Translator: Leonardo Silva Reviewer: Mile Živković
Over the past three years,
I have learned that, when you share a personal story with someone,
it bonds you to that person,
maybe only temporarily, but even a small conversation,
the most minor exchange of ideas or experiences,
can impact another person greatly.
A ripple effect occurs the more that we tell our personal truths
and, eventually, the world can and will be changed
by the power of the personal story.
In spite of economic, religious, political, sexual or racial differences,
we all endure the same tragedies and relish the same triumphs.
Imagine if we all took a moment
to share our own beautiful stories and experiences with each other.
We'd recognize that we are all pretty much the same.
Love and loss are universal themes, both woven into each of our lives
and, yet, we so easily isolate ourselves from one another,
and in a world that can often seem
like it's crumbling at the hands of injustice, hatred and fear,
it's easy to feel alone or different, and often both.
I grew up in Montana,
which is one of the largest and most conservative states in the US.
It was a beautiful and relatively safe state to grow up in,
but it was easy to feel lonesome
in a place that seems like cows and horses outnumber people,
and I always felt especially solitary because, even as a young boy,
I knew that I was different.
During junior high and high school
was when my peers really started to notice my differences.
I experienced a significant amount of bullying
and was often a subject of school and church gossip.
The hateful words and homophobic insults ate away at me,
but I kept my pain hidden from almost everyone,
including my best friends and my family.
I didn't feel safe or comfortable opening up about the fact that I was gay.
Depression persisted.
I felt like there was no escape in high school.
I felt like there was no light at the end
of what had become a very long, dark tunnel, and I wanted out.
I contemplated suicide and was convinced that there was not one person out there
who could ever possibly understand the extent
of the loneliness or the pain that I felt.
As a way to cope with the depression, I started to record video diaries.
It was much easier for me to open up to a camera lens
than it was to another person,
but, in spite of the pain and the sadness,
a part of me remained hopeful that love existed.
I believed that, if I could just leave Montana, go somewhere new,
then I could possibly meet someone who would love me for me.
And, eventually, I did escape. Woohoo!
That was awkward.
(Laughter) Sorry.
I don't know what that was.
(Laughter)
I did escape.
I moved to Los Angeles, California.
I made new friends who accepted me and things got better.
I even got a really cool job, working for an entertainment news show,
and, through a coworker,
I was introduced to an incredibly handsome young man named Tom.
Tom and I fell in love very quickly.
However, for months, we pretended that we were just "friends,"
even though pretty much everyone around us figured out the truth
long before we actually told them.
We didn't feel comfortable showing affection in public
or even in front of our friends.
So, we developed a secret code: we would tap each other three times,
which meant "I love you,"
or we would just say the words "tap, tap, tap" out loud,
because no one knew what it meant, it was our secret.
Eventually, we did come out to our friends
and, not long after, we decided to come out to our families.
And my family was happy and supportive.
Tom's parents, however, were furious.
They blamed me for making Tom gay.
His father pulled a shotgun on him
and told him that he should have taken his homosexuality to the grave.
His mother insisted that he seek professional help,
to cure him of what she believed was a sickness.
I couldn't understand how his parents,
the ones who were supposed to love him the most,
were willing to fight so hard to keep him from being himself
and from being happy.
We faced many challenges,
but Tom and I went on to build a substantial life together.
We started a business, adopted a dog, and even bought our first home together.
We traveled to dream destinations like Egypt, Paris and Brazil.
We were so in love.
With Tom, I felt like I could finally share the parts of myself
that made me feel ashamed or scared,
and he didn't judge me, he loved me unconditionally,
and he believed in me and encouraged me to share more of myself with others.
Not long after, in 2010,
Tom gave me this promise ring.
We'd been in a relationship for nearly six years,
and we both knew in our hearts
that we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.
We couldn't legally get married in California just yet,
but, when the time came, we would be ready.
In the note that came along with the ring,
Tom wrote that 2011 was going to change our lives forever.
He was right.
On May 7, 2011, in a freak accident,
Tom fell from one of our best friends' rooftops,
while they were taking photographs, and died.
My world completely shattered.
All of the years of loneliness and bullying
paled in comparison to the numbing pain I felt of losing Tom,
and my pain was worsened when his family banned me from attending his funeral.
I was also told that, if I tried to attend the service, I would be attacked,
and, given that Tom and I had never had the freedom to marry,
and, as young men, we hadn't made wills,
I was powerless, there was nothing that I could do
and, as a result, I never got to properly say goodbye to Tom.
I went back to the hospital where Tom had been taken
just to try to find out more information about what had happened,
and they wouldn't tell me anything.
They said that I didn't have access to his medical records
because I wasn't his family,
but I told them that Tom was my family,
that we had a home together, a business together, a dog together,
that we planned on raising children together,
but none of that meant anything to them
because, in their eyes, Tom and I were just simply roommates.
I wasn't sure that I would ever find closure
and, after Tom died, I felt the same anxiety, isolation and sorrow
that I knew in high school,
and I even returned to filming video diaries,
which allowed me to vent my grief
without feeling like a burden on my friends and loved ones.
The following year was tough
and, as the anniversary of his death started to loom over me,
I became determined to do something with all of the video diaries.
I wanted to turn the videos into something that could not only just tell my story,
but also educate others.
I wanted people to learn from my experiences
and to make the necessary arrangements with their loved ones
to avoid a similar tragedy,
and I also wanted to do something that would honor Tom
and the love that we had shared.
On May 7, 2012,
I posted a video to YouTube, called "It Could Happen to You,"
and I was anxious and scared.
I hated feeling vulnerable.
Yet, there I was, sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings
with anyone who felt like clicking "play."
In less than 48 hours, the video was viewed over 1 million times
and, within seven days, it had reached over 2 million views.
I was interviewed by local and national news programs,
and my story even ended up on the front page of two major newspapers,
back home, in Montana.
I was thrust into the spotlight,
and the parts of me that I had kept hidden for so long
were now being showcased in a very public way,
but it didn't seem to matter,
because I quickly started to realize that what was happening
was about something that was much bigger than me and Tom.
It was empowering, but terrifying.
I had had no formal training in public speaking,
I had no real knowledge about the Gay Rights Movement.
Yet, there I was, an unlikely and unqualified spokesperson
for the LGBT community.
And, not long after the video went viral, I was approached by a director
who wanted to make a documentary about me and Tom,
who believed that our story had the power to open hearts and minds.
Together we launched the most successful film crowdfunding campaign of that time
and, for a year, we worked on the documentary.
Once completed, the film "Bridegroom", which also happened to be Tom's last name,
had premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival,
where it was introduced by former president Bill Clinton,
and it went on to screen at dozens of film festivals
and had its world television premiere on the Oprah Winfrey Network.
I'm humbled to say that the film and its message
have deeply resonated with viewers.
I've heard from people from all walks of life,
who have said that my story has helped them.
Simply by opening up and sharing my story,
sharing the darkest and most personal parts of myself,
I've been able to connect to millions of people who, like me,
have been unable to identify with the world around them.
Teenagers have messaged me
and have said that my story made them rethink suicide,
and that it inspired them to stand up for themselves.
I've heard from people calling themselves "rednecks"
and strong religious conservatives,
who have said that my story helped them to understand
that everyone deserves the right to be happy
and that everyone deserves the right to love freely.
I've also heard from parents who have said that my story has helped them
to better understand and accept their own children.
I've shared my story many times over the past few years,
but I've also had the privilege of hearing other people's stories,
and I'm just honored to have met so many inspiring people
whose own experiences motivate me to continue speaking my truth
and to continue spreading the message of love.
My life completely changed the day that I uploaded that video to YouTube,
and not only because it went viral,
but because, for the first time, probably in my entire life,
I found my voice and I felt proud of who I was and what I was doing.
I had finally stood up for myself.
I stood up to the bullies of my past,
to the bigots of whom I'd always been scared,
and, perhaps most importantly,
I stood up to the demons in my own head.
I have found that we all have a story, a personal truth that deserves to be told.
It doesn't matter if you share it with a partner, a best friend,
or with an audience on YouTube,
but, please, tell your story, share yourself with others,
because the more that you do,
the more empowered you will feel to conquer your fears,
embrace your strengths and connect to something that's bigger than yourself.
And when you are willing to do that,
to connect to something that's bigger than you,
extraordinary things can happen.
I mean, I'm here, in Amsterdam,
giving a talk in front of all of you, lovely people, and it's surreal,
but I'm so grateful.
I'm grateful to have this opportunity to stand here today
to tell you that your story matters.
Sharing your story and living an authentic life
may not feel like big enough actions to change the world,
but, believe me: they are.
Not one single person ever saw these photos of Tom and me,
until after he died.
I'd always worried that our intimacy and love for each other
would be offensive to others.
I was afraid that we'd make our friends and family members uncomfortable.
I refused to post them online because I was afraid and ashamed
to reveal my truth,
but now, millions of people have seen these images
and have heard about our love.
We were together for six wonderful years
and, yet, we never, not even one time, held hands in public.
I understand now that these images and that love
are something of which I should never, ever be afraid or ashamed to show.
There are things about my relationship and my life
that I wish I would have done differently.
I've never been perfect and nor will I ever be.
I'm not an elected official or a therapist.
I don't run a non-profit organization.
I'm just one man struggling to find my place in this world
and to make some kind of difference in my life and in my community.
I've learned to tell my truth in the face of hatred
and in spite of threats of violence.
For too long, I felt like a small boy, suffocating in my environment,
worried that everyone would rather I'd just go away.
I was afraid to exist because I didn't think I mattered,
but I know now that I do matter,
that we all matter, our stories and our voices matter.
I choose to speak up for myself,
but also for those who are either too afraid or can't
because they live in places where they risk being harassed,
arrested or even killed.
I hope these individuals will find their voices some day,
but, until then and until all citizens are treated equally,
I will continue speaking my truth and I will continue sharing my story,
and I hope you will join me
and start sharing yours.
Thank you.
(Applause)