the University has hosted major political events like one of the 2020 Democratic presidential primary debates, and attracted speakers like former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.

During the 1996 presidential election, the Republican nominee, Senator Bob Dole, held a rally in Otterbein’s athletic center. He was running against Democratic incumbent President Bill Clinton. I wanted to hear what Senator Dole had to say because, while I knew my parents would vote for him, I was undecided. I’d never been to a political event of any kind, let alone something as monumental as a presidential nominee’s speech. The facility was packed with students, staff, and the press. It was surreal to watch Senator Dole – someone who could potentially be the next President of the United States – walk across the stage in the basketball gymnasium of my small, suburban liberal arts college. I don’t remember a single thing he said that day, but I’ve never forgotten the atmosphere, which was electric.

A few weeks later when I cast my vote for Bill Clinton, the donkeys flew.

Since starting college and meeting people from different backgrounds with different perspectives, I had begun to realize that I was a Democrat. I was still deeply religious at the time—I believed in the Christian teachings of compassion, loving others, and justice, especially for the poor, the marginalized, or others faced with societal barriers. I thought the Democratic party and its platform more closely aligned with those beliefs. Conversely, I came to see the bigotry and stereotypes I had grown up with, and had come to reject, reflected in the Republican party platform, even if it was less obvious at the time than it is now.

The election results inevitably came up the next time I went home to visit. I told my parents that I had not voted for Bob Dole, I had voted for Bill Clinton. At first, my father responded with disbelief, but then he got angry. I tried to explain my reasoning, but he cut me off before I could finish a sentence. He told me that I didn’t understand and didn’t know what I was doing. Naturally, I became indignant. I let him know that not only did I vote for Clinton, but I was a Democrat. He started shouting that I was stupid and that he had not raised me “that way.”

For a long time afterward, I believed my father’s response was the result of a narcissistic injury I had inadvertently caused him. I knew he would be disappointed, but I hadn’t anticipated his intense anger. I’ve been thinking about that moment and others like it a lot lately in this highly polarized time. What was it about his life and experiences that caused him to be so entrenched in his beliefs that he was incapable of civil discourse of ideas? It was clear that it never occurred to him that I would challenge his beliefs or have independent thoughts that differed from his.

My father’s reaction to my coming out as a Democrat—and my indignation in response to that—was a precursor to the many heated political arguments to come. It created tension not just between us, but within the whole family. His response was also a harbinger of what was to come from my family when I accepted my sexuality and disclosed that I was a lesbian.

I’ve come to realize that my father’s response to my coming out as a Democrat wasn’t solely due to a personal affront. It was also early foreshadowing of the deepening political and cultural fissures in our country. Voting Republican wasn’t just about casting ballots, it was a way of being. It was part of my father’s identity. By questioning and disagreeing with it, I think he felt like I was rejecting him. And in many parts of the country, like my rural community, the same self-reinforcing insularity exhibited by my father took root and metastasized over time.

We’ll explore how this came to be and brainstorm what we can do about it in upcoming posts. I’m guessing that many of you can relate and have valuable ideas to share. I look forward to it.

One step at a time,

Ronda