When I knocked on my mom and Debi’s door in the fall of 1990, I had the girl and a safe place to land. But I didn’t yet have a future, and I was determined not to lose Stephie, or myself, again.
My mom and Debi welcomed me home with open arms, even after the way I’d left Delaware. I was living in their unfinished basement, or at least sleeping on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by boxes, old furniture, and a space heater. To me, it was heaven. It was safe, it was steady, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t running.
Still, as the months went by, I could feel something building inside me. I had love. I had stability. But I didn’t have direction. I couldn’t see a future that looked like the one Stephie deserved.
Treading Water
That winter and spring, I bounced between odd jobs. I cooked at Chili’s for a while, delivered pizzas, and spent some time working in a pet supply warehouse thanks to a friend of my mom’s. It was hard work and honest, but it didn’t feel like progress. I was living paycheck to paycheck, barely making enough to cover gas, food, and my share of small bills.
Stephie was a senior in high school barreling toward graduation, and we were inseparable. We spent every moment we could together: drives, late-night talks, small adventures that made ordinary days feel special. She was in love with me despite my mess, and I knew I couldn’t keep asking her to believe in a guy sleeping on a mattress in his mom’s basement.
Her parents welcomed me into their home and always treated me with kindness and warmth. I can only imagine what was going through their heads. Who is this nineteen-year-old high-school dropout dating their daughter? If they ever had concerns about me, which I’m sure they did, I never knew it. Their door was open; they fed me, trusted me with their daughter, and treated me with nothing but fondness and respect. I’m grateful for how they never judged me and trusted Stephie and me to find our own path.
When her parents left town on vacation or to visit family, Stephie would use the excuse that she had to work so she could stay home. I’d crash at her place, and it felt like we were adults living on our own. Sure, it wasn’t real, we didn’t have the weight of a mortgage or other adult responsibilities, but it showed me what life could look like for us.
Finding My Place
Stephie and I also took a few trips to Kentucky to spend time with her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other family. I loved her Kentucky family.
One of my favorite memories from that time was the first trip we made to Kentucky together. We were going to stay with her dad’s parents, Mama Mary and Papa Gene. After an eight-hour drive, we hopped out of the car, walked around to the back door, and just as we were about to go in, Mama Mary ran to the door shouting, “Stop! Don’t come in yet! Papa’s naked in the kitchen!”
Stephie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. I thought to myself, Now this is going to be a fun family. (For the record, he was just walking from the bedroom to the bathroom and didn’t realize we’d arrived yet.)
But for all their spunk and humor, Mama Mary and Papa Gene were two of the most loving and welcoming people I’ve ever known. The feeling of love, warmth, and welcomeness in that house was tangible. I loved it there.
Mama Mary’s and Papa Gene’s daughter, Stephie’s Aunt Pammy, was cut from the same cloth: kind, funny, and full of life. But she also had a protective streak a mile wide. She loved her niece fiercely and wasn’t about to let some schlep from Maryland come in and mess up her life. Pammy was curious, watchful, maybe even a little skeptical of me at first. She asked questions, studied me, tried to figure out what kind of man I was.
After a while, though, I think she started to see the truth. I genuinely loved Stephie and treated her well. And once she realized that, her warmth and humor came through just like Mama Mary and Papa Gene’s. She and her husband, Uncle Randy, were every bit as welcoming and full of love. I always felt like I belonged there, too.
We also spent time with Stephie’s mom’s parents, Mama and Papa Dixon. They were a little more traditional Kentucky. The kind of people whose lives revolved around the small-town store they owned. Visiting them meant long hours sitting in the store, talking with family, friends, and the steady stream of customers who stopped in. There was always a pocketknife being sharpened, a gun being cleaned, and a few glances tossed my way that said, We’re watching you, son.
Stephie’s parents had warned me there might be a bit of an intimidation routine, and they weren’t wrong. Knowing it was coming didn’t make it any less nerve-racking. But as it turned out, it was all for show. Beneath the posturing, Mama and Papa Dixon were just as loving and welcoming as the rest of her family, and once they’d had their fun scaring the hell out of me, they made me feel completely at home.
The love I found in Stephie’s world reminded me of the one I’d grown up in. It had different faces and different stories, but the same warmth that didn’t care what other people thought. Still, it looked different. These were straight families, living what most people would call a “normal” life. I didn’t realize it then, but it marked the start of a quiet drift. Not away from the people or values I loved, but into a world that simply existed under a different kind of light. The movement was innocent, unconscious. The queer community that raised me had already taught me how to love and build family; I was just applying those lessons in a world the outside saw as easier to understand. My love for where I came from never changed. I just didn’t yet see how the path forward was slowly widening the space between us.
Running Out of Excuses
By June of 1991, I knew something had to change. I was nineteen, living with my mother, broke, and lacked direction. And I was in love with a woman who saw more in me than I deserved at the time.
I told myself I was figuring things out, but deep down, I knew I was just treading water, waiting for something to happen.
I wanted to give Stephie what she deserved. I wanted to stop waking up every day wondering what was next.
That’s when I walked into the Coast Guard recruiter’s office.
The Recruiter’s Door
While living at my mom and Debi’s, we’d have talks about my future and what options I had. My mom had mentioned the Coast Guard once, and it intrigued me. Search and Rescue. Law enforcement. Boats. Beaches. It sounded pretty cool.
The military could provide structure, a paycheck, a place to live, clothing, food, stability, and so many other things I needed. It could also provide a future for Stephie and me.
But most of all, I needed something I couldn’t quit.
Something to break my cycle of walking away when things didn’t look the way I wanted them to.
Something that would force me to show up, stay the course, and learn what it meant to stand for something.
So, why not check it out?
I headed to the Coast Guard recruiter’s office to learn more. On paper, I didn’t look like much of a recruit: nineteen years old, high-school dropout, no clear direction, and a résumé that screamed unreliable. But the recruiter looked me over and said, “Let’s give it a shot.”
The first question he asked was whether I’d taken the ASVAB. I hadn’t. He explained it was the military entrance exam everyone had to take. It would determine if I was qualified to join and, if so, which ratings I’d be eligible for.
That same day, he sent me to take the test and get a physical to see if I even qualified.
That night, they put all of us in a large room to take the exam. It was longer than I expected but not too difficult. Then they put us up in a hotel for the night before sending us to the Military Entrance Processing Station the next morning for physicals.
A few hours later, my recruiter came in, clipboard in hand, reading my results. He looked up at me, surprise written all over his face.
“You scored a 94 and qualified for every rating we have in the Coast Guard,” he said.
“Is that good?” I asked.
He grinned, nodded, and said, “Yeah, it’s really good. Let’s see when we can ship you out to boot camp.”
A few weeks later, he called to tell me I’d been accepted. I’d be leaving for boot camp on August 6th, 1991.
The Fourth of July
With a departure date on the calendar, everything shifted. Suddenly, my life had a countdown attached to it.
In July, about a month before I was set to leave, I knew what I had to do. We were so young, but we also knew we wanted to set out on this adventure together. We wanted to start our lives together.
I asked Stephie to marry me.
She said yes. It wasn’t a surprise, we’d been talking about it for months and knew we wanted to spend our lives together. This just made it official.
We told her parents on July 4th, 1991. Our plan was to tell them, then go as a family to celebrate at the fireworks show on Fort Meade.
I’d love to tell you a fairy-tale story about how excited they were, and how we all went to see the fireworks full of joy and laughter, but that’s not quite how it played out.
Her parents were shocked. Her dad took it the hardest. He didn’t go to the fireworks at all. In fact, he just lay on the couch, hands over his face, trying to process it. Stephie, her mom, her sister, and I went to the show, but there wasn’t much talking.
In the end, after some time to process the idea that their eighteen-year-old daughter was getting married, they embraced it. They helped put together a loving and beautiful wedding day for us.
Most importantly, Stephie and I were in love, excited for the future, and ready to see what came next.
Cape May
I shipped off to Cape May, New Jersey, on August 6th.
I thought I understood discipline, but I had no idea. Boot camp broke me down in all the right ways. The days were long, the nights short, and everything I thought I knew about toughness got stripped away. But beneath the exhaustion and pressure, something new was forming: confidence, purpose, pride.
When I graduated on September 27th, 1991, Stephie and my family were there to see it. Standing in that formation, wearing that uniform, I finally felt like I’d earned something. Not just because I’d been given a chance, but because I’d fought for it.
Two Rings and a Plane Ticket
After graduation, I came home on leave. Stephie and her family were working hard to get the wedding planned. The date had been set for November 9th, 1991. All I had to do was get to my first duty station and ask for leave.
My first duty station was a small search and rescue unit, Station Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. A place I couldn’t even pronounce, let alone find on a map. During the assignment selection process in boot camp, I butchered the name completely. But it was real. It was a start.
On October 15th, I reported to my first unit. Shortly after arriving, I found a small one-bedroom apartment and started getting settled. Then, a few weeks later, I returned home for one of the best weekends of my life.
November 9th, 1991, the day I married Stephie.
It wasn’t a lavish wedding, but it was filled with friends, family, and everyone who mattered most. It felt like a promise. Not just to her, but to the life we were about to build together.
The very next day, we boarded a plane to Michigan. Two kids, barely adults, starting a new life together in a world neither of us knew anything about.
Closing Reflection
When I think back to that year, 1991, it feels like the true beginning of everything.
I’d spent years drifting, lost between who I was and who I wanted to become.
Stephie gave me love.
Dave and Dave gave me friendship.
My mom and Debi gave me home.
The Coast Guard gave me direction.
And together, they gave me a future I couldn’t quit.
Looking back now, I can see how much of that year was shaped by what I’d already learned from home. Love can anchor you when nothing else does, and family isn’t defined by convention but by the way people show up for you. I didn’t know it then, but those same lessons continued quietly steering me toward the man I was becoming.
Up Next
Chapter 16 — The Privilege of Passing
Before I tell you about the Coast Guard years, the duty, the distance, the life Stephie and I built together, I need to stop for a moment. I owe some people an apology.
Thank you for reading Raised by Pride.
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The cliffhangers 🫠