David CookSeveral weeks ago after church, I met a woman who told me a story about growing up in Chattanooga.
Growing up gay in Chattanooga.
“Every night, I would search the newspapers,” she said.
It was the ’90s; we were still a two-newspaper town. Each night, she would shut the door to her room, and read every line from the day’s papers, looking, searching, praying for a reference — a story, an interview, even just a few words — to someone else out there like her. Someone, anyone, out there who was gay.
“Anyone like me,” she said.