They Say That Coming Out is Hard to Do

In honor of National Coming Day having been yesterday:

When asked what the most difficult part of being a queer person is, I often don’t have an answer. I don’t usually get harassed, I’ve never been assaulted, and I usually answer naysayers with some sound logic and total jerks with some choice four letter words. My parents don’t necessarily understand, but the number of things that they don’t understand about me would fit nicely into an encyclopedia volume. I’m constantly surrounded by straight, usually coupled (in some cases married) people, but it takes too much energy to be mad at the happy heteros and besides, it could end up being hypocritical. Off the top of my head, I never seem to come up with anything. Given some time to think, however, there’s a very obvious answer. For me, the most difficult part of being queer has been coming out.

Coming out the first couple times was extremely hard, although not altogether painful. Coming out the next few times was both hard and painful. Coming out after that was fairly simple, oftentimes an afterthought in a long conversation about something else completely. The fact of the matter remains, however, that that’s not where the story ends. Each new person I meet provides another opportunity for me to come out and go through some pretty extraordinary circumstances. Questions range from the very stupid (are you sure?) to the insulting (why don’t you just date boys since you’re bi?), the innocent (so how does that work?) to the profane (how does sex work?), the curious (are you single?) to the private (what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?). Plus, there’s always the feeling. You know, the one deep in your gut when you’re not sure if you’re going to be met with praise and acceptance or be punched in the gut by your best friend before being told you’re going to hell? Even when you know that the reaction will be nothing but lovely, the feeling’s there. It’s par for the course.

Some times stick out more than others. The people who I told in passing all blur together, for instance, but telling my parents will, for better or worse, be forever imprinted in my memory. What follows are some of the most memorable coming out experiences for me thus far. These are for all to share and comment on. I hope that all who read these find humor and heart in them, but most of all, I hope that they provide some comfort and understanding as we approach National Coming Out Day. For those of us who are GLBTQ, every day has the potential to be coming out day.

The First Time:
I was dancing at my friends’ wedding. My date, a good friend of mine, had barely made it there; a few days before, he had managed to launch his six foot three frame over his bike handlebar and dent a parking meter with his head. I was completely certain that I was going stag to the wedding, but he managed to pull himself together, throw a suit on, and (at his own insistence, not mine) was ready when I picked him up for the ceremony. At the reception, I sipped on a goblet of coca-cola while I watched the rest of my friends rob the open bar. I don’t remember much about the music, but a slow song came on and, after asking, he pulled me onto the floor to dance. I instantly became acutely aware of three things: 1) Even with a lack of rhythm and a slightly bum leg, he was doing a good job in the romantic dancing department, 2) my friend, who was a bridesmaid, was standing across the dance floor next to the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and 3) for no reason other than a deep attraction, I wanted to talk to that woman. After that dance, I caught up with my bridesmaid friend and asked her about the woman. “She’s really nice!” she said. “Would you like me to introduce you?” Suddenly too nervous to speak, I declined. Throughout the night, I would reconsider that offer many times. Later that weekend we would joke about how, since she was also a bridesmaid, my friend got to help her get dressed, a privilege sorely wasted on the straight girl. It all went so seamlessly and didn’t seem like a big deal at all; from my awareness of everyone around me to my constant complaining about being single, everything was exactly the same. Except, of course, that nothing was the same. What I had contemplated and wondered about for several months, what I never dared to allow myself to even consider for many years had finally been confirmed in the span of five minutes. “Who is that girl?” became an official declaration, an official outing. “Would you like me to introduce you?” became its acceptance.

The Roommate:

Carnegie Mellon University has this tradition of painting a stumpy, six post fence in the middle of campus. Some groups use it for birthday wishes, some for party announcements, some for acknowledging events. During my senior year, ALLIES, the Gay/Straight alliance on campus, painted the fence in celebration of National Coming Out Day. As per the rules, we had to wait until midnight to paint, so most of us showed up around 11 PM the day before. At that point, I had come out to most of my college friends, mostly over the computer, mostly by starting with the sentence “So, we’re friends, right? And there’s nothing I can say or do to change that?” There was even one friend who I had told by bringing half a cake to and going on some tangent about how I’m not allowed to join the military. The person who I hadn’t told at that point, however, was my roommate. We were sitting at our respective desks, her doing homework, me desperately trying to figure out what to say and when to say it. I picked up the bi-triangle button that was sitting on my desk and twirled it around in my fingers. Should I do it the way I did to everyone else? Would that work out in person? Do I tell her about the girl I have a massive crush on? Do I wait until tomorrow? I didn’t really have that much time left; I needed to head to campus to help paint the fence. My nerves were electric to begin with, as I was excited about painting, anxious about seeing said crush, and determined to make this Coming Out Day one to remember. Finally, the time came where I had to leave and head to campus. I didn’t have much of a choice anymore. I stood up, threw on my coat, and did an about face. My roommate looked at me curiously. “Happy Coming Out Day,” I forced. “I’m bisexual.” On that note, I promptly left.

The Parents:

The only thing that was more exciting than my 21st birthday was being in my first ever real relationship. Twenty days had passed and things were going well with a girl I considered to be the most beautiful, most lovely person I had ever laid eyes on. Being with her made me feel wanted, made me feel alive, made me feel like I needed to be a better person. I wasn’t just trying to be the best for myself anymore, there was another person to consider. I wanted to prove to the world that I was truly entering adulthood, and I wanted to prove to her that I was worthy of her, that if it came down to it, I could do right by her and be proud. At the time, that meant doing the thing I swore I’d never do: coming out to my parents. I chose the day after my 21st birthday to tell my mother, mostly because it made me feel like a grown up. Nervously, I asked to borrow her car. I had everything planned out: I’d buy her favorite alcohol (white zinfandel) and her favorite coffee (cappuccino), present them both to her as a bribe, and tell her. I purchased the two items, drove back home, and stumbled into the dining room. Neither of us can remember whether I asked or demanded that she sit, but regardless, she did. I told her I had something to tell her, and then spent the next minute gasping for air. Eventually, she told me to just spit it out. I did. She asked me how I knew. I told her about my girlfriend. She asked for her name. I gave it to her. She asked more intimate questions. I told her she was wrong about any assumptions. She said “Well, I still love you.” I broke down crying. To this day, I’m sure that moment had a far more profound effect on me. This is, of course, compared to Christmas Evening, when I told my father. He, naturally, accepted it, went on about how open minded he was, and then changed the subject to him and my mother. I promptly ended the conversation and went to bed. I’m very glad I only have two parents.

Of Work and Religion:

At the end of my senior year, I wrote an essay. The assignment topic was religion, and I was feeling particularly insightful, so I wrote about coming out to myself while being a liberal Christian. It was never an issue of “is this a sin?” for me; my church had taught me that it clearly wasn’t and that this was part of God’s plan. The real struggle was having spent my whole life leading this very pure, straight and narrow life in hopes of being rewarded with a nice husband and kids and then finding out that I wasn’t on a straight and narrow path. I felt betrayed and abandoned, and it took an internal and spiritual journey to get back to a place where I felt God again. Everyone I showed my essay to liked it. On my second Coming Out Day, I sent the essay to my youth leader and boss, who were (and are) the same person. I think I explained it as an essay I wrote that a mutual friend suggested I send her, and if she had any thoughts, she could email me. Her response was the most touching, loving response I have ever received after coming out. It was reassuring, it was protective, it was honored, and it was full of love. The thing that really breaks my heart is, no matter how hard I search, I can’t find that email anymore. If I could, I’d print it out and frame it.

My Delegation:

For a long time, my general policy was that I had no problem being out to people, with the exception being children. It wasn’t that I was completely afraid (only a little), but it seemed so complicated. Would they understand? How much would I have to explain to them? How would their parents react? Was it even appropriate to bring up? I didn’t want to deal with it, didn’t want to put myself in a situation where someone could give me a hard time over working with their kid. So, I never said anything. The summer of 2007, however, brought about an interesting opportunity. I was working at a CISV Village in Belgium and was in charge of a delegation of four kids. My friend, the Mexican leader, was a gay man who had come out to some of his kids, to positive results. I had considered coming out to mine, but was told it wasn’t really my place to do so. I talked with my friend, though, and he said I could out him. So, on the very last day of camp, while we were cleaning, I explained to the kids (who thought that we were dating) that that was impossible because he was gay. They were intrigued, but not overwhelmed. They asked if anyone else at camp was gay. I said yes (ok, so I lied a bit). They guessed all the guys. I said no. They guessed most of the girls. I said no. They finally guessed me. I said yes. Their response, I kid you not, was “Why didn’t you tell us?!” I told them I didn’t want it to affect their camp experience. They responded with “whatever.” They wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. I didn’t. They wanted to know if I had an ex-girlfriend. I did. They made me find the one picture I had of her on my camera. Life went on and nothing changed. I haven’t really told any kids since.

My family:

My mother and I had gotten into a fight. Depending on who you asked, it was about two different things. From her perspective, it was about respect and how I had none. From mine, it was about never being backed up when issues of homophobia arose. Regardless of who was right (both of us) and who was wrong (both of us), I was pretty broken up over the whole thing. After speaking with several people, the idea came up that I might be coming off as ashamed of who I am because I hadn’t told anyone in my family. It’s not so much that I’m ashamed (I have no shame), but rather that telling them would open up a whole new world, one filled with lots of disappointment, yelling, and personal strife. I can barely deal with my daily troubles, so now is not the time to bring this up. Still, I was fairly frustrated that the only member of my family that I could talk to about this stuff was my dad, and, as you saw in his coming out story, he’s not always the best person to talk to about these things. It just so happened that my fifteen year old cousin, who I haven’t seen in several years, is on facebook and had started talking to me. I told him that my mother and I had been fighting, and I told him that it was because she wasn’t being as open minded as I’d have hoped. He said he was cool with gay stuff and that another family member was gay and he knew it and it was cool. On a snap judgment, I told him. I don’t know why. I think I just knew that, even though he’s young, he would just get it. He did. Somewhere between his internet speak and misspellings was a simple “you know I got you.” That’s all I needed.

As for today:

Every morning, when I wake up, I hit the snooze button 3 or 4 times. I toss myself out of bed and sleepily stumble to the bathroom. I find the cleanest nearly matching clothes I can and put them on, usually while my toothbrush dangles from my mouth. I run a comb through my hair and brush it into place, knowing damn well that it’s going to be messy again within the hour. I shove my glasses on, grab my bag, and run out the door of my building before I miss the bus and have to walk. Throughout this entire ordeal, not once do I ever think about being queer. I never choose the person on the bus who makes me smile, the stranger on the sidewalk that causes a second glance, or even the newbie at church who makes me too nervous to speak. I never get a say in this. I never got a say in this. I wouldn’t want one if I had one. I am who I am, and every morning, I wake up to discover that that’s not changing. What I do have a say in is how I react to it. I don’t hide from the world. I don’t lie to people. I don’t lie to myself. I’m proud of who I am, who I’ve become, and who I’m becoming. I don’t choose to tell people to make a statement or take a stand. I don’t choose to let the world know so that I can be counted. I come out because I can’t hide myself. If I’m going to make a statement about anything, if I’m going to make a difference in the world, if I’m going to be the best person that I can be, I have to always and fully be me. When a person comes out, be it with smiles or tears, laughter or nerves, they’re telling you that they aren’t afraid to be them. The question is are you afraid to let them?