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How Trump (and the Blade) brought me out to my fraternity brothers

At the age of 70, I finally spoke my heart to them

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Yep. Absolutely

Donald Trump brought me out last year to my college fraternity brothers, some of whom I hadn’t seen in 48 years. Trump, along with five local religious leaders, two retired judges, Colby King, the Internet, and the Blade.

It’s a story I want to share with you on this National Coming Out Day.

In June 2018, those religious leaders and retired judges sent a letter to the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board, requesting that we hold a Fact Finding Hearing to determine whether the owner of the Trump International Hotel was eligible for a liquor license. They cited section 301 of Title 25 of D.C. Municipal Regulations that a license holder must be of “good character.” They argued in their filing that Donald Trump was not.

The case made local and national news. On Saturday, July 27, 2018, Washington Post opinion page writer Colbert King wrote on the editorial page, “This is a case that the ABC Board cannot duck.”

King wrote that we had a responsibility to look into the president’s “lack of character,” and that that “the spotlight is now on members of the ABC Board.”

Just to make sure everyone knew he meant business, Colby published our names and brief biographies. Mine mentioned my career at ABC News and my tenure as an Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner. 

I started getting e-mails at my D.C. government address: Trump is the devil. You are the devil. Leave him alone. Take away his license. Leaguer, Congratulations!

“Leaguer, Congratulations?”

Leaguer was my pledge name when I pledged my college fraternity more than 50 years ago. Short for “little leaguer.” My fraternity big brother was more than six feet tall. I was much shorter and into athletics. So, to the brothers, I was then and still am “the leaguer.”

The e-mail was from Bill Fuhrman, who was president of the Sigma Pi Chapter of Alpha Epsilon Pi at American University during my senior year, when I served as vice president. And there were maybe a dozen people copied, some with e-mail addresses that included their names.

“I am writing you via the only possible communication path I know,” Bill wrote. “This afternoon, my “Little,” Russ, e-mailed me the story in the Blade about your very recent ANC election. Congratulations.

“His email was on the heels of a story Len sent this morning to several of your ‘linked’ fellow AU fraternity brothers.”

The Blade reference stopped me cold. There are plenty of Google references to my being an ANC Commissioner, but only the Blade refers to me as openly gay. So by referencing the Blade, Bill found a way to ask the question without actually asking the question. 

Bill then went on to inform me where those listed on the e-mail were living, including those who had married their pinmates. We had lost touch when the chapter was kicked off campus for a time in the mid-70’s after a hazing incident, and records were lost. He then made a request:

“Give me a call if you would like to (partially) catch up on the last 48 years: (858) xxx- xxxx cell . . or . . (760) xxx-xxxx at my law office (the 1st 30 minutes is at no charge).”

I called Bill and we chatted for more than an hour, and he gave me other phone numbers to call, and asked that I write a note to let the brothers know what I’d been up to for the last nearly half century. And to not be a stranger. 

I wrote an e-mail that began by recounting my career in broadcast journalism, local politics, and the exciting world of background acting. Then, it was coming out time.

“Now that we’ve finished with the professional part of my life,” I wrote,” it’s time for the personal part and the big reveal. So here it is:

Yep. Absolutely

Tom and I have shared our lives for 38 years. He was a department store exec, and when retail started to crater, he went into human resources. I have learned that you can become Italian by osmosis and talk with your hands. I’ve also learned a lot about north Jersey, and know a lot of places that were in The Sopranos, because I now have extended family in Lodi, Garfield, and other towns that are more Eye-talian than Rome.”

Words can’t adequately express how good it felt to write that. My fraternity brothers were probably the last group in my life to come out to. We shared so much during college, and yet there was that one thing back then I felt I could not share. And so, at the age of 70, I spoke my heart to them about hiding who I was during our college years.

“This is awkward, because it deals with honesty. And you can’t be completely honest with others about matters in which you are not completely honest with yourself.”

“I knew I might be gay in high school, but in the 1960s, the world was a very scary place to be gay. Who wants to be part of a despised and mocked minority? Have no friends? Or be shut out from your career path? I did like sports and girls and politics and beer, so I decided I would will myself to be straight and be like everybody else.”

I shared with them my coming out process, and that constant fear that at least some people in my life might not accept me if they knew I was gay. And how everything changed on Sept. 17, 1981.

“Tom and I met during an endless weather delay and ground stop at Newark Airport, and we became friends. It took more than a year to move in together, but we’ve been an item for 37 years, thanks to People Express.”

I closed by saying how good it was to reconnect with them this way. 

“I’m still me. And you’re still you,” I wrote. “I’d love to hear your voice.”

It took me a week to write that e-mail, which had the subject line, “What I’ve been up to the past 48 years, or Love, Leaguer.”

And then I pressed send.

The responses and phone calls came almost immediately. 

Tom and I have received invites from as far away as Portland, San Diego, and Charleston. And there are regular phone calls and weekly lunches. 

Oh, and I wasn’t the only one. Russ sent me an old chapter photo, and I saw on it plenty of other….politicians. A California state legislator. A 15-term Massachusetts state lawmaker. And an Undersecretary of Interior for National Parks. All in the same pledge class. And a deputy mayor of San Francisco as well. 

I wasn’t the only gay brother, either. The former head of Victory Fund was also a brother, but Brian came along a few years later.  

The Trump case dragged on beyond my term on the board, so I was doubly blessed. First, I didn’t have to rule on it. Second, it brought some dear friends back into my life.

They always knew me. Only now, they know me better. And they are still my brothers.

Coming out is a process that has a beginning but lasts a lifetime. 

Happy National Coming Out Day, everyone!  

Mike Silverstein a former member of the D.C. Alcoholic Beverage Control Board.

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Commentary

Sexting with younger guy has me asking: How queer am I?

Reflections on LGBTQ life in 2024

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Jake Stewart is a recovering Hill staffer based in D.C. In addition to writing, he barbacks at the Little Gay Pub."

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, a man sexted another man. 

There were words. There were pictures. There were filthy questions and even filthier responses. You know, the way a good sexting convo ought to be, for those who dabble. 

One man was 33. The other, 24. And while it comes as no shock that I was the 33-year-old, it may be more surprising to learn it was the 24-year-old who grabbed the reins. 

What kinks you into? he asked. 

Shit – I didn’t know. I barely even bottomed before the pandemic, and now I had to know my kinks? 

I’m open, I replied, evasively. You? 

His response left me coughing: “Love musk sweat ws public group rough bb verbal bate edge roleplay and very open-minded.” 

Now I’m no prude (in fact, many would call me a downright whore) but this young man articulating his kinks and fetishes in such detail blew my mind. When did he learn what he liked? At 24, all I wanted was to top a guy and leave with as little communication or attachment as possible. At 33, I wasn’t sure what a few of the items he listed even meant.  

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised when young men — and the younger generation across the LGBTQ spectrum in general — have already figured out their sexual interests. I arrived in D.C. from Idaho in 2008 as a fresh-faced 18-year-old; I came out three years later in 2011. Attitudes toward queerness have shifted substantially since then, and these days it is undeniably easier for younger people to explore their sexual and gender identities (which, by the way, is fantastic). 

But this conversation left me wondering: What do I like? I haven’t sought out that many new sexual experiences, and while fetishes, kinks, and sexual desires can seem trivial, they’re inextricably intertwined with gender and relationships. If I can’t articulate what I like in the sack (or in public, if I dare), then how do I know what I’m seeking from a long-term partner, or if that’s even what I want? 

As soon as I came out, I thought my job was done. All I needed after that was to snatch up a cutie and settle down. Instead, my identity centered on building my career in politics, where sexual openness isn’t as appreciated. I, like many D.C. queers around me, moved here bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to change the world for good. 

Then came a tough lesson: Just because I wanted to improve the world didn’t mean people wanted me to. I was inexplicably fired from not one job but two, and suddenly the do-gooder in me grew jaded. The career I dedicated years to was suddenly ripped from my hands, and I became so disillusioned I didn’t even want it back. Oh, and the cherry on top: My boyfriend dumped me two days later. 

Once everything unraveled, I wondered: Was the me of the past the me I truly wanted? Or was I reflecting back what I thought everyone wanted me to be? 

Well, a few major meltdowns and an extended slut phase later, my life couldn’t be more different. I now work at a new gay bar in town to support myself, and I’ve given myself space to pursue the arts. This former straight-laced, type-A, tightly wound gay abandoned the safe track and he couldn’t be more terrified. He also couldn’t be more excited. 

But losing my old career also left an existential-sized hole in my identity. So, as I sexted this 24-year-old with newfound awareness of my limitations, I decided this must change. 

How? As I said, I work at a gay bar in one of the queerest cities in America. Now more than ever I’m surrounded by those who are LGBTQ and every shade in between. Why not learn from those around me, whether younger, older, or around the same age, but whose experiences are no less queer? Why not carve out time to have in-depth discussions and discover what the possibilities are? 

If being queer means to go against the established norms of gender and sexuality, then there’s still plenty of territory for me to explore. No longer can ‘bottom’ or ‘top’ be my only options. 

So, the purpose of this column – aptly titled Queer Quest – is to capture my exploration of queer identity. It’s not to teach you as much as it is to teach myself, and you can either learn alongside me or simply be entertained. At the very least, I’ll have a series of portraits on what it’s like to be queer in the mid 2020s. At most, I’ll have a better understanding of who I am as a queer person. 

Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll become a better sexter. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer.

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Commentary

What will you do to make Pride safe this year?

Anxiety reigns among American Jews after Oct. 7

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(Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

Each year, hundreds of thousands of Jews and supporters of Israel attend Pride marches. With a few exceptions, these spaces have always been safe and welcoming for the broader Pride community. 

But this year is different. 

For American Jews, anxiety reigns as we head into this Pride season. The appalling rise of antisemitism since Oct. 7 forces us to ask difficult questions. As many Jews increasingly feel alienated and excluded from progressive spaces, we’re left to wonder: If I wear a Jewish symbol, march with a Jewish group, or wave a rainbow flag adorned with the Star of David, will I be safe at Pride?

Even before Oct. 7, LGBTQ Jews had plenty of reason to feel trepidation about their safety at Pride. From blanket bans on Stars of David at past Pride gatherings to antisemitism on display at the recent Sydney Pride, too often Jews feel forced to choose between their LGBTQ and Jewish identities and hide their connection to Israel.

Since Oct. 7, terms like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “Zionism equals racism” are increasingly thrown around casually, often without a nuanced understanding of their impact or the realities they oversimplify. This rhetoric not only alienates but also endangers Jewish queer people. It makes us feel emotionally unsafe. It increases the chances that we will be physically unsafe as well. 

We must not allow the Israel-Palestine conflict to be imported into Pride.

I will always remember the euphoria of the first Pride rally I attended. I was barely 18 years old, in a crowd of people of all ages, races, genders and gender orientations — and they were like me. Queer. It felt safe. It was the first time I experienced that feeling of safety, and it will always stay with me. 

Like Pride events everywhere, it was a vibrant, colorful space for LGBTQ people to celebrate our true authentic selves, without fear or reservation.

But that feeling of safety wasn’t shared by everyone in my small New England town. I soon noticed a few people scattered throughout the crowd wearing paper bags over their heads, with eye holes so they could see but not be seen. I later learned that those faceless people were teachers who, in those days before civil rights protections, needed to protect their identities and their careers. 

They did not feel safe. Will Jews and those who are connected to Israel feel safe this year?

The history of Pride is a testament to courage in the face of adversity. It wasn’t long ago when attending Pride events was a defiant act against societal norms, where participants like those teachers faced tangible threats of discrimination, ridicule and even violence. Even today in some places, our queer community still navigates a gauntlet of hatred as we try to celebrate who we are.

It’s crucial to recognize that within the Jewish community, there is a wide spectrum of views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, including many who are deeply committed to advocating for Palestinian rights. In fact, many of the 1,200 innocent Israelis murdered on Oct. 7 were Zionists who devoted their lives to reconciliation and peace with their Arab neighbors.

We are at a pivotal moment, one that demands action: What can we do to ensure Pride remains a safe space for everyone, including Jewish participants?

It’s imperative that Pride committees around the country proactively address these concerns. They must implement training programs focused on de-escalation and fostering an environment of understanding and respect.

As individuals who stand in solidarity with the values of Pride, each of us must consider our role in this effort. Will you march alongside those of us who feel vulnerable, offering your presence as a shield against intolerance? Will you engage in dialogues that challenge the importation of external conflicts into Pride, advocating instead for a celebration that unites rather than divides?

The true test of inclusivity at Pride lies not merely in welcoming a diverse crowd, but in ensuring that every participant feels safe and valued. If we remain indifferent to the vulnerabilities faced by Jewish queer people this Pride season, we will fall short of the very ideals of inclusivity and solidarity that Pride stands for.

Just as we expect schools to protect trans and nonbinary students like Nex Benedict, we have a responsibility in the LGBTQ community to ensure that people can carry an Israeli flag or a Palestinian flag, wear a yarmulke or a hijab and be safe.

As we look forward to this year’s Pride, let us commit to making it a space where safety is not a privilege afforded to some but a right enjoyed by all. Let’s engage with our local Pride committees, advocate for comprehensive safety measures and stand in solidarity with those who feel at risk. 

Only then can we celebrate the true spirit of Pride, rooted in love, acceptance and the unwavering belief in equality for all.

Ethan Felson is the executive director of A Wider Bridge.

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Opinions

How to protect your sobriety on St. Patrick’s Day

Celebrate with a supportive friend and carry a mocktail

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Sobriety can be challenging, whether you overcame alcohol or drug addiction or chose to abstain from alcohol for a healthier life. Holidays like St. Patrick’s Day can serve as a reminder of the past or could be looked at as another day. 

Many celebrate St. Patrick’s Day sober, as there are generally family-friendly gatherings, community events, or even sober celebrations. If you have concerns about your sobriety, there are practical tips you can use to protect it on St. Patrick’s Day. 

For instance, remind yourself why you are sober, and don’t do it alone. You can still have fun and celebrate but do it with other sober people. Everyone has their reasons for stopping drinking; remind yourself of those reasons and hold yourself accountable.  

Know your triggers; it doesn’t matter if you are a recovering addict or have removed alcohol from your life. Be cautious around possible triggers that pose a challenge. Most people in this situation choose to skip the bar and find something fun to do or go to a sober St. Patrick’s Day celebration. 

Keep a non-alcoholic drink or mocktail in your hand. People will not bother you to ask if you want a drink if you already have something to sip on, like a mocktail. This also leads to planning how to say no. You will encounter social pressure if you go to a bar on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s unavoidable. It’s wise to practice ways to refuse alcohol. 

Finally, if all else fails, take a walk outside if you feel overwhelmed. The most straightforward solutions are usually the best. Remove yourself from any situation you know will lead to relapse. This is also why it’s essential to be with a sober friend or loved one; there is accountability and someone to lean on.

The benefits of being sober are plentiful, along with the numerous health perks, such as better quality sleep, more mental alertness, and lessened anxiety or depression. Yet, there is one benefit that is not necessarily always spoken about. 

Being sober on St. Patrick’s Day or any day removes all chances of impaired driving. Unfortunately, days that promote heavy alcohol use may increase the chances of drunk or drugged driving. For example, in Washington State, impaired driving has been involved in roughly half of fatal crashes for decades. In 2022, 52% of traffic fatalities involved an impaired driver, according to the Traffic Safety Commission. 

Moreover, drivers ages 21 to 30 make up one-third of impaired drivers in fatal crashes, and another 20% are ages 31 to 40. If you are celebrating St. Patrick’s Day sober, take the necessary precautions and look out for one another. If you choose to consume alcohol, drink responsibly, know your limits, and do not drink and drive.

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