It was 1994. Two weeks before my graduate study began, I received an unexpected call: while originally passed over for a graduate teaching assistantship, one of the finalists had declined the offer; making me a recipient by default. If you could imagine a lottery winner's reaction, it would pale in comparison to mine at that exact moment. Finally, after a lifetime of struggling for academic acknowledgement, I had one chance to prove to the world-- and myself- that I might be able to accomplish something big. My goal was clear as a freshly windexed, gilded mirror: I would prove to that selection committee that I should have been top choice in the first place! 4.0 and no social life became my mantra. I contacted friends and family and gave them all the same message- don't expect to see or hear from me until my degree is complete. I was motivated more than any other time in my life. A committee of esteemed professors had given me a chance to become the person God always intended me to be-- confident, assured, WHOLE.
Little did I know this one opportunity would transform every fiber of my life, both professionally and personally. The experience would be exhilarating. Stressful. Heart wrenching and heart breaking. But most importantly, it would be transformative and life affirming. The threads of my life would soon weave together into a tapestry beyond my imagination.
Enter, stage left, Brandon Hoefle. Standing 6'2, with ginger hair and a casually-groomed beard, complete with a smile that could light up Manhattan, Brandon had a unique talent for electrifying your innermost passions and creating an almost false sense of empowering confidence in those around him. His laugh, always part cackle, became a trademark experience in Coleman Hall. He, along with three other graduate students, would serve as that academic year's graduate teaching assistants. And my life would never be the same.
Brandon and I immediately bonded. Kindred spirits. His yin to my yang. Our graduate student colleagues often remarked that "wherever Brandon was, Brent would be." And it was true. While my goals in graduate school were to avoid a social life, deny new friends, and focus on my primary task, that being to receive top honors in my graduate school, Brandon constantly reminded me that, "we don't have an infinite number of minutes to live in this life. Life is finite, dude."
Throughout our year-and-a-half serving as graduate teaching assistants, Brandon and I forged an indescribable bond. I ended his sentences. He forced me to live with the living. I made him laugh. He made me think philosophically. I had never experienced a friendship so smooth; so comfortable; so undeniably perfect. I vividly remember a snowy, winter day when I returned to my cramped, graduate apartment, to a simple voicemail message from Brandon: "I hope you aren't just busy studying and researching that term paper, I hope you're outside making snow angels!" Brandon always had a way of keeping things simple, and reminding me that life is only lived when it's lived.
One day, as I left one of my classes, Brandon stood outside, leaning against the wall. Smiling broadly he said, "I will never be the teacher you will be. Don't get me wrong, I love the experience, but you are alive when you teach." He made me promise him that day that regardless of what opportunities came in life, I would someday seriously pursue teaching as a profession. I laughed at him that day, and probably made a remark about him "dipping" into my lecture, but nevertheless, I was truly inspired and touched by his affirmation of my abilities in the classroom.
Brandon's master's thesis was truly innovative for the time. It was 1994. A time when the prospects of allowing openly gay men and women to serve in the military seemed like such a "radical" idea, and Brandon knew it was time to begin the dialogue. His uncle, an openly gay man, was someone he had always treasured. He knew his uncle hadn't always had an easy life, and was fascinated with how he faced a world that often mocked and spewed hatred towards him. Brandon's thesis studied, through qualitative means, how gay men "came out." Brandon spent hours interviewing men-- both old and young-- and quietly captured their innermost reflections about how they came to realize who, at the core, they were meant to be.
Graduation came as quickly as our program started, and Brandon and I shared the stage together. I had accomplished my task: 4.0 in my graduate studies. You'd think that was the end of the story, but it wasn't.
Brandon moved to Chicago and began working for a theatre company in lighting design. I started my first full-time job as a Direct Marketing Consultant for Lee Enterprises in Carbondale Illinois. Being away from Brandon left me lonely beyond comprehension. My yin had left my yang. Knowing only a couple people in town, and working a professional job for the first time in my life, I was left desolate and abandoned. I forged forward, worked diligently, and pretended like everything was just fine. But it wasn't, and I knew it.
In early November of 1995, Brandon called me with the most exciting news! He and his longtime girlfriend, Coe, had just become engaged. He wanted me to be his best man, and even better yet, wanted to come visit me for the weekend! I was over-the-moon excited about the impending nuptials and, most importantly, the quality time I would be able to experience with my dearest friend, Brandon that weekend. I spent the next several days cleaning my apartment in preparation for our adventurous and celebratory times ahead. Finally, my "kindred spirit" would be there to see, firsthand, my life in Carbondale, Illinois. And finally, I might be able to share with him something I had never shared with anyone in my life. After all, if I couldn't tell Brandon this, who in the world could I share it with? Surely he would understand. In fact, I had a complete Hallmarkish-experience mapped out in my mind when I finally divulged the one thing I had kept from every single living person on Earth. Brandon Hoefle was the only person in my life that I knew, without a single doubt, would not only refrain from judgement; he would be the beacon of comfort and acceptance I so desparately needed.
God had different plans that day. It wasn't meant to be. On Friday, November 10th, on route to Carbondale from Chicago, traveling on Interstate 57, my friend Brandon veered off the highway and drove off a steep cliff during torrential rains, hitting his head against the side rail of the windshield. He would die four days later. He was just 24.
When I was very young, a bully once took his foot and kicked me, right in between my legs with the force of an atomic bomb. I fell to the ground, retching, blinded by a pain I had never experienced, as the bully yelled, "you stupid faggot! Look at him, he's crying now!" I never thought I'd experience a pain that would come close to comparison, but losing Brandon was far more devastating. And to make matters even more devastating, I would be forever alone... with my secret.
I was completely convinced that God had taken Brandon from me because I intended to share my deepest secret with him that fateful weekend. Convinced that God was punishing me for planning to share with Brandon something that weighed on my heart, mind, and soul for approaching two decades, my stomach and mind retched with guilt.
You see, it was the 90s. A decade where the first President of the United States actually uttered a word never-before-heard on a State of the Union Address: "gay." A time when being open about your sexuality was still a decade away. Isolation was a common challenge for those still "in the closet", and I was a textbook example.
And here I was. Alone again. No one to trust.
For ten months, I experienced some of the deepest, darkest valleys of despair. My entire family tried everything they could to lift me out of the gray haze that seemed to encircle my every thought. I went to a grief counselor. I talked to anyone who would listen. My Sister sent me cards with uplifting messages every other day, for months. (I still the cards Natalie sent me that year, tightly bound in a red rubber band, tucked away in an antique dresser) I knew I was loved. I also knew people cared. But would they ever fully understand the private pain I carried in the loss of Brandon? Would I ever muster the courage to share the one secret that was locked in my heart, behind padlocks of unbreakable steel?
In late July of 1996, while driving down a country road in torrential rains, with my radio on full volume, something miraculous happened. Suddenly, as if mother nature had pressed the pause button, the rain stopped. The sun shone bright. And the clouds... they sparkled in the sky like diamonds. To make this dramatic scene even more spectacular, the most magnificent rainbow I've ever witnessed covered my windshield in a splendor that literally caused me to pull the car aside.
I sat in that car, with tears running down my face, and began to pray. God spoke to my heart and reassured me the promise He gives us all-- that we will all have eternal life and unyielding hope in a heaven void of darkness, pain and sadness. He also told me that the defining principle of His message is one of unconditional and unwavering love for all of His children. I praised God for giving me life. I praised God for bringing Brandon into my life. I praised God for making me who He designed me to be-- and for allowing Brandon to do the lighting design I witnessed in the sky that night. And then, after a short silence, the song that Brandon's fiance sang during his funeral began to permeate my car speakers. I knew then, without a doubt, Brandon was there, too. God knew I needed my guardian angel to send me a final message: to embrace my own rainbow, and find the pot of golden grace of peace at the end.
And so, I did. Within a month, I shared the one secret that had only a year before seemed so frightening, with several of my closest friends. By August, I met a tall dark haired, handsome man named Rich, who 21 years later remains at my side. I became a college professor, just as Brandon encouraged. I have traveled more than I ever imagined. I laughed as hard and as frequently as I could. I even made snow angels with Rich, under the St. Louis Arch in the middle of the most brilliant snowstorm. And I loved deeply.
21 years later, I sit here yet once again on the anniversary of his exit from our Earthly stage, with tears running down my cheeks, thinking of the precious friendship God blessed me with in Brandon. I've often said that every person you meet in life serves a purpose. Brandon's purpose in my life is something very few can claim: he gave me the courage to love myself enough to be truly happy. And, most importantly, he taught me that life truly is limited in its scope. You're right buddy, life is finite! I only hope mine continues to make you proud. Thank you for giving me your gift of friendship. The rewards have been endless and will remain in my heart forever.
