When he was growing up it was a criminal offence to be gay.

He was the eldest of six siblings, a scholarly young man who'd had to navigate his own way into realizing why he was so "different." He was in college, training to be an English teacher, when WWII broke out. Because his father had died a couple of years previously, leaving no life insurance, his route to college was ROTC, so he was mobilized to serve.

I never knew much about his service. I have some pictures of him in what I think is a 2nd Lieutenant's uniform, but when as a child I asked him about it he said he "did desk work."

After the war ended he went back to college and graduated. His family expected him to stay in the Twin Cities, find a nice girl, get married, get a prestige teaching job at the Catholic prep school he'd attended, and father children.

Instead, he moved to Chicago and got a job in the public school system teaching high school English, including AP courses.

Had anyone suspected he was gay, he'd have been arrested and imprisoned.

I cannot imagine what his 30-year teaching career, from the mid-1940s to the mid-1970s must have been like.

I do remember being taken in the "Vistadome" car on the Empire Builder, to visit him in Chicago, at a time when my Mother was recently (HORRORS!!) divorced. Having made herself a Family Disgrace by that route, I imagine she may have been seeking an ally in her big brother.

He had a small 1-bedroom apartment but all I remember about it was that it was filled with books.

His "sin" was never spoken of, as such, in the family, when I was a child. I remember references to his "summer camping trips" with "friends" that had a weird, off feeling about them. He would attend family holiday gatherings and provide dark-humor commentary that made some family members uncomfortable. He was the quintessential 'cranky bachelor uncle.'

He stayed in Chicago for nearly a decade after he retired in 1974, the year I graduated from high school. A couple of years later I found out that he was gay and a lot of things suddenly made sense, like his explanation that he was staying in Chicago to be near his "friend," who was about 15 years younger.

Late in the 1970s, his "friend" came down with (if I remember correctly) Parkinson's. Within a few years, the disease had progressed to where even though his health was good the "friend's" family convinced him to move back to Michigan, for medical care and support. At that point my uncle returned to the Twin Cities, getting an apartment in a Senior high rise. He traveled often to visit his "friend" and at least twice his "friend" was able to travel to the Twin Cities, in the 1980s.

By the mid 1990s my uncle had exhausted his retirement savings, his sight was failing, and he was losing mobility. He was moved into a retirement home run by the Little Sisters of the Poor, in spite of not having been inside a Catholic Church for 70 years, other than weddings and funerals.

Needless to say, his "friend" was no longer able to visit him there. He maintained a running battle with the nuns, who I think rather liked him in spite of his acid sarcasm and relentless theological commentary. I think he finally liked a couple of them, too. They were kind, and provided good care. He was just marooned, alone there. I visited when I could. We talked about books.

I never got up the courage to ask him about his life in the closet. I wish I had. I'm crying a little, as I type this, thinking about how much fear, anger, disillusionment, and loneliness he lived through.

I loved him. I will never, EVER let "the closet" engulf me, or any of my queer loved ones, friends, or neighbors.

FUCK the closet. It sucked away the souls of those trapped there.

sadly,
Bright