It became obvious that no matter how I did it, disclosing this very private aspect of my life would be viewed by strangers through a political lens. And the closer I came to feeling ready, having told most of my close friends and alerted my campaign staff, the more it became not just a political question but a practical one. How, exactly, was I supposed to do this? The whole idea of having to come out irritated me—why should it be anyone’s business?—but I knew that in the current atmosphere, just casually mentioning it somewhere, or being seen out with a male date, would set off weeks or months of confusion, speculation, and clarification. What I needed to do was get this out there: simply, publicly, and clearly.
The churn of life in office doesn’t lend itself to reflection and preparation for important life decisions, but here again the military played a helpful role, in the form of a forced change of scene. Still in the Reserve, I owed the Navy two weeks a year of active duty for training, and in June I was to go to the Defense Intelligence Agency Headquarters in Washington for a course on military intelligence. Strange as it sounds, this stint of military duty was almost like a vacation. I would be expected to work just forty hours a week, a positively relaxing tempo compared to my schedule as a full-time mayor running for reelection. It was a kind of political Sabbath. There was time to work out, eat properly, catch up with old friends over dinner, and get a good night’s sleep. My phone would not be going off constantly in my pocket; it wasn’t even allowed inside the secure area. And no one, besides the occasional acquaintance I might run into from my Afghanistan days, would recognize me as anything but the rather nondescript Lieutenant Buttigieg. For someone living the frenzied life of a visible elected official, the precincts of Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, better known as JBAB, might as well be a Swiss resort.
I reported Monday morning to DIA headquarters at JBAB, collected an ID badge, and walked in past the Scud missile on display at the entrance and through the large, daylit atrium toward the core of the enormous building. Looking for a cup of coffee, I walked a long hall wearing my khaki uniform as hundreds of civilians and other uniformed members came and went. I glanced down at the insignia on my chest, conscious that the wartime deployment had added to my military résumé, more or less readable by scanning the color code of ribbons and insignia on an officer’s breast. On my right was a wall with framed pictures of the officials comprising our chain of command—President Obama, of course, and Secretary Carter. There was the photo of the director, General Stewart (his predecessor, General Flynn, had been forced out the previous year), and a succession of other generals, colonels, and other assorted senior officers. All this was par for the course at a large military installation, but when I got to the area with the coffee shop, barber, and path to the cafeteria, I was greeted by an unexpected display. It was Pride month, and a wall had been put up with colored stickers in a rainbow configuration. People were invited to write a message about how they supported their diverse DIA coworkers and stick it to the wall. Nearby, a poster advertised a speaker series on LGBT workplace issues.
Years earlier, when I’d first come out to a close college friend, he had patted me on the shoulder and teased: “Well, you didn’t make it easy on yourself.” Between being an Indiana elected official and a military officer, it was hard to tell which side of my professional existence was going to be less LGBT-friendly. But just a few years later, it was clear that the world was at least starting to change. After all, a bipartisan coalition had beaten back RFRA in Indiana. And the military had gone from firing any service member who tried to come out, to actively welcoming its “out” members. There was even hope that the Supreme Court would extend marriage equality across the land later that year. Neither Indiana nor the uniformed services were going to be on the cutting edge of social change, but, as I looked at this rainbow-colored exhibit in, of all places, the halls of the DIA, it now seemed being open about my sexual orientation might not be the career death sentence it had been less than five years earlier.
I had concluded that the simplest way to disclose this to my community was in writing, so during downtime in Washington I began taking notes for a short piece for the South Bend Tribune. I returned home and continued rewriting it over and over again, asking some friends to look over the drafts, until I felt I had gotten down what I wanted to say most. Still believing that “coming out” should someday be a non-event, I titled it “Why Coming Out Matters, and Why It Shouldn’t Have To,” but the paper’s editors shortened the headline to only the first half.
I asserted that sexual orientation doesn’t define someone, and should be accepted simply as part of who we are. “Being gay has had no bearing on my job performance in business, in the military, or in my current role as mayor,” I wrote. “It makes me no better or worse at handling a spreadsheet, a rifle, a committee meeting, or a hiring decision. I hope that residents will continue to judge me based on my effectiveness in serving our city—things like the condition of our neighborhoods, our economy, and our city services.”
The question I couldn’t answer for sure was: Would they?
THE ARTICLE WAS TO GO LIVE at six in the morning on June 16, and for once, I slept poorly. At dawn I was lifting barbells at the weight rack in my basement when text messages started lighting up my phone, coming in from friends, not so much in order of how close we were, as in order of how early they got up. I headed downtown as usual, where my first public event happened to be an outdoor pancake breakfast kicking off Bike to Work Week. South Bend’s full complement of TV reporters appeared, asking all kinds of questions about why I had come out when I did.
Was there someone I had met?
Was something damaging about to be revealed by political opponents?
Was I trying to make some kind of statement?
So much for the pancakes. I knew these reporters well, and the aggressive questions threw me off at first. One looked hungry for a scoop as he pressed me; another seemed half-hearted, almost embarrassed that his editors had instructed him to get this personal, while his cameraman looked at me with eyes that said, “Hey, man, just doing my job.” I told them that what I had to say was in the article, and returned to the importance of biking to work.
A couple hours later I was at a grand opening for a soup kitchen. More reporters, more questions—and not about the soup kitchen. I referred them to the article and repeatedly steered back to the issues of poverty and hunger that were impacting our city. Eventually they got the idea.
Around the community, people reacted in different ways. Inevitably, some of it was ugly—local TV stations covered a press conference by a newly invented group calling itself the South Bend Leadership Coalition, led by a fringe-right-wing activist who happened to live on my block. “The mayor’s announcement has created a crisis that goes to the heart of our political system,” their statement said. They went on to insist that this was a matter of grave political importance:
Is homosexuality now a consideration in hiring or in the granting of government contracts? Is support for the homosexual agenda now a requirement for employment or for the receiving of government contacts [sic]? Do homosexuals get favorable treatment when they apply for jobs or government contracts? Are other members of the Buttigieg administration homosexuals? If so, would they be willing to share this information with the public and explain whether this affects their ability to function as civil servants?