Through those years with Cousin Tommy, I thought I’d already seen every kind of love, courage, and community there was to see. But then came the parking lots of the softball fields and a whole different kind of education.
My kids would tell you I say this all the time: “I grew up in the parking lots of softball fields.”
Another way to put it? “Everything I ever needed to know about life; I learned in a folding chair next to a cooler of Natural Light.”
Like most, okay, maybe all, gay women I knew back then, my mom went to softball games. I’m not even sure she ever actually played. Maybe she did. But that’s not really the point. The games were the backdrop. The parking lot was where life happened.
In my early teen years, I started tagging along. I don’t think I watched a single inning of a single game, but I went to plenty. And from the moment we pulled into the parking lot, I was claimed.
That was thanks to Kim.
Kim was maybe twenty when I met her. She was funny, protective, and full of energy. She became like a big sister to me. Every time we arrived, she was the one who “kidnapped” me for the day. I never minded. She made sure I was part of whatever was going on, and she always had a knack for making things fun.
She’d walk me straight to the circle of younger players, where there was always a cooler full of Natural Light. They always shared. So, there I was, a teenage boy, hanging out in parking lots, drinking cheap beer, and surrounded by young queer women.
Oh, the lessons I learned. Some were taught intentionally, others… not so much.
The Two Kinds of Conversations
The conversations in those parking lots fell into two categories.
First, there was the usual gossip. The kind you’d hear in any close-knit group. Who liked who. Who was dating. Who was messing around. Who said what about someone else. Who was mad at who, and why. It was like an ongoing soap opera, acted out in softball jerseys and folding chairs, with a case of Natural Light as the sponsor.
Then there were the conversations meant for me, the only male in the group. And let’s just say, these women were not shy about offering advice.
They weren’t afraid to be explicit. In fact, their detailed explanations provided every bit of information a teenage boy would need to visualize exactly what they were talking about, whether I wanted to or not. Nothing was off the table: how to treat a woman mentally, physically, emotionally, materially… or in any other way they felt a “young, impressionable male” needed to hear.
Sometimes I’ll tell my son that I’m sorry he didn’t get to spend more time surrounded by young gay women the way I did. “You would’ve been so much better prepared for your relationships,” I joke. And I mean it.
The Hard Lessons
But, not all of the parking lot lessons were lighthearted. Some were hard.
Most of these women were in their early to mid-twenties, just starting their adult lives. Some had always known they were gay. Others had only recently come to terms with it. Their stories were all different, but in many ways, painfully similar.
I’d hear about a young woman coming out to her family. Sometimes the story ended in love and support, sometimes in laughter. I still remember one woman whose parents responded to her news with an eye roll and: “Well, duh. Took you long enough.”
Those stories were fun to hear. The sad ones were not.
I remember one woman in particular. I can’t recall her name now, but I can still see her in my mind. She was energetic, always smiling, fun, and peppy. She had a joy that made you want to stick around longer, and when she left, the world felt just a little quieter.
For weeks, maybe months, she had been talking about waiting for the right time to tell her parents she was gay. She was scared. She didn’t think they would take it well, but she also knew she couldn’t hide forever. Pretending felt like lying, and she didn’t want to lie to them. She wanted to be honest. To be herself.
Then one evening, Kim, always direct, asked her if she’d told them yet.
The young woman’s smile faded instantly. Right there, in front of all of us, she broke down. Through tears, she told us she had told them the weekend before. And her father’s response had been short and devastating: “You are no daughter of mine.” Then he told her to leave.
I remember just sitting there, stunned. There wasn’t a part of me that could understand it. How could such a wonderful, vibrant person, someone who brought nothing but joy to those around her, be told she was no longer welcome in her own home, just for being gay?
I thought to myself: What changed about her in that moment? She was still the same person she had always been. How could someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally suddenly put conditions on that love based on something like who she was attracted to?
Since when did what you did in your most private, intimate moments become anyone else’s business? And why would it change the way you were seen, valued, or loved?
She was beautiful, kind, and good to everyone she met. But in that moment, she was broken. Broken because of ignorance and hate. And I hated seeing that light in her dim.
As I sat there listening, I was conscious of what was happening around me. No one was interrupting or rushing to fill the silence. They were all just listening, supporting her and letting her voice her pain, anger, fear, sadness, and disappointment. She was surrounded by people who understood all too well what she was going through. And they knew the best thing they could do was simply be present. So that’s exactly what they did.
The Lessons That Stuck
Looking back, those parking lots taught me more about life than I realized at the time. A few of the big ones:
Listen when people share their truth: even if it’s messy, even if it makes you uncomfortable.
Treat women the way they deserve to be treated: with respect, care, and equality.
Gay women are amazing teachers about boundaries, joy, resilience, and exactly how a man should treat a woman.
Confidence is magnetic: own who you are without apology.
Community is built in small circles: sometimes in folding chairs next to a pickup truck.
Humor can keep you afloat: even in the middle of hard times.
Chosen family is powerful. Rejection cuts deep, but the people who choose to stand beside you can help heal wounds you thought would never close.
Pain is inevitable. We’ll all face it. But there will be people who prop us up, hold our hand, love us, support us, and sit alongside us while we navigate it.
More Than Just a Parking Lot
Still, the parking lot had its constants. There was always laughter, teasing, music from someone’s car stereo, and the people who made it feel like a second home. Kim was always at the center of it, making sure I was fed, included, entertained… and, yes, that I had a beer in my hand.
Looking back, I realize those parking lots were more than just hangouts – they were classrooms. I learned about friendship, loyalty, heartbreak, resilience, and joy. I saw what it meant to live openly, even when the world didn’t make it easy. I learned how cruel people can be, and how fiercely love can push back.
Those lessons have stayed with me. They always will.
Next up, we’ll spend some time talking about the other life I was living, as I circle back to my father and sister.