It was difficult being a teacher and out of the closet in the

In the words of Thom Gunn, poet of candor and courage, we hear a confession both personal and universal: “It was difficult being a teacher and out of the closet in the ’50s. By the time I retired, the English department was proud of having a gay poet of a certain minor fame. It was a very satisfactory change!” Within these lines lies not only the journey of one man, but the broader story of a society slowly learning to accept truth and difference. Gunn’s words are a testament to endurance, to the power of living authentically, and to the quiet satisfaction that comes when the world, once hostile, grows into respect.

To be a teacher in the 1950s while openly gay was an act of defiance and bravery. In that time, the shadows of prejudice were heavy, and the closet was not merely a personal struggle but a shield against dismissal, disgrace, or even ruin. Gunn’s phrase “it was difficult” carries with it unspoken trials—the whispered rumors, the silent judgments, the fear that truth might cost him his calling. Yet he did not abandon his post, nor did he silence his voice. Instead, he chose the harder path: to remain present, to endure, and to teach, not only words but resilience.

The closet, in Gunn’s time, was both prison and shield. Many never left it, choosing safety over authenticity. Yet those who dared to step beyond its door became, knowingly or not, heralds of change. Their lives themselves were arguments—that dignity, talent, and wisdom know no boundaries of identity. Gunn’s presence in the classroom, living honestly, became a lesson greater than any lecture on poetry: that the human spirit is strongest when it refuses to disguise its truth.

History offers us parallels. Consider the life of Alan Turing, whose genius helped save millions by breaking the codes of World War II, yet who suffered persecution for his sexuality in the same era. Unlike Gunn, he was crushed beneath the weight of the world’s prejudice. His story is tragedy. But Gunn’s, though marked by struggle, bends toward triumph: he lived to see the transformation, to retire not in shame but in pride, embraced not only as a poet, but as a gay poet, celebrated where once he might have been condemned.

Thus, Gunn’s satisfaction at retirement is not self-indulgence but victory. To be honored by the English department for the very identity that once endangered him is proof of progress, proof that truth and patience can bend the iron of prejudice. Though he modestly calls himself a poet of “minor fame,” the fame itself is secondary; what matters is the change. It was the acknowledgment that his life, in its fullness, was no longer hidden, but respected.

The lesson here is twofold. First, it teaches us that society can change, though slowly, and that those who endure in truth are often the quiet architects of that change. Second, it calls us to honor those who bore the weight of oppression in earlier times, for their courage carved the path of freedom for those who came after. Without such pioneers, the light of acceptance we see today would not burn so brightly.

In practice, let us live with honesty, even when it is difficult, for authenticity is itself a form of teaching. Let us extend compassion to those whose battles are not our own, remembering that every person carries struggles unseen. And let us strive to build institutions—schools, workplaces, communities—where the teacher, the poet, the worker, the dreamer can live in truth without fear.

Thus Thom Gunn’s words, spoken with quiet satisfaction, are in truth a song of triumph. They remind us that though the world may resist, it can be changed; that though prejudice may wound, dignity can outlast it; and that the greatest reward is not fame, but the freedom to be one’s true self, honored for both life and work. This is the wisdom we pass on: live in truth, endure the storm, and trust that in time, the world may learn to celebrate the very thing it once despised.