I Have Something to Tell You: A Memoir

Preface

At the beginning of March 2020, we ended my husband’s historic campaign for president of the United States. Within just a few days of our tearful goodbye to the campaign trail as well as our dedicated and talented staff and enthusiastic supporters, Peter and I headed to Los Angeles in order for him to guest host an episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live! While he was working with the show writers, I turned my attention to planning a much-needed vacation. With the campaign over, Peter had given me the green light to choose the destination. We were in desperate need of some quality time together, since we had spent the majority of the last year apart from one another on the campaign trail, oftentimes seeing each other only at fundraising events or debates and then heading our separate ways the next morning. Him to Iowa, me to New Hampshire. Him to South Carolina, me to Nevada. And so on, for over a year.

Even after the campaign ended, Peter was immediately swallowed up in endless thank-you calls and interviews. We had gone from him being on the other side of the country to being on the other side of the office door. I missed him desperately even though he was now, technically, home. Out on the road, when the campaigning got to be too much for me, Peter would put his hands on my shoulders as we looked out the window of our hotel and say, Just imagine the vacation we can take when this is all over, love. I’d roll my eyes and uh-huh him. I knew he was trying, as we always were, to imagine a return to normal. I just knew normal was slipping away and that life (like our anonymity and time together) would likely be forever changed. After all, should you win the race, it’s not as if you take a we just won the Super Bowl trip to Disney World. And if we didn’t win, what would come next? It wasn’t just the longing for a few relaxing days away with him. Deep down, I knew what was truly bothering me: The worry that he was slipping away from me, too. That the life we knew before the race wouldn’t be coming back. I loved watching Peter succeed, but to be honest, the further he rose in the polls and the further the campaign moved along, the more I began to worry that normal might never return.

Now, as I sat up in bed with my laptop open in our LA hotel room, I held him to it. Can we be on a beach by next weekend? I asked. Ha! he said as he paused to think about the schedule. Sure. He grinned. Spontaneity isn’t necessarily Peter’s MO, so this surprised and delighted me. See how far our [airline] miles will take us and I’m in, he said as he kissed me on the forehead before rushing out to the door to rehearsal. As a devoted loyalty-points and airline-miles fanatic, I immediately plunged into planning. Like something from a cheesy gay romance novel, I envisioned us cuddled up, watching the sun dip below the horizon on some exotic sandy beach far away from CNN town halls and buzzing iPhones. No scary death threats. No annoying Twitter feuds with bad-faith actors. No 3 a.m. wake-up calls and soggy airport breakfasts. Just the two of us, finally exhaling and coming home to the life we left behind. Returning to normal.

Yet by the time we were on a plane headed back to Indiana, I was canceling that same vacation as the country, and the world, was quickly thrust into lockdown in the grip of the deadly COVID-19 pandemic. Ever the lemons-into-lemonade guy, Peter surprised me with an alternative plan: he would finally help me sort and clean every closet, bedroom, and bookshelf in our house. (Though it may be hard to believe, this was actually very exciting, since Peter tends to hold on to every book, sweatshirt, and magazine.) We reacquainted ourselves with the kitchen, spending nights cooking alongside each other—a welcome change from the fast-food-heavy campaign diet. We took long walks with our two rescue dogs, Buddy and Truman, who were very happy to have us home. And, like many other Americans, we made the best of spending all of our nights at home, reading mountains of ignored books and binge-watching what seemed like every show on Netflix. A pretty reasonable trade-off for our health and safety.

Fast-forward one year later and here we are, isolation the new normal. Our nation still in lockdown as the pandemic rages, taking far too many lives, shuttering family businesses, and canceling in-person instruction. Vaccines are just now rolling out, and it feels like we are finally headed in the right direction. Our country, thankfully, has also turned a corner politically. On the chilly morning of January 20, 2021, tiny snowflakes floated down onto the steps of the Capitol as Joseph Biden and Kamala Harris were sworn in as president and vice president of the United States. The sun, almost ceremoniously, began peeking her much-needed warmth through the gray clouds just as the program began. Peter and I sat on the steps below facing the podium, our legs pushed together under a thin blanket with the inaugural presidential seal sewed onto the corner. It was a chilly morning, but the air was indeed full of hope. Prospective incoming cabinet members and administration staff mingled with one another in their masks and parkas. Our country was in desperate need of change (and leadership), and it had finally arrived. Peter and I had spent the last few months aggressively campaigning for the Biden-Harris ticket, as well as other down-ballot races, and fundraising for nonprofit organizations that were hit hard by the COVID-19 pandemic, participating in over two hundred virtual events from our home office. During that time, there was a lingering uncertainty about Peter’s future and where his potential opportunities would take us, so I couldn’t quite yet focus on what was next for me. Now, with a new administration, which includes Peter, and an inspiring incoming cohort of progressive representatives, it felt as if the country, politically, was headed in the right direction again. I was so happy for him, and for the country, but I was also more than ready, after almost two years of focusing on politics, to roll up my sleeves and figure out where I’d go from there as well.

With Peter already in DC, I took charge of what I could, which then meant packing up our things in Indiana. Time, however, was not on my side. Just a few days before Peter was to be sworn in as the first openly LGBTQ Senate-confirmed cabinet official in American history, as the nineteenth secretary of transportation, a snowstorm was headed for DC. I needed to be there for the ceremony, and I couldn’t risk being snowed out. So, I hastily loaded up the car as full as I could, put the dogs in the backseat, and made the twelve-hour drive east, switching between audiobooks and show tunes, pulling up to our new home at three o’clock in the morning. Buzzing from one too many energy drinks, I was wide awake as Peter slept on my shoulder. With just a mattress on the floor, a toaster box for a nightstand, and the dogs curled up on a blanket at the foot of the bed, I stared at the ceiling, once again wondering what the hell we were getting ourselves into.

On the morning of September 1, 2020, the day this book was first published, I was a bundle of nerves. I was so nervous for people to read what I had written. Stories I had never shared before, not even with my own family and friends. Vulnerabilities I knew would cause people to talk, and feedback and reflection I knew would have certain politicos raising their eyebrows. As I paced the house, mindlessly scrolling through Twitter, I stumbled upon a video that stopped me dead in my tracks. A young man, whom I’ll call Theo, was clutching a copy of my book close to his chest while he wept and celebrated its release. He had waited months for it to arrive, he explained, and now, finally, it was in his hands. From what I could deduce, Theo hadn’t even cracked it open yet, but he was elated, nonetheless, by its arrival. Theo had followed Peter and me closely on the campaign trail and found belonging within a wider network of LGBTQ Team Pete followers in his hometown and on social media. Now, this book, he explained, was something more than just personal stories and campaign accounts. It was a tangible sign of hope. An artifact of much-needed change. Before he even began reading the introduction, Theo knew this book believed in him. He knew this book was a safe space, a book that says, You belong.

I was asked a lot of questions while on tour for this book (mostly virtual, from my dining room table, due to the COVID-19 restrictions). After a year of invasive questioning on the campaign trail (How will you have children? Who’s the wife in the relationship? Do you think you’re qualified to be first gentleman?), it was hard to catch me off guard. Then, during a friendly interview with an LGBTQ reporter, I was simply asked to describe when I first saw myself in a book, and I was stumped. As a gay man? I thought. I couldn’t think of one example. I paced the room, buying time, while I racked my brain. I didn’t want to seem unread or ignorant, but I really couldn’t think of any book I read during my childhood where I saw my queerness mirrored and positively represented. It wasn’t until the age of twenty or so, as a sheltered and semi-closeted theater major in Wisconsin, that I came face-to-face with gay characters on the page, in a course on queer representation in American theater. Reading the works of playwrights like Tony Kushner, Terrence McNally, and Larry Kramer was transformative for me. At one point, while reading Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in a drama class, I clarified with a professor that Brick might be…gay?

Might? she said. Oh, Chasten, he’s definitely gay.

Mind. Blown.

During my childhood, however, there was a different type of book I poured myself into. I remember as a young reader, every year or so, eagerly waiting outside a local bookstore until midnight, anticipating the moment the store clerk would throw open the doors for a stampede of hormonal nerds who couldn’t wait get their hands on the latest volume of Harry Potter. My mother would stay warm in the car or mingle with other parents on the sidelines while she waited for me to scoop up my newest literary treasure. I saved up my money for special moments like this. I’d hurriedly and excitedly count out a stack of one-dollar bills that I kept neatly in my Velcro Harry Potter–themed wallet as a sleep-deprived cashier endured my presence. We’d rush home, and I’d immediately jump into bed, fully anticipating a night without sleep. While I was enchanted with the magical world in which Harry lived, what I didn’t realize at the time was that Harry, in many ways, was struggling with and navigating many of the same things I was: his identity, his place in the world, complicated friendships, his relationships with his family and those in power, and a crushing sense of obligation to others. No wonder I wanted to immerse myself in his world. It was an escape to a world in which I knew I belonged.

Of course, during the tour for this book, the author of Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling, was roiled in scandal as she doubled down on hateful and transphobic rhetoric that caused many Potter fans to question the future of the franchise, as well as their relationship with the series itself. Harry Potter meant a lot to young outcasts like me, and it is unfortunate that its reputation is now soiled by the author’s very vocal and small-minded worldview that seems so far removed from the inclusive and love-over-hate Potter world many nerds like me found acceptance in. Thankfully, there are now more books for kids to get lost and feel accepted and safe in. I am so thankful that Theo found those things in mine.

Reading wasn’t necessarily encouraged in my home growing up, and I didn’t have an extensive library to sink my imagination into. I also didn’t have a strong or memorable relationship with any English teachers or school librarians. To be honest, I had never thought much about my relationship with the school librarian before I met and began partnering with Kathy Burnette, a former school librarian who now owns and operates the Brain Lair, a bookstore in South Bend, Indiana. As a Black woman business owner, Kathy has cemented herself and her bookshop in the South Bend community as an essential outlet for younger generations and diverse voices, as well as a source of much-needed table-shaking in the literary world. Children and teenagers, especially BIPOC and LGBTQ youth, aren’t typically familiar with seeing themselves reflected on the pages of a book. Most characters in young readers’ books, from wizards to scientists, are depicted as white, male, and cisgender. While working with Kathy on the hardcover release of this book, I reflected on my own experience with literature in school. It was unfortunate that I, and many other queer people, didn’t have someone like her to sit me down in a safe space and ask about my passions, interests, or my identity. Even if I had been able to open up about myself to a teacher or librarian in conservative Northern Michigan, there weren’t many books to point me to. Thankfully, Kathy has amassed an impressive collection of inclusive, diverse books in her store, and now, sitting on those same shelves, is this book. The very book that Theo clutched to his chest as he tearfully expressed to the world how excited he was to own my story. I am so honored to share it with you, Theo.

My hope for you, as it was for Theo, is that within these pages you see yourself mirrored in anything, from the mundane to the hilarious, the painful to the delightful. If there is anything I can promise you within the pages of this book and throughout my story it is what I wish we saw more of in politics: transparency and vulnerability. There will be no skirting around the edges of the difficult and heartbreaking here. In politics we are often asked to keep those things locked up inside, as if vulnerability somehow makes us weaker. I have tried my very best to put everything on the page I could, because I so desperately wanted to read a book like this growing up. Kissing a boy for the first time? It’s here, don’t worry. Running away from home when you’re scared of losing everything? We’ll cover that, too. Mean people on Twitter? Oh, you know we’re going to unpack that. Whether you’re wondering about the early years or simply skipping to the last third to just read about the presidential race (can you believe some people do that!), I hope within these pages you are able to laugh, cry, and ponder in a space that is made just for you.

After sharing these stories with so many people over the last year, I have been touched by the response they have received. It has been a privilege to see readers’ reflections on love, friendships, coming out, reconciling with family, and the importance of living truthfully and proudly. I’ve enjoyed hearing from young people, and even adults, who see themselves in the early and awkward years of my rural, conservative boyhood, as well as from couples who have been together longer than I have been alive, who write to me reflecting on the darkest corners of their closeted lives, and their now joyful years of loving marriages. I’ve loved reading and listening to your reflections on everything from finding pride in your very existence (even when it’s sometimes alone) to your never-ending search for belonging and friendship (even with the inevitable breakups and letdowns). Hearing from readers young and older, straight or LGBTQ, has meant the world to me. I believe sharing your authentic story, plus listening and making space for others to do so, is a powerful thing. I am so grateful to all those who have picked up this book to learn more about mine. I hope that you, too, find power and strength in your own story, whether it be tear-jerking or hilarious. I, for one, cannot wait to hear it.

Introduction: Everything and Nothing

A couple of weeks before my husband officially announced he was running for president of the United States, he and I were eating dinner at an unassuming Thai restaurant in DC, enjoying an increasingly rare evening alone after a grassroots event for his exploratory committee. That night was the first time I’d introduced Peter, who was speaking to a crowd of hundreds of people, and afterward, security ushered us quickly out the door and into a car. On our way out, flashes of sneak-attack selfies and hands grabbing at my shirt were surprising; the energy in the room had been electrifying and wonderfully supportive, but also intense. We hadn’t even launched yet, and here we were, filling large rooms to capacity and getting mobbed at the doorway. The fact that we needed crowd control at all still felt surreal.

We were disappointed that we hadn’t been allowed to stay and mingle with the audience, but we soon realized we could use this as an opportunity for some much-needed alone time. Once we were in the car, the team finally agreed we could have a date night, meaning we could grab dinner and go to bed when we wanted. Though the committee had only been up and running for a couple of months at that point, my understanding of luxury had already been completely transformed: getting Thai food and falling asleep at 10:30 p.m. felt like a weeklong vacation in a Tuscan villa.

Our dinner was mostly uneventful, but on our walk back to the hotel, we started to attract attention. Maybe it was the spring weather, but folks were excited to see a political couple out and about, and we were happy to oblige requests for photos and signatures. As we walked down 14th Street, I saw that a small group standing to our left were pretty much staring, and an older woman in the group looked particularly starstruck. We smiled and continued walking, but when I peered over my shoulder, I saw that the woman was following us, and I could see she was already getting emotional. I stopped Peter just as she touched his shoulder to turn him around, and she immediately began to tear up. I’m so sorry to bug you guys, she said. It’s just—I’m the mother of two gay children and what you’re doing for this country and for them… I am just so proud of you and so happy you’re getting out there. Her children had caught up with her—they were a little embarrassed, but excited to meet us, too. Hi, we’re the gay children, the daughter joked as an introduction.

We all shared a laugh, hugged, and took a family photo together, and Peter and I walked away, hand in hand, overcome with joy. People were watching us and responding to our message! But at the same time, that brief encounter made it clear we had a huge responsibility. We knew we had to get this moment right.

Until that evening, I’d never considered that I could make someone’s mother cry just by being myself. In 2019, almost overnight, I went from being a middle-school teacher from Traverse City, Michigan, to becoming a person strangers looked to for guidance, reassurance, and the perfect reaction GIF on Twitter. I’d always understood my work as an educator to be about making a small difference in the lives of my students—I never thought I’d be making waves on big issues as one part of the first openly gay couple with a real chance at the White House. The pressure was enormous. I probably wasn’t as ready as I could have been, but that didn’t matter—I learned the hard way that a presidential campaign is a matter of building the plane as it’s taking off.

How did I get here? First, some background: in 2018, after three years of dating, I married Pete Buttigieg, the mayor of South Bend, Indiana. (Though you’ll notice I call him Peter, because that’s what he goes by with friends and family.) At the time I had no idea we’d be celebrating our one-year anniversary on the campaign trail, but just a couple of months after our wedding, Peter and I discussed him running, and I supported it wholeheartedly. As my partner, he had helped me feel safe and believe in myself—I thought he could do something similar for the rest of the country.

I’d never thought about what a spouse does on a political campaign, and that’s by design. Political spouses are supposed to be everything and nothing at the same time, serving as the perfect supporter for the candidate by working nonstop without ever stealing the spotlight, messing things up, or getting in the way. There’s only one star, as many political operatives will tell you when you work as a surrogate, and it’s not you. At the same time, the spouse plays a crucial role both in front of the cameras and behind the scenes. You know the candidate the best. You know what picks them up, especially when they’re on two hours of sleep and have to go into their sixth interview of the day—you’re on call for when the candidate needs to get into the right headspace. Actually, you’re on call for everything. You show up when the candidate can’t be there. You fill in all the gaps. By virtue of your marriage, you’re required to be known to the public as the candidate’s spouse at the very minimum, and you’re expected to do a lot more than that.

Of course, I always wanted to help in whatever way I could. I love the guy—that’s why I married him. But campaigning is… a lot.

Beyond the relentless schedule and the high stakes, I wasn’t prepared for what having to exist in public on the national stage would do to me, my self-image, and my self-worth. Most people have gotten to know me over the last two years through the stories that have run about me in the media, or they’ve made assumptions about me based on my marriage (or even my social media). While my new platform has afforded me incredible opportunities that I wouldn’t trade for anything, the way my life seemed to be getting away from me was frustrating. Although I never thought I’d want to write a book, I started to feel like I needed to tell my own story, as cheesy as that might sound. The more time I spent out on the campaign trail reflecting on my own life and seeing myself in other people’s stories, the more I realized that the experiences and memories I was scared of, embarrassed of, or keeping hidden weren’t as weird, mockable, or inappropriate to discuss in the context of national politics as I’d assumed they were. They were just real, the truth. Even more remarkable, people seemed to appreciate hearing about them.

Because the fact is, my story isn’t rare. In fact, it’s pretty common. I grew up in a conservative small town, with loving parents who worked so hard to support me but didn’t know many gay people before I came out to them, terrified, at age eighteen. I lived my entire adolescence in shame, feeling like I’d never fit in in my high school or my community, and even after I came out, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this essential fact about me meant I’d never find love or have a family. Despite being a goody-two-shoes high school student and working multiple jobs since I was legally allowed to do so, I struggled to finish college, and by my midtwenties I was sitting on about $100,000 of student loans and medical debt. I lived paycheck to paycheck for years after college, desperately looking for some sign of a happy, stable future, and I often didn’t know if I was going to make it.

I certainly never thought I’d find myself living with a politician, but the experience has shown me that this story of mine isn’t apolitical. Politics is in all our living rooms. It’s around our kitchen tables and in our mailboxes. Whether I was hearing the stories of young queer people who’d been kicked out of their homes and didn’t know what to do next, or talking to factory workers who were afraid of what was going to happen to their jobs, or hosting a roundtable with fellow teachers who felt they weren’t getting the support they needed, I was constantly reminded that Americans should be able to see themselves in the people tasked with representing them at the highest levels of government.

So that’s why I’m here now. We’re currently living through a rapid shift in politics. (As this book goes to print, our country is grappling with the COVID-19 pandemic, as well as a long-overdue upheaval in the way we discuss and act on racial injustice and police brutality.) I think Peter and I are part of a group of young politicians and activists who have a unique opportunity to reimagine the world that’s emerging. I don’t want to waste the chance I’ve been given to do my part just because I came by it swiping through a dating app while I was wasting time at