I Have Something to Tell You

A Memoir

Chasten Buttigieg

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781982138141
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER NOW WITH A NEW PREFACE A moving, hopeful, and refreshingly candid memoir by the husband of Pete Buttigieg about growing up gay in his small Midwestern town, his relationship with Pete, and his hope for America's future. Throughout the past year, teacher Chasten Glezman Buttigieg has emerged on the national stage, having left his classroom in South Bend, Indiana, to travel cross-country in support of his husband, former mayor Pete Buttigieg, and Pete's groundbreaking presidential campaign. Through Chasten's joyful, witty social media posts, the public gained a behind-the-scenes look at his life with Pete on the trail—moments that might have ranged from the mundane to the surprising, but that were always heartfelt. Chasten has overcome a multitude of obstacles to get here. In this moving, uplifting memoir, he recounts his journey to finding acceptance as a gay man. He recalls his upbringing in rural Michigan, where he knew he was different, where indeed he felt different from his father and brothers. He recounts his coming out and how he's healed from revealing his secret to his family, friends, community, and the world. And he tells the story of meeting his boyfriend, whom he would marry and who would eventually become a major Democratic leader. With unflinching honesty, unflappable courage, and great warmth, Chasten Buttigieg relays his experience of growing up in America and embracing his true self, while inspiring others to do the same.

One

1 Not That Kind of Camp

As the husband of a former mayor and presidential candidate, I realize that I’m the sort of public figure who, in Hollywood, might be described as D-list, if I made it onto any list at all. The problem is not just my awkward positioning in the middle of the Venn diagram connecting “figures the kids know about” and “figures people who watch cable news know about.” The last name Buttigieg obviously stands out, but my unusual first name can sometimes throw the whole name-recognition project off track before you get there. Buttigieg’s husband? What’s his name? It’s not uncommon for me to have to repeat it over and over again at the coffee counter until it is ultimately shouted back as “Chastain,” “Justin,” or “Charles.” I used to take great offense when my name was mispronounced—I always liked that it was unique, so why didn’t anyone else? With age, there came the realization that this would be my normal, that baristas are overworked and underpaid, and that if I wanted to streamline the coffee-ordering process I would have to assume an alternate identity. If it’s prudent, I tell people my name is James and move on with my life.

Unfortunately, when it comes to understanding just how I got this unique name, the story is dissatisfying and inconclusive; there is an answer, but an incomplete one. My mom used to take on shifts as a nursing assistant in addition to doing the books for our family’s landscaping business, and she swears that a woman she worked with at the hospital was putting on a Christmas play that featured a character named King Chasten. As soon as she heard it, she loved it. Of course, I’ve done extensive research, and I can’t find a King Chasten anywhere. There is an Arthurian ballad that contains a command “… king, chasten thy wife…,” but based on the way that text continues, I really don’t think my mom’s friend would be in a play based on it. Regardless, it’s not pronounced like the verb, which means “to have a restraining effect on” and which is the opposite of my personality (I hope). It’s pronounced with a short a and a hard t: CHAS-ten.

If anything, my name is an expression of my parents’ creativity. My parents, Terry and Sherri Glezman, are loving, dedicated people who live for their friends and family; they always made sure their children’s lives were full of little adventures (and some bigger ones). Their parenting philosophy was neither hands-off nor helicopter, which allowed me to develop my independence in a genuine way without feeling totally unmoored. Though we’ve had our hard times, certain clichés ring true: they always wanted the best for me, and they absolutely “made me who I am today.” Since understanding that is part of the point of writing a memoir, this is where I have to begin.

My grandfather moved between Traverse City, Michigan, and coastal cities for years before ultimately planting permanent roots in 1959, when he was relocated for the National Coast Guard. Since then, the extended family nearby has grown so large that we can’t fit into a single house for our holiday gatherings—we now squeeze close to forty people at a time into my father’s finished barn. (We’ll talk about barns a bit later.) The woods and waters of Northern Michigan provided a lot of necessary set elements for my “rub some dirt in it, you’ll be fine” childhood. Some of the best illustration I can think of happened at Fish Camp. What’s Fish Camp, you ask? Well: Fish Camp was the annual father-son tradition in our family. The name refers to what we did (fish) and the vibe (camp, and not in the Susan Sontag sense). My mother’s uncle, Uncle Gene, has a cabin in the middle of nowhere, just outside Baraga, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and every summer my dad, two older brothers, and I would make the multipart journey together. The four of us would pile into Dad’s truck and make the seven-hour drive north with a truckload of coolers, gear, and a bag full of beef jerky. Along the way, Dad would stop at the Mackinac Bridge so we could take in the view and buy a pop from the convenience store. We’d play car games across the UP, listening to talk radio or the local country music station, which was probably called The Moose, until the only signs of civilization were the occasional pasty stand, bait shop, or gas station (which most likely sold pasties and bait). Once we made it to Baraga, we’d stop and say hi to Uncle Gene and “Aunty Mares” (that’s Aunt Marilyn in “Yooper” speak). Gene would probably tell us something like “The skeeters are bitin’ real hard—make sure ya lather on da bug dope.” (That’s, uh, mosquitos are biting and be sure to wear bug spray… dontcha know.) A few more miles into the forest and the real adventure began—not only do you have to drive into camp on a dirt road, you used to have to take an ATV part of the way, and in the winter, the men who went to the cabin to hunt deer would have to snowmobile into camp. Ultimately, Gene was able to dig a road out to the cabin, which, honestly, is kind of a bummer. The act of parking the truck, throwing on your backpack, and trudging through the rich copper mud was thrilling. There was no electricity or running water. In the daytime, in addition to fishing, Dad would bring rifles for us to practice shooting clay pigeons or targets; I became a really good marksman, even though I never lost my unease around guns. Just seeing the guns on the picnic table made me nervous, and although my dad has gifted me a few guns for birthdays over the years, they remain in his safe back home in Michigan. Dad was also very adamant about gun safety, and took pride in teaching the three of us boys responsibility in every sense. This became something I could share with voters on the trail who, for better or worse, had a lot to say about guns. I learned a lot, and my dad always made sure I wasn’t too far outside my comfort zone—but my unease never went away.

My favorite part of Fish Camp wasn’t shooting combustibles; it was the fish. Evenings were spent cooking what we’d caught that day. We’d pump water from the well, filet the fish, toss them in some batter, and fry them over the fire in a skillet. The simplicity was remarkable. The sun would set, we’d build a bonfire, and Uncle Gene would tell scary stories about man-eating wolves, close encounters with bears, and the occasional camper-abducting alien. Once the fire died down, we’d be left with the bright northern stars. We slept in sleeping bags on bunk beds, with Dad closest to the door, a gun propped up near his bed just in case a bear or wolf came too close to camp. One part safety, the other, I’m convinced, just to scare the shit out of Chasten. Right when I’d start to doze off, my dad would say something like “Shh. Did you hear that?” Of course, there was nothing outside, and Dad couldn’t keep himself from snickering.

I always prided myself on my performance at Fish Camp—throughout my childhood and adolescence, I was driven by a desire to be out in front. We were a competitive family, and sticking my neck out, both to win and to impress my parents, was always the name of the game. At home, my older brothers were Dad’s boys, while one of my favorite pastimes was singing Celine Dion songs to my mom while she folded laundry. But I was secretly very good at a lot of things involving the Great Outdoors. I knew it drove my brothers nuts that I excelled at school and, occasionally, at being an outdoorsman. (To give them credit, while I preferred to sleep in and watch cartoons, they often found the energy to wake up at the crack of dawn and hunt and skin a deer.) They were always messing around and getting in trouble, in fairly elaborate ways. There was the time they almost started a forest fire because one of them had stepped on a bee’s ground nest, gotten stung, and needed to seek revenge on “those fucking bees.” They returned to the scene of the crime and proceeded to pour gasoline all over the nest. This came to my attention when Rhyan, the oldest, zoomed into camp on a four-wheeler and jumped off so fast that the ATV kept rolling a few more yards. Just as a small plume of smoke became visible on the horizon, Dad came rushing out of the cabin with my brother, grabbed a jug of water and a shovel, jumped on another ATV, and zipped off into the woods. It was a small fire, easily extinguishable, and the forest was saved. Rhyan and Dustin had a good laugh, but Dad was furious. The entire time, I remained in my folding chair reading Harry Potter.

Fishing was where I excelled. I was great at tying hooks—one of my brothers hated touching worms and putting them on the hook, but I never minded getting my hands dirty, a quality that has helped me excel equally at raising cows and, eventually, working as a barista at Starbucks. As a result, I always caught the biggest fish. Everyone at Fish Camp probably says this, but for me it was true. I swear. (Upon publication of this book, I’m sure all the reviews will come with headlines like “PETE BUTTIGIEG’S FATHER-IN-LAW DISPUTES CLAIMS MADE IN HUSBAND’S EXPLOSIVE NEW MEMOIR: ‘Chasten didn’t catch the biggest fish.’ ”) One summer my dad lost his favorite lure after his line snapped while he was reeling in a fish; about an hour later, I caught a largemouth bass, and when we finally got home and began gutting it for dinner, there, lodged deep in the fish’s throat, was Dad’s favorite lure. I was really pleased with what this said about my fishing skills, though of course I never would have said that out loud.

Just kidding. Everyone hears this story… annually.

My dad is a no-bullshit kind of guy, reserved but very funny in his own way. He had very high, unspoken expectations that he put a lot of stock in, but most people know him for his generosity and love of surprises. (He once bought my mom a Persian kitten that we named Sheetah, as in “sheet of ice,” which was an appropriate description of the weather when we brought her home. Sheetah seemed to hate all of us, but that was part of her charm.) It’s always a pleasure to hear my dad laugh, because it happens so rarely. It happens especially when he is playing a practical joke, which, in a very dad-like way, he absolutely loves. When I was young I thought I was his easiest target, but now I wonder if he played those tricks on me so much because he thought the opposite—because he saw pranks as tests and learning opportunities, peculiar gifts that I could be trusted to handle without setting anything ablaze.

Some examples: In the summers, Dad would take us out on our small pontoon boat (which he named “the Pleasure Patrol”), and after I watched Jaws—at way too young an age—he would swim under the boat and pull my legs from below so that I thought I was being attacked by a shark. At Fish Camp, our usual fishing hole was a big, muddy, tree-lined riverbank; if you navigated the mud well, you could walk out into the slow river all the way up to your chest. One year a sturgeon jumped out of the river about ten or twenty yards down from where I was standing; I’d never seen a fish that big before (they can grow up to eight feet long), and my dad shouted from downstream, “Get out of the water! They’ll eat your legs!” You’d think that, as a teenager, I’d have been able to recognize when he was teasing me, but when it came to monsters in the water, I never took my chances. I waded as fast as I could out of the river, and my dad couldn’t stop laughing. My scream was most definitely heard from miles away.

Unfortunately, autumn offered little respite. Every year around Halloween, WTCM, the local country radio station in Northern Michigan, would play a spoken-word Halloween song/story called “The Legend of the Dogman,” which had it that every seven years a creature that was half man, half vicious, man-eating dog (but not a werewolf?) roamed Northern Michigan terrorizing farm animals and tearing apart its victims. (Every year, the song would say, “The seventh year is here.”) Every time the song came on, even though he knew I hated it, my dad would crank it up, rolling down the windows and howling as I pleaded with him to cut it out. When we went camping, he’d ask me as we walked through the woods: “Chasten, do you think the Dogman is out?” or whisper, “The seventh year is here,” and I’d grip my flashlight tighter as Dad cackled. This particular torment culminated when he put a ladder up to my bedroom window and scratched at the screen, so that when I woke up I saw the Dogman glaring at me from outside. My bedroom was right next to the back porch, so by the time I’d jumped out of bed and sprinted to the living room, the Dogman had also shifted positions and was visible outside the porch door. That the Dogman was wearing my dad’s clothes didn’t register at the time. He very well may have eaten my dad already, then put on his clothes. That’s a thing that absolutely could’ve happened. Hearing her son screaming bloody murder, my mom came rushing in, at which point my dad opened the door and took off his wolf mask. Mom was livid, but Dad, of course, could barely contain himself. He still calls me, every Halloween, to play the song through the phone. I still hate the Dogman, and I’m still wary around open water.

The most instructive of Dad’s pranks took place at Fish Camp when I was about thirteen. From the cabin, we’d take our four-wheelers through the woods, following two-tracks or trails my uncle had cleared or mapped for us, until we emerged at the river. From there, we’d walk along the steep, coppery riverbank until we found a spot that spoke to us, miles from another human being. The silence was peaceful, but it was also a reminder of how remote we truly were.

One day, my brothers wanted to go to a different fishing hole than the one we were at, so my dad agreed to find a new spot with them. Dad made sure I was fine to stay where I was alone and said he’d come back to pick me up in a little bit. Then they all rode off on their four-wheelers and I settled in. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I was more than happy to be alone. As I believe I mentioned, I was a skilled fisherman—I didn’t need a chaperone.

Some time passed, longer than necessary to drop my brothers off and come back, but it was still daylight, so I didn’t worry too much. I just kept fishing. But then the sun began to set, and I started getting worried. I pride myself on having inherited my father’s pinpoint-accurate sense of direction, but I wasn’t sure walking miles alone through the woods in the dark was the wisest choice. (Also, I was thirteen.)

Dad had never told us what to do if we found ourselves alone in the middle of the forest at night. What I did know was that I had waterproof matches in my tackle box, and how to start a fire, so that’s what I did. I continued fishing to keep busy, but as the sun started to disappear behind the tree line, and the sky was getting darker and darker, the fear really started to set in. A few hours had passed. Eventually, I packed up my tackle box and turned my back to the river, figuring the monsters would come from the woods. Across the river was a steep bank, and the woods ascended above me by about a hundred feet. Surely the wolves were perched there, watching.

Finally, I heard the four-wheeler in the distance. The moment Dad came into the clearing I was running to him asking why he had left me for so long. I must have sounded like a parent myself: How could he do such a thing? Leaving his own child to fend for himself in the middle of the woods at night? There were wolves out here! I could have been eaten! BY THE DOGMAN! (Maybe this one was a little less than parental.) It turned out that Dad had been on the other side of the river the entire time, watching to see what I’d do. He was so trusting, and he truly believed in pushing us out of the nest to see if we could fly. Like it or not, I’d flown.

Mom still gives Dad a lot of grief for the cruel tricks he played on me when I was younger, but when I tell that story she seems more proud than protective. I think she knew he had done right by her and me, making sure I could take care of myself. I was going to be all right. I always felt closer to him on those trips—he gave me more than enough room to explore and be myself, without ever actually causing me harm.

---

If my dad had taken it upon himself to teach us how to trust our instincts and fend for ourselves (safely and responsibly!), my mom, Sherri, taught us the value of routine and reward. She is joyfully loud—in the best way—and wonderfully eccentric. Her smile is almost always on, even when, as you’ll learn, she’s dealing with immense pain. She has jet-black hair that’s often expertly held in place with a whole lot of hair spray. (While waiting on Mom to get ready to leave, you knew it was almost time to go when you heard the sound of aerosol.) She wears a necklace and bracelet with individual charms that correspond to each of her children and grandchildren. Often when she yelled our names, you’d think there was a serious emergency: a heavy object about to fall and crush us, a pet-related tragedy. Usually she just wanted help carrying groceries into the house. She’s never afraid to dance or sing in front of strangers, even if she doesn’t know the words, and she loves to host family and friends, which means she always wants the house in impeccable shape. In a very Midwestern mom way, she decorated our kitchen with those wall decals that stated things like “It is around this table we understand best the warmth of being together,” and there is always a Yankee Candle burning in the house. When we were kids, and my brothers were a bit older and often busy with extracurricular activities, many of the household chores fell to me. Every day, when I came home from school, I would do the dishes, sweep, vacuum, and tidy my room—it all had to be finished before I could do my homework. (I wonder if this wasn’t a sneaky strategy to get me to look forward to my homework by comparison.) Now, when Peter and I come home to visit for the holidays, the house still looks like a professional cleaning service came through, and even when I’ve shown up as a surprise, the house has still been remarkably clean. We never had an allowance when we were younger, but we could earn our keep. “Why would I buy a dishwasher when I gave birth to three?” Mom always joked. Occasionally, she would pay me to do extra chores on top of my usual responsibilities—deep-cleaning the bathroom, shampooing the carpets, vacuuming the staircase, cleaning the garages, or washing the windows would earn me a few extra bucks, which I usually saved in a small wooden box under my bed with my arcade tokens and other beloved trinkets. I was always happy to vacuum, but the dusting was stressful, because it was always subject to the white-cloth test. Sherri ran a tight ship.

Mom was great at stretching our dollar and making sure we always had plenty of food on the table, and it always felt special, even if a lot of it was canned or from a box. At home, pigs-in-a-blanket (hot dogs wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls) were staples, as were canned tomato soup and canned peaches and pears. (After Peter and I started dating, I learned that pigs-in-a-blanket were a treat reserved for Christmas mornings in his family. For us, they were a “Mom just got home from work and is tired” staple.) We had mashed potatoes or mac and cheese with most dinners. In the years after I finished college, when I had to pay for something I didn’t quite have the money for, I sometimes thought about my mom, in a bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower, getting her purse and writing us a check for school lunches in the mornings, saying that it might not be enough. It always just went over my head when she did that; it never occurred to me that it not being enough could have some kind of consequence for me, and that’s why she was mentioning it. Today I realize how hard it must have been to have to express that kind of worry to your kids—if it wasn’t enough, she didn’t want us to be caught off guard—but she never stressed us out about it.

And it’s not like we didn’t have nights out on the town. For special occasions, my family loved celebrating at Outback Steakhouse; I’m still a sucker for a Bloomin’ Onion. Other times it just seemed like Mom and Dad had had about enough of us, and when that happened they’d take us up to the Burger King so we could eat a Kids Meal and play on the indoor playground—always an adventure. In retrospect, we seemed to eat a lot of fast food, but Mom always made it seem like a special treat, just as her cooking was. I still pine for her signature dishes when I’m away from home: she made terrific spaghetti, beef stroganoff, meatloaf, and hearty winter stews. On Christmas mornings, she’d serve her famous homemade cinnamon rolls, a tradition that continues to this day. When I was very young, in the fall and winter, Dad typically...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Preface
• Introduction: Everything and Nothing
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Epilogue: Is This Thing Still On?
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright