People will always ask me “when did you know you were gay?”, a question that the whole gay community has heard, although maybe not verbatim, at least once in their lifetime. Heteros have this idea that us gays go through our lives in the dark and suddenly, like a story out of the bible, we have an epiphany with flashing lights screaming “YOU ARE A HOMO!”. I know they ask it out of curiosity, but I can’t help rolling my eyes whenever I hear those seven tedious words. Not only is the question totally inane, but it is also completely irrelevant. The honest truth is that I’ve always known I’m gay, not in the sexual sense, but what do you call a four year old that plays with barbies? Or dresses up as a witch for Halloween? Or cites Catwoman as their favorite Batman character? I’ve always known what I am, even when I didn’t know what to call it. It’s like asking a straight person when they discovered that they’re a procreator. So the question really isn’t when did you know? It’s when did you finally find the chutzpah identify yourself as a full-fledged and fabulous homosexual? Not just coming out of the closet, but trying on all the clothes inside and then breaking down the door.
Like I said, I was fully aware of my fairydom from a very early age, but accepting the truth and choosing to let the world know were not easy tasks to perform. At the dawn of middle school, which coincided with the dawn of puberty, I began to develop what Lois Lowry refers to in The Giver as “the stirrings”. You know, attractions, infatuations, dreams. While all the heteros were dreaming of hetero-love, I was having visions of sugar-plum fairies in my head. I started crushing on more and more boys at my school and it scared me to death. I swore I would never come out, aspiring to someday live in a happy house with a wife and children, making my family proud and avoiding the life of homosexual hardship my mind painted for me. I did the whole middle-school girlfriend thing...kissing girls and writing their names in my AIM profile, but it was all a sham. I played the game of straight charades to the best of my ability, but my peers saw through my act like a mesh top. I was asked about my sexual preference constantly, and I denied the truth until I was blue in the face. The feminine manner in which I carried myself was more than I could control, however. A breaking point was on the rise.
By the end of seventh grade I was done pretending. I stopped asking girls out, as my pre-teen studliness was fading away. I stopped hanging out with most of my guy friends and became something of a recluse, wallowing in frustration and self-pity. The part of society I was trying to play was making a mockery of me and I decided to give up. Expressing my discontent with family or friends was a monster almost as frightening as coming out, so I refrained. When my slump of self-loathe became overbearing, I came out...sort of. The type of coming out I’m referring to is a classic for all homosexuals in training; admitting to being bisexual. After many years of skepticism I am now very aware that bisexuality is a real thing, but in my world there are three types of bisexuals, the real bisexuals, the bisexuals who say they’re bi in order to get attention, and the “bi” kids who are simply straddling the rainbow fence. I was a straddler. As stupid as it seems now to come out in such a half-assed way it still felt like a huge step forward. A huge, terrifying step that most seventh grade boys would never dream of taking. But I had indeed waited long enough. I told two girls in what I thought was the strictest confidence, but the age-old formula of public school plus small town proved me wrong. Word spread like scurvy on a pirate ship, elevating my title from “that kid who we all think is gay but says he’s straight” to “that bi kid”. The word “faggot” was thrown at me left and right, and all my chances of reconnecting with my old guy friends were shot to shit. Part of me felt like running away and crawling into a hole but another, very small part felt proud to be honest, at least somewhat.
The Bisexual Fiasco of 2005 died down as soon as school ended and summer swept the taunts and teasing away. I became a recluse again, spending many warm nights alone in my bedroom writing angry blurbs about the world I felt I didn’t belong to. A shift came towards the end of the summer when I began talking to my kindergarten friend Nicole, who at that point was as much of a rebel as a thirteen year old could be. Nicole dyed her hair, she wore dark clothes and make-up, and she bragged about her newfound sex life whenever she got the chance. The was the opposite of shame, the thing I had been struggling with for what seemed like ages. Being around her made me feel more free, and the two of us quickly became inseparable, having picnics in the cemetery and sneaking out at one in the morning to roam the suburban streets. In indulged in my femininity while in her company, and she ate it up with a shiny pink spoon. At the end of the summer she went to visit her father, in the Cape and when she came back she brought me a present. It was a rainbow wristband, and when she gave it to me she said “Only wear it when you’re ready”. I laughed it off in that moment but I knew I would, and couldn’t be more thankful that she gave it to me.
My comradery with Nicole continued to the beginning of eighth grade, when the looming threat of high school made us all mature a tiny bit more than we planned. I ran with a very liberal, much older crowd that further aided me on my coming out journey which included high school senior Tia and her gangly post-grad buddy Noah. We spoke openly about all aspects of the alternative lifestyle, and I admitted to watching Sex and the City and crushing on boys. My confessions were met by love and encouragement, something I had then heard about but never expected. The feeling it gave me was wonderful, like all my inhibitions had been replaced with affirmations. I enjoyed feeling different, because I realized that even when you don’t fit into a certain norm that you’re never completely alone. Two days before Christmas I decided to throw a party in my basement, which turned into a spin the bottle party, which turned into my first kiss with a boy, and then my second, and then my third. We were all experimenting, but my experimentation was a godsend. I loved the way kissing a boy felt. After my friends left I basked in the glory of the kiss until New Years, when had an “epiphany” that this gay thing was something I definitely wanted to pursue.
Eighth grade kept trucking on and I remained sexually ambiguous. I started buying rainbow buttons at Newbury Comics to wear not only as fashion statements but little hints that I was okay with myself. I had been hearing from my friend Tia all year about Massachusetts Youth Pride, a huge public celebration and parade in Boston specifically aimed at GLBT youth and their allies. I had been undecided if I wanted to attend or not, but by the time May rolled around I couldn’t have been more excited. It was raining the day of Youth Pride when I met up with Tia and a group of her lesbian friends and the festivities that would have been held on the Boston Common were moved into a convention center in Copley. I was immediately overwhelmed upon arrival, never before seeing so many gay lesbian bisexual and transgender kids all in the same place at the same time. I gasped, I gawked, I may have even groped. Despite the pouring rain the parade took the streets of Boston by storm. I marched along countless members of my newfound community and shouted chants of “1, 2, 3, 4, open up the closet door!” and “5, 6, 7, 8, don’t assume your kids are straight!”. The floodgates had opened (quite literally) and the closet door had been completely washed away in the process. My first Youth Pride was the jolt I needed to wake me up from my delusions and embrace who I was, no strings attached.
My trip to Youth Pride soon leaked through my school and I went from being “the bi kid who acts really gay” to the “gay kid”. The remarks that once broke me carried on but the pride I had gotten to know and love saved me from being broken again. Exhilaration and stomach-drops pulsed throughout my system, but the high they gave me was better than crack (I assume). Coming out helped me gain a multitude of new friends in middle school that wanted to know the gay me, not the closeted me. I found acceptance in the most surprising of places, and it shocked me that all I had to do to find it was be myself. Though I never had a mythical coming out ceremony with a microphone and rainbow confetti, I will always remember May of 2006 as my coming out. The stage in my life where I became one with my identity.
The next step was telling my parents, which didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked. They told me it was just a phase, that I shouldn’t be telling people unless I wanted to get my ass kicked, that no boy would want to room with me in the Washington DC field trip at the end of the school year. Our house was a war zone after that, as I failed to grasp that they didn’t necessarily have a problem with my sexuality, but they didn’t want me to get hurt physically or emotionally by outing myself. In retrospect I understand where they were coming from, but I still think they could’ve voiced their opinions in a way that wouldn’t hurt me even more. The conflict with my parents upset me for a while, but I got over it and eventually they did too. While they were struggling with accepting with me coming out, I told myself it didn’t matter if they did or not because I did and I had a great group of friends who did too. In recent years my parents have grown so much from their original discomfort, so much so that on my seventeenth birthday I had cake with them...and my boyfriend.
So to conclude my tale of flaming identity, I can confirm that I am indeed gay and proud. I haven’t missed a Youth Pride since 2006 and I wear my rainbow wristband every year. I was an active member of my high school’s gay/straight alliance, and hope to continue here at Lesley with LEAP (love and equality for all people). I still like to kiss boys, but dating them gives me headaches. Though I thought my coming out story was one of pain and misery I’ve heard stories over the years that make mine look like an episode of Sesame Street. I’ve learned how lucky I am, not only to have friends and family who love and support me, but to live in such a liberal and tolerant place where I can wear my orientation on my sleeve. My heart breaks for those in my community who have been physically hurt, who have been ostracized from their families, and especially those who will lie to themselves for the rest of their lives because they are too afraid to come out. Nobody should have to live in a closet. I know if I did I would’ve hung myself with a belt or a shoelace by now. The world can be an awful place, but being “straight” doesn’t guarantee freedom from hate, pain, violence, or anything else. We just have to deal with it a little more openly. The question isn’t “when did you know?”, but “when did you say it to yourself?”, “when did you feel comfortable enough to tell others?”, or better yet “how long did it take you to rock that rainbow wristband?”
