My Story: An Open Letter to Mr. Hynes
Dear Mr. Hynes, June 5th, 2026
Several months ago, I attended the world premiere of a new musical in Salt Lake City, Ten Brave Seconds. It is about a young man in high school who comes out as gay in 2015, on the day that gay marriage is legalized. His gay English teacher, William, helps him to have the courage to be his authentic self. As I watched, I couldn’t help but think of my gay English teacher.
I thought back to when you presented Angels in America, a play about two gay Mormon men, as a reading option.
You said, “... But I’ve heard that the Mormons may be changing their tune when it comes to gay people. Let’s ask our resident expert. Mr. Hallstrom, give us the latest scoop.”
“It hasn’t changed. It can’t change.”, I said resolutely.
“Well, there you have it folks — straight from the horse’s mouth!”
Then, my mind turned to another patinaed recollection. The class was discussing a poem or short story about a young person, long ago, getting ready for their day. You asked what we could glean about the individual from the passage. I responded, saying that the person must be a boy because they were shining their shoes. To that you said incredulously, “He says it as if girls don’t have shoes to shine! “I didn’t know they shined their shoes!” “‘They’, he says, as if women were another species!”
Finally, an image shifted into my mind’s eye. I remember you and another man, who I thought must be Bob [Mr. Hynes’ husband], sitting in the high school auditorium, attending a student performance. I thought it was unusual that there was an empty seat between you, holding your coats. I don’t recall anyone else sitting anywhere near you two.
As my thoughts drifted back to the present, I looked down at my left hand, which was holding the hand of the man I love. I know he is only allowing me to hold his hand in public because of the darkness. The dark theater is his happy place — a place where he can watch other boys come out to their family and friends and live as their authentic selves. They, the distant figures on the bright stage, represent, as Lord Henry told Dorian, “all the sins he has never had the courage to commit. Chief among them, the sin of authenticity.” Sitting in the dark theater, watching the happy lives of others is what it means to be in hell as a gay Mormon man.
You were the first gay person I ever met. Well, at least the first I wasn’t afraid of.
Your name was very popular in the Hallstrom household. We all loved your classes and having you as our teacher. However, whenever your name was invoked, one of my parents, usually my father, would say, “Yes, he is a great teacher, but we don’t agree with his lifestyle.” He said the same phrase every time. (Now I think of it almost as an honorific — much like how Muslims are quick to mutter “Peace be upon him.” after every mention of the prophet).
I grew up thinking that gay people were, if not evil, almost irredeemably deceived.
(Band camp terrified me. Effeminate men everywhere! ).
Weeks after graduating high school, I entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. Nine long weeks I was stuck in this compound where the guard towers face in. It was the most stressful period of my life. One light in those dark days was Elder Uehling. We grew close quickly. One evening, we were alone out in a courtyard. I told him I had a song that I wanted to share. A moment later, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue filled the air. After the final note faded away, I could tell he wanted to ask me something. “What do you want to ask me?” “No, it’s ok. I don’t want to ask.” “It’s alright — shoot!” After a long pause, he asked, “Elder Hallstrom, are you gay?”
The whole world seemed to crash down around me. I could feel my heart racing, my head swirling. “No! What makes you think that?!” He went on to describe his evidence (which included playing a seventeen-minute-long romantic piano piece). He closed his case by declaring, “I’ve never been wrong. Not once. I have perfect gaydar!”
I was stunned.
The next two years I spent wandering around Leningrad Province trying, mostly in vain, trying to get the Russian locals to embrace Mormonism, all without someone else getting the wrong idea. “I must be doing something wrong if people think I’m light in the loafers.” I knew I couldn’t be gay. “People aren’t just born gay”, I reasoned. “No, it’s true. I’ve never been on a date, but that’s just because I wanted to prepare for my mission. And, besides, when I turned 16, Dad said I could date, so long as the girl was Mormon etc. — prerequisites that narrowed down the dating pool (to zero) in a place like Horseheads. I’ll start dating when I get to BYU.”
Well… dating at BYU didn’t go very well. “I just don’t have practice like the other boys. Most of them dated in high school”, I reasoned.
Soon I was 27, and my excuses had all dried up. All of my friends and family thought I was about to move to Arizona to live near my long-distance “girlfriend”. (She was really more of a pen pal. After dating for months, we never even kissed). On paper, she was the perfect girl for me, but something just didn’t click.
One night, I went to the temple in Ogden, Utah for answers. I was determined not to leave until I received God’s will. I stayed until they closed. I left the building, walked to my car, and called my old BYU roommate _______ , and I told him, “________, I’m gay and I love you…”. He was in shock. We’ve been dating ever since.
That was a year and a half ago.
(By the way, the girl I’d been dating had guessed for months that I was gay. When I broke up with her, she was very understanding, and we’re still friends.).
In many ways, I’m so glad I didn’t know I was gay until I was 27. Had I found out 10 or even 5 years earlier, I very well might not have survived the ordeal. By 27, I had already begun to recognize the grey in a world I’d been told my whole life was strictly black and white.
Learning to be honest with myself has opened a veritable Pandora’s box of other uncomfortable truths I had been ignoring for years. I’ve had to wrestle with difficult memories and family stories. Some of my relationships have strained, and my mental health has plummeted. I’ve been getting treatment for anorexia for over eight months, and doctors have uncovered other issues, including OCD. I’ve lost friends, certain family members have disappeared, and my church “community” is nowhere to be found.
All of that said, I don’t regret any of it, and I wouldn’t want to be straight, if given the choice. I am so glad I’ve been able to make it so far — battered and bruised I may be.
I thought you might be interested in reading my story. Perhaps it’s not a one you would’ve expected from a Hallstrom.
I also wanted to thank you for your part in my story. You play a larger role than you may realize. Not only were you an example to me, your classes were the foundation of my intellectual life. After “doing my time” in Russia, at BYU, I majored in both Russian and in American Studies. My American Studies degree was practically a continuation of your “American Voices” classes. I was so well prepared to learn and grow. Thank you for teaching me how to write.
My studies armed me with the knowledge and tools to get through these hard times. My studies also taught me how to think and examine situations with a critical lens and then act. For that, I owe you a great debt.
The night is growing very late, so I’ll end my tale here. I need to go get some sleep.
I have a pride parade to go to in the morning.
Simply,
Ryan Hallstrom