The Confession by James E. McGreevey Page B

express myself sexually without hating myself. This was a lovely gift he gave me.
    When the lights were on again, though, my ease always vanished. Brian, on the other hand, eventually found a way to do what I could never even imagine for myself. As I later learned, he became a doctor and moved to New England, where he lived a casual, openly gay life with his life partner. My heart ached when I heard this—not that I was pining for him, but because I pitied myself for not finding the courage to make the same honest choices. Brian had given me an opportunity to choose truth, and I missed my chance.
    Since coming out I have spent a lot of time thinking about roads not taken. I realized that a part of my journey now must be to close that circle with him. So recently I called him on the telephone, not knowing what to expect. It turns out that he’d watched my coming-out speech live on CSPAN.
    â€œI could tell you were suffering,” he said. “Your coming out was much more public than mine. I’m so happy for you that it’s done.”

5.
    OF ALL MY FALSE IDENTITIES, THE STRATEGIES IN MY CAMPAIGN to be accepted, being a sworn Republican is the hardest to explain. In my later political life, I can only be described as a Kennedy Democrat, eager to pursue equitable treatment for the least fortunate. As my friend Eric Shuffler says, during my tenure as governor, being on the cutting edge of liberalism was the only aspect of me that was totally genuine.
    Perhaps I felt back then that walking the conservative line would help keep me on the straight and narrow. That by tying myself to the rhetoric of the status quo I wouldn’t be tempted to drift the way of my heart—to go Brian Fitzgerald’s way, toward honesty and self-acceptance. But living an outwardly gay life in Carteret was not an option. I remained keenly aware that before Brian could do what he did, he was forced to leave home and settle elsewhere. Gay people are often forced to migrate to pursue their lives in freedom. I knew that, but I never wanted to leave behind my beloved family, my church, or the landscape of my childhood. It was easier to stay in a room falsely than to be sent out because of the truth.
    Still, conservatism was a bad fit from the beginning. In my generation the Republican standard-bearers have been less than upstanding. Nixon’s involvement with Watergate was disgraceful, and though I admired Gerald Ford for his role as a gentle conciliator, he left only a brief and shadowed mark on our history.
    By senior year of high school, I was looking beyond the lure of Republican politics to another solution: the priesthood. Despite my struggles, I had always been extremely devout and prayerful. I felt I enjoyed a genuinerelationship with God. I also believed that a calling to the Church could solve the problem of my sexual orientation by imposing the requirement of celibacy, just as it did for straight priests; it would equalize us, while helping in my efforts to deny my heart and climb toward grace. Such a vocation might even be easier for gays than straights, I thought—after all, we were already practiced in denial. Looking around at the priests who had touched my life, I thought I recognized more than a few homosexuals—honorable men, good teachers, but there was something about their lives (a loneliness? a higher purpose?) that seemed familiar to me, seemed encouraging.
    One priest in particular, a young guy from Ireland, seemed to empathize with my struggle personally. “You are called upon to dedicate your hands, your mouth, your heart, your feet—everything to Christ,” he counseled me. “Surrender everything to Christ. That is your amends.” I was proud when he suggested I had what it took to become a priest; for years that was something I’d prayed for. Between the lines, I also took him to mean that the pleasures of my body should be surrendered to the Church, and that he had done