By Russell Etherton
My name is Russell, and I am loved—boldly and unconditionally. My family, regardless of my flaws and imperfections, has always held me on the highest of pedestals. I was the kid with far too many emotions, unique in my approach to life, but destined for “great things.” And, at an early age, I realized that, at least in their eyes, I could do no wrong.
I was born and raised in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky. More specifically, Louisville, a tiny beacon of liberal hope in a state that prides itself on its southern charm and conservative values. Home of the Kentucky Derby and the biggest of hats, strong bourbon and the best Mint Juleps you’ll ever taste, tobacco, and a college basketball culture unlike anywhere else in the United States. A city where faith and religious conviction dance with sin. Most definitely not the San Francisco of the Midwest, but it was my home.
Growing up, I always knew I was gay, like in that stereotypical kind of way. From an early age, all of my best friends were girls and we checked out all the boys. I went to a magnet middle school that believed the arts were just as crucial to a well-rounded education as was STEM. My high school was a theatre arts magnet (*cue jazz hands *). Will and Grace had just premiered on NBC and gay characters were suddenly in American homes during prime time. Later, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy was a surprise success for Bravo. And Showtime and HBO secured their spots in the LGBTQ media market with The L Word and Queer As Folk, respectively. For me, I didn’t need to find gay identity—it was everywhere in the world around me. I just needed to find my place in it.
As for “coming out,” I don’t actually remember ever saying the words “I’m gay” to any of my friends. It was just something that was. And for the few friends who got a “we need to talk” conversation, it was as if I had just given them a weather update—a non-issue of no surprise or excitement.
Coming out to my family however, I fully expected a different kind of experience. I imagined this big drama with tears, loud declarations of individuality, and ultimatums that forced acceptance, all circling back around to a mother and son embrace fit for the Academy Awards. I didn’t plan it out nor did I have a day or time in mind. All I knew was that my mom was going to be the first to “know” on a day that would reveal itself when the time was right and what followed from there would dictate next steps.
The day came and words fell out of my mouth—no drama. Instead, I got the most warm response and loving hug. “Son, be who you are. We already love you.” And that was that. Mostly. One by one they all would find out, and one by one it became clear: the acceptance I was hoping to find in being the gay man I truly was, I had already gotten in the love and support my family had given me in every decision I had ever made.
So, what next? High school would come to an end and a choice had to be made: stay in the Bluegrass State and hope it all worked out, that I’d find my Cinderfella on a white horse and create the life I saw playing out in gay New York (but safely at home in Kentucky), or leave and let go of how I thought things were supposed to be.
Then, one day, opportunity presented itself. With seven words, my boss would change my life. “Want to go to Houston with me?” It was a job-offer and the possibility for a new chapter in my story.
I wish that I can say that I had been thoughtful in my consideration, made a list of pros and cons. But no. I decided to move to Texas because Houston wasn’t Louisville and that was good enough. A true leap of faith.
*New chapter, who dis?*
I arrived in Houston four days before my twentieth birthday. And to my surprise, not a gay in sight. This was the “big city” for sure but, where were my rainbows and drag queens? Where was Karen with my martini?
I learned quickly that loneliness doesn’t discriminate. It took some time and serious persistence, but I eventually found community. Montrose, the neighborhood once at the center of LGBTQ life in Houston, would become my home. Nonprofits and social service organizations like Legacy Community Health, Montrose Grace Place, the Human Rights Campaign, as well as others would be my outlet for finding like-minded people. Those kindred spirits I could show love to, be vulnerable with, and feel a deep empathy for.
I spent the majority of my twenties figuring out what my contribution to the LGBTQ community would look like. I don’t like a spotlight, so I was never going to be the activist leading the parade. At the same time, I was too hopeful for the betterment of the human condition to watch hate and fear drown out the “Love Wins” battle cry.
What I found was a voice deeply committed to the lives of people society has tried to mask, to throw back into the closet. Someone who likes to talk about things that are taboo in polite conversation, but can still rock a tux when I need to raise money to fight the good fight. What I found was a voice that wants to share my experience and the experiences of others, because I know that the best kind of story is one that is lived.
Looking back now, moving away from Kentucky was the best thing I could have done for myself. It helped me find a life that wouldn’t have been possible had I not said yes to something greater than what I knew. And as for all those twists and turns along the way, now those are the most powerful parts of my testimony.
My name is Russell and this is my story.
