The Real World (and Then Some)
- Nico Sansegraw
- Jun 16
- 5 min read
Chapter Six:
“Son, we know you like boys, and that’s okay with us. We still love you,” my dad said, firm but calm.
I was sitting on the floor in front of the TV. My back was to him and Mom. I remember the show that was on — MTV’s The Real World — and I just kept watching, like if I stared hard enough, the moment would pass. I felt a tear roll down my cheek, but I didn’t say anything. I just sat there breathing, quiet, with a million thoughts running through my head and none of them sticking. I gave a small nod to let them know I heard, but I didn’t know what else to do.
I was 14. A freshman. And yeah, obviously they already knew. Everyone did.
Growing up, I played with Barbies. I twirled in the living room like I was on stage. I was obsessed with Miss America and always picked my winner before the judges did. I had a Cabbage Patch doll I treated like a newborn. I used to do cartwheels through the kitchen until Dad would tell me to knock it off before I broke something. He once threatened to take the doll away, but Mom stepped in. Thank God.
Being “different” wasn’t something I tried to hide. It was just who I was. Loud. Soft. Dramatic. Sensitive. A mix of things that didn’t match what most boys around me were supposed to be. I didn’t know to be ashamed of it until other people made me feel like I should be.
That night, though, I felt embarrassed. Like I’d been caught in the act, even though I hadn’t done anything. They weren’t yelling. They weren’t angry. But I still felt exposed.
My dad did all the talking. Which, looking back, I know wasn’t easy for him. He was a blue-collar guy from a small town in Missouri. Raised in a time and place where you didn’t talk about feelings. You didn’t cry. You didn’t sit your son down and tell him it’s okay to be gay.
But he did. And even though we don’t speak anymore, I’ll always be proud of him for that moment. He did the right thing. No dramatics. No long speech. Just love.
“It’s okay that you are this way, son. We love you very much. That never changes,” Mom said. Her voice was shaking. I didn’t look back, but I could hear her crying.
They hugged me from behind and then went upstairs like it was just another night.
I sat there, still watching MTV, still staring at the screen, trying to act like I wasn’t completely cracked open inside. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t painful. But something had changed.
I remember thinking, now what?
The cat’s out of the bag. Who am I now? Do I have to tell people? Do I owe anyone a speech?
Everyone already knew anyway, right?
The next day, I was sitting in history class. I had a spiral notebook out, and instead of taking notes, I was scribbling names. Names of friends I wanted to tell. People I hoped wouldn’t care. I wasn’t planning some big announcement, but I figured if my parents could accept it, maybe it was time I stopped hiding.
But I didn’t tell anyone that day. Not in the way I imagined.
My schedule had me in Mr. Richards’ classroom for two different classes. I couldn’t even tell you what they were, but I liked him. He had this dry sense of humor that cut through everything. “Okay, class, welcome back. Happy Monday. Did anyone get married this weekend?” he’d ask, and we’d all laugh. One time, someone actually raised their hand.
Some of the same kids were in both classes, and someone had been paying attention to where I was sitting. Because when I walked in for the second period, I looked down at my desk and saw the word “FAGGOT” written in black marker.
I froze. Looked around the room. Ricky Turntine was staring right at me. He’d failed a year and landed in my class. A cowboy, the kind of guy who was always ready to fight. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in prison now. He could’ve beat my ass.
I kept my head down. Mr. Richards asked if I was okay. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom. On the way, I ran into Ms. Huff, my history teacher.
“Sansegraw, how’s my baby boy?” she asked like I hadn’t seen her three hours earlier.
“I’m okay,” I said. She gave me a quick pat on the back and walked on.
I splashed water on my face in the bathroom and stared at myself. I was mad at myself. Mad for not saying anything. Mad for not being brave enough to talk to the teachers I knew had my back. I wiped my face, walked back to class, and tried to erase the word on my desk. I got most of it off. The rest I just tried to ignore.
The end of the day dragged. I was quiet. In my head. Trying not to make a scene. I got a ride home — I don’t even remember who it was — and sat on the couch until I got the nerve to call Brittany.
She came over, no questions asked.
I told her I had something to tell her, but instead of just saying it, I made it into a game. “You have to guess,” I said like it was fun.
She started writing down guesses. “Are you sick?” “Do you have a crush?” “Did you get in trouble?” All wrong, and obviously, all a setup.
Finally, I grabbed the pen, wrote “I’m gay,” and slid the paper back to her.
She smiled. Reached over. Hugged me. No freakout. No questions. Just love. We laughed. It was awkward and sweet. The kind of moment you don’t realize is big until way later.
I think about that time a lot. About how easy they all made it. My parents. My teachers. My best friend. Nobody made me explain myself. Nobody made me prove anything. They didn’t ask for a backstory. They just showed up and showed love.
And I don’t take that for granted.
Ever.
The Hay Bales to Halsted series consists of stories and experiences from the perspective of Nico Sansegraw. These narratives are solely his own and do not reflect the views or opinions of GRAB Magazine. This series is intended as a work of storytelling and in no way seeks to glorify, endorse, or promote any specific subject matter. It is simply a story—nothing more, nothing less.
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