Our yard is large for a Minneapolis city lot. In the front is
a patch of weeds, the frequent stage for our sons, Luke and Ryan,
to play tag, ride bikes and build snow forts. The fenced-in backyard,
which actually has vegetation that can be classified as grass,
is reserved for our golden retriever Molly and the havoc she wreaks
on our boys' games of baseball, soccer and football. Each fall
I decide to improve the landscape by sowing some seed and spreading
several handfuls of fertilizer. But I'm reminded of the futility
of those plans each spring when the snow-pack melts and the games
begin.
My parents never had a decent lawn until all five of their children
were raised. I can happily wait for Molly to stop chasing our
boys and their friends around the backyard. Meanwhile, I cherish
the squeals of delight, the barking and the laughter that accompany
these times. I also cherish that throughout the past nine years,
several children, not just ours, have learned a variety of rugged
sports in our yard, and that over the years these same children
have regularly traipsed into our playroom to watch the Vikings
or the Twins on TV.
And I'm amused -- amused because I hated watching sports as
a kid. I preferred bike riding, hiking and rock climbing to a
baseball diamond or a football field.
And I'm amused because we're a gay couple. Our house has two
dads. Both of us are Notre Dame graduates.
My partner, Greg Marita '84, supervises other attorneys handling
the legal cases of low-income senior citizens. He arranges his
part-time work schedule so that two days a week he can take the
boys to school, occasionally volunteer in their classrooms and
spend the afternoon with them when they get off the bus. I work
part time for the state of Minnesota in the areas of energy conservation
and renewable energy. On Wednesdays I'm home with the boys and
volunteer in their classrooms. On Fridays I write -- I'm currently
finishing a novel, The History Between Us.
We live on a tree-lined street that hugs a hill west of downtown.
Our English-looking cottage is set back from the road. First-time
visitors never believe that two gay men live inside. Our furniture
is early Salvation Army. The boys and their friends still jump
on the living-room couches while listening to favorite CDs. We
no longer try hanging photos, maps or mementos on the family room
walls; they get knocked off by Nerf footballs, basketballs and
flying pillows. But the boys are merely our excuses for what the
house looks like. Neither Greg nor I inherited the interior decorating
and fashion genes that gay men are infamous for. Whether decor
or attire, Greg and I are in great need of "Queer Eye for the
Gay Couple."
Several of our neighbors act as aunts and uncles for Luke and
Ryan. My partner is a popular homilist at our Catholic church
in south Minneapolis. We are celebrated as a family there, not
labeled deviants. We have many, many friends. Although our extended
families live in other states, we see them frequently.
Our lives couldn't be much better.
When I graduated from Notre Dame in 1983 I didn't have a vision
of my future. I didn't know what kind of person I'd marry, what
kind of work I'd do. I never imagined I'd be living on the plains
of Minnesota, a world away from my hometown of Lookout Mountain,
Georgia.
I certainly didn't know I was gay.
Many gay men and lesbian women tell me they knew they weren't
straight by the age of 12. Some repressed this self-awareness,
some thought they would change. Others hid it, hoping no one would
guess. A few revealed their sexual orientation to a chosen few
as early as high school; some revealed it unapologetically to
the world. I savor "coming out" stories. They often involve long
periods of self-hatred and heartbreaking losses of some friendships.
How family members react is normally where the drama lies. My
favorite tales culminate in family and community acceptance. Unfortunately
a number of stories include being disowned by parents, brutal
attacks -- some fatal -- by strangers, and suicide.
My story is different because I was unaware of my sexual orientation
all through college. Everywhere I went -- dorm dances and parties,
football games or the dining halls -- I was always hoping I'd
find the right girl. Not having a special person to spend time
with, to listen to music with and study with made me feel lonely,
that my college experience was somehow incomplete. But it was
the early 1980s, and many Notre Dame and Saint Mary's students
were not dating. Like most of my group of friends, I occasionally
took out a woman I had a crush on. I went to dances, and I loved
flirting with the opposite sex.
Homosexuality was a topic I only thought of in passing. For
instance, I remember reading an article in The Observer
about a WNDU disc jockey who was fired for broadcasting the time
and place of a gay student group meeting. And I was guilty of
making fun of the young men in a dorm that had a reputation for
housing gay students. Father Malloy, who moved into Sorin College
the same year I did, used to talk about the gay students he had
met when working on his Ph.D. thesis. But mostly I didn't think
about me or anyone else being gay. Even my making fun of the other
men's dorm was more out of campus rivalry than a fear of my own
being gay.
I never consciously questioned my sexual preference until I
was writing in my journal about a sleepwalking incident the year
after graduating from Notre Dame. I had joined the Holy Cross
Associates, a year-long volunteer program that stressed service,
community and simple living. My housemates in Colorado Springs
quickly grew accustomed to my lifelong habit of sleepwalking and
sleeptalking. According to them, I'd stumble out of the bedroom,
mumbling incoherently about whatever dream had prompted me to
roam about the house. Awakened by the others' laughter, I'd return
to my room, embarrassed.
One night I dreamed that the closet in my bedroom was crashing
toward my bed. I scrambled to prevent it from crushing me. Pushing
desperately against it with all my strength, I called to my roommate
for help. I became increasingly panicked by his refusal to join
me in preventing the walls from falling in on me. When I finally
realized I was sleepwalking, and I was bracing my arms against
a closet wall that wouldn't fall even in an earthquake, I climbed
back into bed and pulled the sheets over my head. I was awake
for an hour, dreading the razzing I would endure about my latest
episode.
As I wrestled with the incident in my journal the next night,
a fear swept over me. What did the closet represent? Could the
image be a subconscious message that I was gay? After all, I had
never gone on more than one or two dates with the girls I had
crushes on. The young women usually became close friends, not
romantic interests. The idea was terrifying. I was a down-to-earth
guy. A former high school wrestling champion. A committed Catholic.
The only images I had of homosexuals were from television news
coverage of shirtless, effeminate men in California chanting in
the streets. I couldn't comprehend how that could be my future.
It sounded lonely. I didn't want to feel isolated -- I wanted
to be married, to be surrounded by friends, to be respected for
who I was.
Giving voice to any of these thoughts, even in the privacy of
my journal, was too scary. But during the first two years after
my graduation I can recall two men I was attracted to. One was
a volunteer for a few weeks at my workplace. I walked part way
home with him one day, while he walked his bike, his shirt off,
abdominal muscles showing. I wanted him to touch me, but I didn't
want him to know that I wanted him to touch me. Nothing happened,
and I have no idea whether he was gay or not.
Another interest of mine used to invite me over on weekends
to sit on his porch and have a beer. I looked forward to those
times all week, and I don't even like beer. I felt cheated when
he invited another friend, not me, to go skiing or hiking. Both
of these attractions frightened me, so I told myself that my interest
in good-looking men was because I wanted to be as attractive to
women as they were. I imagined their sex lives and worried that
I wouldn't be able to perform as well. I didn't believe I could
be gay -- gays were effeminate and abnormal in a bad way. I was
neither. I was a person who struggled every day to live out the
Gospels.
So I continued wishing for the perfect woman, someone with a
love of the outdoors, a deep spirituality, a great sense of humor,
a passion for social justice. For a short while I dated a young
woman who met those criteria. She lived a couple of hours away
in Fort Collins, so I didn't get to see her often. When we were
together we experimented sexually. I enjoyed it enough that I
thought maybe I was growing into being straight. She even told
me that I kissed her better than anyone else had. But after our
third weekend together, the passion had faded for me.
She had a picture of an old boyfriend of hers. Instead of being
jealous of the guy, I asked her questions about him. I found him
attractive. I knew something wasn't right about this situation.
I told her I didn't think we should get together anymore because
she wanted to pursue sex faster than I did. But I was coming closer
to having to admit that I was gay.
I met Greg on a trip to Notre Dame in fall 1985, two years after
my closet dream and a couple months before starting to date my
short-lived girlfriend. We were both having lunch at Moreau Seminary
and were introduced by a mutual friend who knew we each had been
Holy Cross Associates. Greg was humorous, warm and intelligent.
He asked me many questions about my volunteer experience and my
work with homeless people in Colorado Springs. He talked about
his belief in God, his own volunteer experience and his family.
I had never felt so comfortable with a person so quickly. The
next year his graduate studies were going to bring him to Colorado
Springs. I looked forward to continuing our conversations there.
I didn't see Greg again until a year later, after my girlfriend
had come and gone. I had no idea that Greg was gay. I still didn't
know anyone openly gay. But since meeting Greg I had read that
a person's sexual orientation fell somewhere on a continuum and
that very few people were strictly at either end -- completely
homosexual or completely heterosexual. Rather, the article suggested,
most people lay somewhere in the middle. This construct allowed
me to accept that part of me was gay. But I continued to believe,
or at least hope, that most of me was straight.
In Colorado Springs, Greg and I bumped into each other at a
talk on centering prayer. I can admit now my heart jumped when
I saw him. A few days later we hiked in the foothills of Pike's
Peak, talking about the nature of God, social justice, our families
and our futures. I told him I was planning to leave my community
of Mennonites and Catholics doing social justice work to take
a long bike trip. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stay in his graduate
program or return home to Milwaukee to be closer to his family.
Greg and I went on four or five of these hikes. We also saw
each other at Notre Dame parties and were part of a group who
played volleyball together every other week. On Thanksgiving we
both worked at the soup kitchen. In December he said he'd decided
to return to Wisconsin and wanted to say goodbye. We met at Poor
Richard's, a bohemian café in downtown Colorado Springs,
and there I admitted I was struggling with my sexuality. I told
him how I'd been at a party dancing when I noticed that a young
man was leaning against a post, staring at me. The handsome man
had told me he admired my dancing skills. After we'd talked longer,
he'd propositioned me.
I told Greg I was attracted to the other man, but I was scared
about the possibility of being gay. Greg listened intently. Then
he floored me by telling me he had been struggling with his sexuality
as well. A tingling rose inside me, a recognition of someone else
normal struggling with this unknown secret -- and a recognition
that I'd been attracted to Greg all along.
I couldn't sleep that night. I was obsessed with Greg and our
conversation, and by morning I knew I wanted to explore my affectional
preference with him. I had to see him again, soon. I called him
in the morning and he agreed to meet that night. This time we
talked until sunrise. Kissing Greg was exhilarating. Still, Greg
was leaving town in a couple of days. Neither one of us was sure
we were gay. So we said goodbye.
Greg moved to Wisconsin a few days before Christmas. I was dying
to talk to him. But I knew he had come out to at least one of
his parents in a letter before returning home. I didn't want his
parents to identify me as gay. I finally called him, and we began
writing. Greg decided to accompany me on the bicycle trip. We
planned to leave from my Georgia hometown in May and spend the
summer heading north to Boston and then points west. He took two
jobs to save the money to pay for his half of the bicycle trip.
As Greg settled into his busy work life, he told his parents
about me and how he wanted me to visit. His parents are good conversationalists
and liberal Democrats. They had the language to talk to him about
being gay. I'm sure his parents had many unrevealed concerns and
feelings, but their stated issues with Greg's and my relationship
were more "parents-meet-potential-in-law" questions. Greg's father
was pleased to learn I was Catholic. His mother seemed concerned
that I'd spent time in jail for civil disobedience. She was relieved
to hear that Greg didn't see civil disobedience as part of his
future. (I was disappointed.)
As soon as Greg picked me up at the train station that March
day in 1987, I felt disengaged. What was I doing in Milwaukee?
What were we doing? I wanted the two of us to be alone. Instead
we headed for his parents' house. We had no time to be alone,
to find out who we were as a couple. Greg worked his two jobs
during my visit, and when he was home we were surrounded by his
close-knit family -- including five siblings and numerous cousins.
Greg had not felt comfortable telling them about us. I wanted
them to know. He could put his arms around them, but not me. I
felt cheated and uncomfortable; clandestine dating wasn't fun.
After that visit I moved back to my parents' house on Lookout
Mountain to prepare for our bike trip. My mom and dad were glad
that Greg was going with me because they thought I'd be safer
traveling with another person. My dad had talked briefly with
Greg once when he called and told me Greg seemed like a good guy.
They didn't know who he was to me.
I cried when I told them. We were at dinner. I was extremely
nervous, and I don't remember how the conversation began except
that I cried. I wasn't afraid of being rejected. I always knew
that wouldn't happen with my parents. But I cried because I wanted
more than to not be rejected. I wanted to be accepted, and I wanted
Greg to be accepted as much as if he were a girlfriend I was bringing
home. I wanted them to say the rest of the world could go to hell,
we're happy for you and we're sticking with you.
My parents listened attentively, concerned by my tears. They
asked questions instead of yelling. But my father is a southern,
Republican Catholic. He couldn't help but think it was wrong.
He blamed it on the liberal people I'd worked with in Colorado.
My mother, who was an Episcopalian at the time (and probably canceled
out my father's vote every election), came up to my room afterwards
and told me they would love me no matter who I was.
Greg would soon be arriving so we could prepare for our bike
trip. I wanted Mom and Dad to meet this wonderful man; I was excited
and apprehensive. My dad impressed me by introducing himself to
Greg immediately upon returning home from work. Greg is a tall,
blond, blue-eyed all-American-looking guy. His deep-seated kindness
and genuine curiosity about others draws people to him. If I were
going to bring a gay boyfriend home, it would be difficult, if
not impossible, to find someone less threatening to my parents.
I could tell they liked Greg, but they weren't comfortable, and
often there were awkward silences at dinner.
Greg and I spent two weeks training for our long trek. We pored
over maps and collected phone numbers of friends we might visit
along the way. We were eager to get on the way. But the day before
we were to embark, I had a horrible sore throat and was feeling
tired. A visit to the doctor's office revealed that I not only
had strep throat, I also had mono.
Greg stayed at my parents' house for another week to see if
I would improve. Finally he took a bus back to Milwaukee. I languished
in bed, feeling that I would never have enough energy to walk
around the block again, much less ride a bike up the Eastern Seaboard.
Six long weeks later I had improved enough that my doctor said
I could attempt the bike trip. By this time we had decided to
avoid the southern summer heat and start our trip from Greg's
parents' house. I took a Trailways bus to Milwaukee, and we trained
for a week before leaving. But two nights before our trip, Greg
told me he'd decided he wasn't gay after all.
I was angry and hurt. Even though I was still telling Greg I
wasn't sure about being with him in the long run, I didn't expect
him to bail on me then. I told him we should still try to attempt
the bike trip as friends. Groundless and exhausted from my illness,
I rode with Greg along two sides of Lake Michigan, camping along
the way. Eventually we pedaled to the Notre Dame campus, where
we stayed a couple nights before parting ways, vowing to stay
friends.
Later that year we tried to live as friends in the same apartment
in Milwaukee while I wrote for small newspapers and Greg worked
at a mutual fund investment company. Although we both claimed
a platonic relationship, neither of us was willing to let the
other go emotionally. I knew then that if we were both gay, I
wanted Greg to be the person I spent the rest of my life with.
I realize now my biggest fear wasn't being gay, it was being gay
and alone. For Greg, the former high school prom king, student
body president and football player, the struggle was equally difficult.
But he is a person who processes thoughts internally, so his swings
in navigating our relationship and his sexuality often caught
me off guard.
I started going to a counselor to talk about my sexual orientation.
Based on our conversations, I decided to move into my own apartment
and stop seeing Greg. I didn't want to hurt anymore. Even after
Greg called and said he knew he was gay for sure and wanted to
resume our relationship, I feared he would just change his mind
again. I was proud of resisting him, not for religious reasons
but for healthy personal growth reasons. Once again, it was a
pseudo-sleep-walking episode that proved to be a pivotal point
in my understanding of my relationship yearnings.
I awoke one night, a quote circling in my head. I had to write
it down; I felt like I'd been visited by an angel. "Actions do
not exhibit what willpower wants, but what willpower is." I don't
know the source of the quote -- divine or subconscious -- but
my restlessness of the past months seemed to dissolve after I
wrote the words. I realized I was demonstrating willpower by staying
away from Greg, but life without Greg wasn't what I wanted. Since
I hadn't reached that conclusion consciously, my subconscious
made it loud and clear. I called Greg, and soon we were seeing
each other again. Our relationship began to feel more comfortable
and gentle.
When Greg accepted a scholarship to attend law school at Marquette,
I was deciding between a fellowship at Duke and the University
of Minnesota to study public policy. I chose Minnesota both to
be closer to Greg and because the state was known for its progressive
politics. I figured Minneapolis would be a more comfortable place
to come out than at a private university in the Bible Belt.
Before Greg I had never been in a long-term relationship. The
give and take of courting was difficult for me. I often wanted
to be more open about our relationship, and we fought over whom
it was safe to tell. Then Greg would grow more comfortable with
being gay and I'd be the one who wanted to be more secretive.
Greg had come to visit me or I had visited Greg so often during
our first year of graduate school that my gay classmates were
not surprised when I showed up at the first gay and lesbian meeting
-- with a bag over my head. Although Greg was guarded about his
relationship with me at law school, he had slowly come out to
the people most important in his life, his siblings and his cousins.
"We always joked that you were the guest who came and didn't leave,"
his cousin Sarah told me. "And now we're glad you didn't leave."
Accepting myself as a gay man has occurred over a long time
and included many gradual steps. Each time I came out to a friend
I felt better about myself, even if their reaction was not positive.
Some of the steps were not so small, but they all made me feel
more at peace with the orientation God gave me.
The first event that changed the way others treated us was the
sudden death of Jad, my oldest brother, in January 1991. The tragedy
was compounded by my mother's fight against an aggressive form
of lymphoma. She was too sick to attend her first child's funeral,
and we all thought we'd be attending her funeral soon as well.
My grief and fear were so intense that the first couple of days
I found it difficult to breathe. But the support from Greg, family
and long-time friends made me stronger. Several months after my
brother's death my mother's cancer went into remission.
Afterward I noticed a marked change in the way my parents treated
Greg. Both told me how lucky I was to have found him. They started
joking more with him. I believe my brother's death and mother's
illness dramatically brought home the reality that we never know
how long anyone will be living, so they decided to accept their
remaining children and their children's chosen partners while
we were still living.
The second major event was Greg's and my commitment ceremony
in October 1993. More than 200 people attended. We introduced
the different groups of people that were important to us -- our
families, including Greg's 85-year-old grandmother, high school
friends and church friends. More than 30 of the guests were Notre
Dame graduates. Almost every neighbor from our block was there.
Many of my co-workers were there, although for most of them the
invitation was the first time I'd indicated I was gay. Both of
our mothers gave readings. I had never heard my mother speak publicly
before. Since she suffered from emphysema I knew she was afraid
of running out of breath. As I sat next to her, I heard her breath
catch a few times before she climbed to the podium. But I can
still remember the strength and conviction with which she read
a poem about self love. Our fathers, who have always been the
leaders in their respective Catholic parishes, both stood and
thanked all of the attendees for their support of Greg and me.
This was my southern, Republican Catholic father. It was very
moving.
Perhaps even more moving were the vows of my partner: "I promise
that if you die first, you will die in my arms. And if I die first,
I will die reaching for your hand."
We didn't plan for the event without a lot of anxiety. We worried
that the Spanish-speaking caterer would discover what the party
was about, abandon us, and we'd have to take the guests out for
pizza. We were concerned that some individual or group who did
not approve of the ceremony would disrupt it. We feared that Greg's
liberal dad would get in a political argument with my conservative
dad. Although our invitations requested no gifts, we did receive
a beautiful serving bowl, along with a note that said the giver
could not condone what we were doing.
Despite all of our pre-ceremony angst (and a big fight), the
day ended up a heartfelt celebration of our lives together. Our
parents got along famously. The caterer was late but served good
Mexican food. Afterward I no longer felt cheated. I had what my
college and high school friends had -- public validation of my
relationship. Greg's mom took me aside and insisted I quit calling
her Mrs. Marita. She began sending us a Christmas card addressed
to the two of us rather than two separate ones.
One of our vows at our commitment ceremony was to integrate
children into our lives. From our earliest conversations in the
foothills of the Rockies, Greg and I had discussed the desire
to raise children. Greg and I both thought we would be good parents.
For Greg, perhaps the greatest sadness of accepting his sexual
orientation was thinking that he would never get to raise children.
Although it was the early 1990s and we had never even read about
a gay couple adopting children, we decided that was the avenue
we wanted to pursue.
The February following our commitment ceremony we applied to
an adoption agency. Our neighbors and parents wrote letters of
recommendation to birthmothers. Twice birthmothers chose us over
straight couples to be the adoptive parents of their unborn child,
and both times the birthmothers' families decided to keep the
baby instead. It was a stressful time. But in June 1994 our agency
identified a 6-month-old boy who was living in an orphanage overseas.
In November, only 13 months after our commitment ceremony and
a mere nine months after first applying, Greg and I, accompanied
by my parents, picked up 11-month-old Luke at the Atlanta airport,
gate D-4. Luke literally reached for us when he saw us, as though
we were always meant to be together. We hugged and kissed him
for what seemed hours. The woman who escorted him cried when she
left. Luke hugged us and started sucking his thumb.
Before climbing back into my parents' car we needed to change
Luke's diaper. We took him behind some of the waiting seats and
nervously emptied the contents of our diaper bag. Evidently two
men changing a diaper appears odd because a male security guard
asked us if we needed any help. Wasn't that obvious? Of course
we did.
We arrived back on Lookout Mountain at about 2 a.m.. Greg and
I rested four hours that first night. Every time Luke made a noise
or his covers rustled we thought we should do something, so one
or the other or both of us were constantly creeping to the side
of the crib. We also were afraid we might break him, so as often
as not we crept away without touching him.
When we returned with Luke to Minneapolis, we proudly held him
up at church for everyone to see as our priest announced his arrival.
Greg and I both devoted hours to watching Luke crawl around the
house, shepherding small cups one of his grandmothers had given
him, and pulling himself up to explore the book case. He took
long naps. He slept a long time at night. Our friends were jealous.
We thought he was so wonderful that one night we considered waking
him back up just so we could play with him.
Our second son, Ryan, arrived in February 1997, only a few days
after his first birthday. Two boys in diapers was a lot of work,
but the extra care needed increased our contentment. Luke and
Ryan changed our lives in many ways. Our names changed from Chris
and Greg to Daddy Chris and Daddy Greg. We were outed -- identified
as gay -- everywhere we went. In the grocery store, on the plane,
on the train, at the park. Everyone knew we were a gay couple.
I feared our notoriety would invite scorn, verbal assault and
more. But almost 10 years after we adopted our older son, we have
encountered curiosity and support almost exclusively. After observing
our attention to Luke, our parenting skills, our son's engaging
curiosity and loving personality, many people told us they had
changed their views about there being a problem with gay couples'
parenting children.
I have long realized that one of the things I want most for
myself, and now for my partner and my kids, is a strong sense
of community. Community can be both serendipitous and intentional.
We find community as the Marita-Davis family, in our neighborhood,
in our church and in our reflection group made up of mostly Notre
Dame graduates. A significant number of our closest friends continue
to be from the Notre Dame family. To me Notre Dame's greatest
strength is the community it promotes on campus and among its
graduates.
Yet it has been the Notre Dame family from which I have most
feared rejection. When I heard about the University administration's
refusal to allow a gay and lesbian student group to meet on the
campus, I felt sad and estranged. I cannot help but feel at times
that I have been cast as a second-class person, and that's painful.
But then our family celebrates birthdays with one Notre Dame
couple and their three children, one of whom is our godson. This
summer we will go camping with my former roommate, his Notre Dame
wife and their three children, one of whom is also a godson of
Greg's and mine. We visit other Notre Dame couples and share our
lives with them during reflection group meetings. Some of the
greatest people in the world have gone to Notre Dame.
Maybe one of our sons will live under the Golden Dome. Perhaps
Ryan, with his penchant for constructing superhero costumes out
of construction paper and snakes out of recycled materials, will
be an engineering student. Maybe Luke, with his ability to sense
where everyone is on the soccer field and his unwavering energy,
will land a spot on Notre Dame's soccer team. If either one does
attend, I'd rest assured that we've helped them develop the tools
to be at peace with their birth, their adoption, their two gay
fathers.
They are now at an age when their adoption is the bigger issue.
Still, though, Luke was once taunted on the school bus for having
two gay dads. Once the boys each taunted us: "Daddy Chris is gay!
Daddy Greg is gay!" -- not even knowing what "gay" meant. So we
told them what "gay" means in simple terms: It's when two men
or two women love each other. Then we taught them about the history
of discrimination against all kinds of people. We've told them
it's wrong and that we don't understand these people.
I hope each of our sons will be comfortable enough to talk to
us about any future name-calling incidents. And we've helped them
understand that they didn't do anything to cause the discrimination
or harassment. Our boys have developed excellent interpersonal
skills, both because their lives require it and because they're
surrounded by so much support. Both of their teachers consider
them the leaders of their respective classes. If they decided
to attend Notre Dame one day, the University would be lucky to
have them.
Christopher Temple Davis, a 1983 Notre Dame graduate, lives
with his partner, Gretg Marita, a 1984 ND graduate, and their two
sons, Luke and Ryan, in Minneapolis. Chris is currently searching
for an agent to represent his new novel.
(July 2004)
