Echoes of 1999: Why Our Work Isn't Finished

The following is extracted from prepared remarks delivered at the Chicago Society reception at the 59th Grand Chapter Conclave in Tampa, Florida.

Once again, congratulations to our inaugural scholars. Thank you for the work you're doing and the lives you are leading on your campuses that are reflecting positive light back onto all of us.

Let me start by saying…Happy 25th Birthday! You all look amazing for 25.

Twenty-five years old... that magical age when you wake up looking fabulous without even trying. Your skin is glowing, your metabolism is fast, and you think sunscreen is just something other people need.

Like a fabulous 25-year-old, this organization started out looking effortlessly amazing. But now, after 25 years, we've learned that staying young and vibrant takes work - strategic planning, good leadership, and … well… most of our bathroom counters are filled with more serums than a science lab.

But let me turn serious for a moment.

Twenty-five years ago, as we stood on the threshold of a new millennium, gay men in America found themselves fighting battles that today's young people can barely imagine. Picture, if you will, the landscape of 1999: a time when "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" wasn't just military policy—it was the unspoken rule governing far too many lives in our community.

In boardrooms and classrooms, at family dinners and job interviews, we lived under an imposed silence. Coming out wasn't just brave—it was potentially devastating. You could lose your job on Monday for being seen with your partner on Sunday. You could be discharged from military service for the crime of loving authentically. Marriage equality wasn't even a distant dream—it was considered political fantasy.

The Defense of Marriage Act had just codified our exclusion into federal law. Matthew Shepard's brutal murder the year before had shown us the deadly cost of visibility. HIV/AIDS continued to ravage our community while politicians debated whether we deserved compassion or contempt. In most states, we were still criminals … living under sodomy laws that wouldn't be struck down for another four years.

This was the world that demanded our organization's birth in 1999. Not born from celebration, but from necessity. Not from triumph, but from the recognition that silence was no longer survival.

In the years since, we've witnessed remarkable progress. Marriage equality became the law of the land. Workplace protections expanded. Young people today can see themselves reflected in media, in leadership, in ways we could never have imagined in 1999.

And yet, as we gather tonight to celebrate a quarter-century of community, I must ask: does the landscape of the 1990s sound entirely foreign? Or do we hear disturbing echoes in today's political winds?

Once again, books about our lives and loves are being banned from library shelves. Once again, young people are being told that their very existence is somehow a threat to others. The targets may have shifted—today it's our transgender siblings bearing the brunt of legislative assault—but the underlying message remains chillingly familiar: that some Americans are more deserving of dignity than others.

The hundreds of anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced in state legislatures aren't just about policy—they're about permission. Permission to other us. Permission to diminish us. Permission to pretend we don't belong in the American story. And in 1999 – there were plenty of legislative votes to say we didn't belong in the SigEp story.

And this is when I often think about brother Don McCleary. But not just Don, but Don through the lens of our fraternity.

Don was brave. He was not afraid to use his voice. His work on self-esteem that would lead to the balanced man program – his advocacy and mobilizing support, fighting discrimination, and improving the lives of LGBTQ individuals during a defining era for the community. Don's courage created ripple effects that continue helping men find their authentic selves today.

If we're honest, for most of us, our first experience of discrimination often came as accusations that we weren't "man enough." Usually at home—from fathers, uncles, brothers— at school from other classmates, and occasionally from the women in our lives too. This has always struck me as a kind of low-level conversion therapy: subtle, but with lifelong harmful consequences.

The pressure to conform to traditional masculinity often coincided with a loss of authenticity. And authenticity, I've come to believe, is a key ingredient in our success as a fraternity.

Don's work on behalf of our community – not unrelated to the lens of self-esteem – continues helping men to this day. Promoting acceptance challenges narrow and rigid definitions of masculinity. This relieves social pressure on all men to conform to stereotypes, supporting mental health and personal development.

As we celebrate tonight and look forward to charting our future, I'm grateful to be here with all of you. Your presence, your authenticity, your commitment to this community means everything.

But let me be clear: the work that brought us together 25 years ago isn't finished. The same forces that demanded our organization's birth in 1999 are resurgent today. Young men are still fighting to find their place, still struggling with authenticity in a world that questions their worth.

We've proven that when we choose community—when we anchor ourselves not just in identity but in shared ideals of virtue, diligence, and brotherly love—we become unstoppable. But choosing requires action. Community must be built, sustained, and protected.

So tonight, I ask you: Will you help us write the next chapter? Will you support the Chicago Society as we mentor the next generation, as we continue advocating for authentic masculinity, as we ensure that no young man has to choose between belonging and being himself?

I don't believe it's our GBTQ+ identities alone that are sufficient to connect a community or fuel a movement for positive social change. We look beyond ourselves and base our community not simply on our identities, but also on our shared ideals of virtue, diligence and brotherly love.

Where we lack the anchors that bind other communities—a shared religion or a fixed geography… ours is a chosen community. And choosing requires intention. Community must be built; it cannot be assumed.

Our impact is intentional, not accidental. And our future depends on each of us recommitting to the work that brothers like Don McCleary started many years ago.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for your authenticity. And thank you for choosing, once again, to build this community together.