Author's Note:
I wasn’t planning to share this chapter today, but as I was preparing to publish tomorrow’s story, one of the heaviest and darkest chapters I’ve written, I felt called to release this first. It’s a snapshot of joy, freedom, and the messy, beautiful chaos of being fourteen in the summer of 1986.
This chapter falls squarely in what I think of as the townhouse years, that brief window of stability and safety after my mom and I moved into our own place. It was a time when I was beginning to test boundaries, discover who I was, and experience the world beyond our four walls.
Consider this story a deep breath before we dive into darker waters tomorrow.
The Summer That Changed Everything
Every generation has a summer where the world cracks open just enough to let in the light.
For me, that summer was 1986. It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school.
I was fourteen, on the edge of turning fifteen in August, standing in that strange space between boyhood and manhood. It was a summer of freedom, adventure, and discovery. The kind of summer that shapes you, even if you don’t realize it at the time. Looking back now, I can see it clearly: this was the summer I began to understand who I was and who I might become.
California Dreaming
Shortly after seeing Depeche Mode for the first time in my life in early June at Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Maryland, my mom put me on a flight to California — alone. For two weeks, I bounced between family members across the state, carrying that post-concert buzz and a growing sense that the world was much bigger than the little corner of Maryland I knew.
The first ten days were spent in Southern California with my grandfather and his boyfriend, Mike. My grandfather had come out later in life, and this was the first time I stayed with him since he had done so. Growing up, we’d taken countless trips to visit my grandparents in Southern California, but those visits were different. More formal, more guarded.
This time was nothing like that. For the first time, I got to see my grandfather in his true form. He wasn’t hiding, wasn’t pretending, wasn’t playing a role for anyone’s comfort. He was simply himself, and holy shit, was he happy.
Even though I couldn’t fully grasp it at fourteen, watching my grandfather with Mike let me see what it looked like for someone you love to finally be free to just be themselves.
Mike and I hit it off immediately. He worked nights at the local 7-11, and somehow, my grandfather allowed me to tag along. Working overnight in a convenience store in Southern California at fourteen? It felt like the coolest thing in the world. I’d stock shelves, sweep floors, and mostly just soak it all in. The neon lights, the hum of the refrigerators, the wild characters who came through those doors at 2 a.m. It was like stepping into another universe.
While in Southern California, I also got to visit my Uncle Tony and his family. Tony had always been special to me, and meeting my baby cousin Sarah, who was just a toddler, was a sweet reminder of the innocence still left in my world.
And then Tony took me to see Depeche Mode again. This time at Irvine Meadows, part of their Black Celebration Tour. Tony wasn’t just my uncle; he was my musical hero. He was easily the most talented musician I had ever known, and sharing this concert with him felt like the universe giving me a perfect moment.
Seeing the band for the second time that summer was incredible on its own. The pulsing lights, the roar of the crowd, Dave Gahan commanding the stage. But what I remember most was glancing over at Tony and watching him get lost in the music. I loved seeing him enjoy the show as much as I did. That night, surrounded by thousands of strangers under the California sky, I felt both small and infinite at the same time.
San Francisco Nights
After my time in Southern California, I boarded another plane and headed north to San Francisco to stay with Ken, my mom’s dear friend from high school. I had only met Ken once or twice before, but I adored him and was so excited to visit with him.
For those few days, it was just Ken and me. He even sent his boyfriend away while I was visiting so we could have uninterrupted time together. Our routine quickly fell into a rhythm: dinner out in the city, then back to his place to listen to music, talk, and share stories late into the night.
One evening over dinner, not far from Club Eagle, a well-known gay bar in San Francisco, my teenage curiosity got the better of me. I told Ken I wanted to check it out. His immediate response was a firm, flat “No.”
But I was fourteen and determined. So, like every teenager who wants something, I begged. I pleaded. I bargained. Finally, with a deep sigh, Ken relented, but only under strict conditions.
“We’re going to walk in,” he said, fixing me with a serious stare, “make one quick circle around the main bar, and then walk right back out. No stopping, no questions, no exceptions.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
The moment we stepped inside, the noise and energy hit me like a wave. Ken stayed directly behind me, his hand firmly on my back, guiding me like a secret service agent hustling a VIP. As we moved through the crowd, I could hear him muttering under his breath, “Your mother is going to kill me for this.” That image, Ken nervously shepherding me through a sea of leather and laughter, still makes me smile today.
I don’t think I was inside for more than thirty seconds, but to this day I can say I went to the San Francisco Eagle in 1986.
Afterward, we walked home under the city lights, and Ken never scolded me for pushing him into that detour. That was Ken’s way. He was protective, but never judgmental. He had a gift for making me feel safe and seen, like my thoughts and questions actually mattered.
Back at his place, he’d tell stories late into the night about Vietnam, about dating Janis Joplin, and about the wild, messy days of his youth with my mom.
Ken was everything I wanted to be: tough, confident, and unapologetically himself. He was strong and masculine, but also deeply kind and openhearted. At fourteen, I didn’t realize how fleeting those nights would be or how much they would shape me.
A few years later, Ken would be gone. Another life stolen by the AIDS epidemic that devastated the gay community. But in the summer of 1986, he was simply Ken: alive, vibrant, and fully himself, sharing pieces of his world with me that I still carry in my heart to this day.
Ocean City Chaos
The day after I returned home from California, I barely had time to unpack before my friend, and pseudo–big brother, John pulled up in his Volkswagen Thing. John is Sue’s nephew, and I’d grown close to him during our years living with Sue. At nineteen, he was everything I thought was cool: older, fearless, and ready for adventure.
“Pack a bag,” John said with a grin.
He told me he was heading to the beach and wanted me to come along. I figured my mom would say no. After all, I’d just gotten back from California and was already planning to go to the beach with her in a couple of days. It felt like pushing my luck to go early.
But when I asked, she didn’t even hesitate.
“Sure,” she said with a smile. “Have fun.”
Her answer surprised me, but I wasn’t about to question it. I grabbed my things, hopped into John’s Volkswagen Thing, and off we went, two beach-bound co-conspirators, ready for whatever adventure waited ahead.
We headed straight to Ocean City, Maryland with no place to stay, no plan, and zero adult supervision. John promised we’d figure it out when we got there. And somehow, we did. Each night, we partied until sunrise and crashed at whatever house we ended up at.
For a couple of days, I felt like a rock star, reckless and free in a way that now makes me shake my head, but back then, it felt electric.
Bethany Beach Magic
When our Ocean City escapade wound down, John dropped me off in Bethany Beach, Delaware, where my mom was staying for a few days. Almost immediately, I fell in with a group of kids my age.
We spent our days playing volleyball on the beach, our skin sunburned and salty, and our nights gathered around bonfires, music drifting up to the stars. It felt like something out of a movie, pure, unfiltered teenage magic.
Somewhere in that blur of sand and firelight, I met Kristen, a girl from Wisconsin, who became my summer crush. She was sweet and funny, and in the way of young love, everything felt bigger than life itself. For a few days, she was my whole world.
Before the trip ended, my newly found beach friends and I celebrated my fifteenth birthday on the beach. The next morning, reality came rushing back as we packed up and headed home, summer fading into memory as I braced myself for sophomore year of high school.
Looking Back
At the time, I didn’t see the threads connecting all these moments. My grandfather living openly with his boyfriend, Ken’s stories and laughter echoing through his San Francisco apartment, John’s wild carelessness, Kristen’s smile across a bonfire, and the electric rush of my favorite band playing live under the California night sky.
Only years later did I understand that this summer wasn’t just about freedom or fun. It was about witnessing the many shapes love can take: romantic love, familial love, and the fierce, quiet love of a community that existed even when the world refused to see it. The presence of my grandfather and Mike, and the time I spent with Ken, were more than just family visits, they were living examples of how queer people shaped my world, teaching me resilience, joy, and pride long before I had the words to name it.
That summer was a bridge between childhood and adulthood, between the sheltered world of home and the wide, messy, beautiful world beyond it.
I didn’t know it then, but that summer was the calm before the storm. The joy, freedom, and love I felt would soon be tested in ways I couldn’t imagine. When the season changed, so did I, and nothing would ever be the same again.