All the world's a stage.
-William Shakespeare
= = =
I came out when I was eighteen years old.
To my mother, first. To my brother after. To my father.
To my friend, Leann, over a text.
To my grandfather and his wife, Karen, in their foyer.
To my first-year roommate, Bobby, in a message.
To Amy. To Robert. To Sarah. To Aaron.
To Anastasia, my best friend, in an email, like a schmuck.
I moved to St. Peter for college. And I changed my Facebook profile to read: Male, interested in men.
And I stopped coming out.
= = =
The summer before heading to Gustavus, I ripped a piece of paper from a journal and wrote:
Regret is one of those words--"bam," "scone," "rubble"--that is exactly what it sounds like. A heavy, unarticulated pain. A moment in time that spends eternity in unresolved unrest.In a small, plastic case, meant for files and folders, a collection of accomplishments and thoughts, I stuck the note inside and forgot about it. Did I write it as a reminder? Was it for someone? Black ink--and I remember that was significant because I only ever wrote in pencil. Tucked behind a photo of our family's black lab, Scout, it stayed dormant for some time.
Then, when needed, it found a hand, found a light, found a way to the surface.
= = =
I never felt out of place in my section, my freshman year of college. I lived in Norelius Hall (shorthanded to "Co-ed" around campus because it was a dorm for first-years only and housed male and female students). Split into towers A, C, E, and H, floors alternated genders. So, on our floor, the second, section C, there were two clusters of boys and two clusters of girls. It seemed more revolutionary on paper--boys and girls living together? How scandalous!--but was much more reserved in practice. We still had curfew, our sections were gender specific, boy sections always smelled worse. Always.
But, still, living as a commingled aggregate was interesting. It was unique, and the premise of it all sounded incredibly alluring.
When I checked yes to co-ed living, it was because I was afraid that living with guys would be difficult. Fragile, small-town, newly-gay Josh was terrified. Every wonderful thing I'd heard about the open, accepting, inclusive environment of a small, liberal arts college bared no weight when faced with the prospect of sharing a section of space with twenty two other men.
Orientation made one thing very clear: section 2C was going to be just fine.
= = =
I never came out to my grandma.
Not in the way that we recognize it today, anyway. There was no "I need to tell you something," no "just listen," no "please don't hate me, but..." None of that. It was always just an unspoken truth I expected she would understand, would tolerate, wouldn't give a second thought.
But that's not fair.
Nor is it true.
Memory distorts our thoughts in strange ways. It would be easier for me to write: I never came out to my grandma because there was no need; I knew she wouldn't bat an eye so why even bother telling her. But that's not true. I see it that way now, but that wasn't always the case.
You have to understand, I wasn't afraid of coming out to my family because I feared persecution or hatred. I was mortified of the disappointment. The shaking head. The upturned chin and crushing, unbearable silence. In many ways that I cannot vocalize, cannot get to paper, my grandma was (is) the person I feel the most pressure to impress. It's not placed there by her--I want to emphasize that. But living up to the perceived expectations of the most important people in your life: that unfathomable weight is, at times, unmanageable.
So I was terrified of letting her down. And the conversation we should have had, nestled somewhere between honesty and courage, just never did.
And I regret that.
= = =
Peter smoked a lot of weed. Chris complained about toilet paper. Alex or (and?) Luke had loud sex next door.
Chris was quiet. Ryan was not.
Garret studied. Dan slept.
Bill whined. Donald laughed.
Lance was cocky. James was cute.
And Bobby and I were gay. But it was never that, not for any of us. It was never these words that made us up, that gave us presence, that set us in motion. We were all lucky.
We joked a lot, poked fun at each other often. Kidded around about our straightness or lack-thereof. We drank beer and rum and set traps for our CF. Every bit of worry, of neurotic turmoil I put myself through in the two months of summer before college began was for naught. Gustavus Adolphus College was everything I was promised. I felt surrounded, felt harbored, felt appreciated.
Until I didn't.
= = =
When my Grandma met my first significant other, it was under no guise of "my friend" or "roommate." He was my boyfriend. There were no skipped beats, no questioning glances. There was a hug and a "so nice to meet you." There were photos. And smiles. There was laughter. And relaxation.
And I have this memory. Dancing in small, staccato steps. Tapping a foot here. Tapping a foot there. In the living of my mother's infinitesimally sized home. My grandma and I. Was anyone else there? How many lights were burnt out on that tree? A brief, assuring whirl with this unconditionally adoring woman for whom I have so much appreciation: and that's all I can see. One small room, the glow of Christmas, and the two of us.
What is it in our nature to make ordeals out of nothing? To put on productions for no one but ourselves?
= = =
A sweaty night at the on-campus dance club, The Dive. A Friday like every other.
Popular songs spun above our heads with the glimmering, dancing disco ball. Mirrors watched us from the ceiling, and, often, we did the same in their reflection. Against a tiled wall, my friend Nadvia and I grind to something filthy and moderately tempo'd. The song ends, the buzz does not.
I was in need of water--we all were, weren't we?--so I left the floor and found a cooler. Dain and Whitney leave in a slur of goodbyes and I think that may be my cue. I catch an eye on the floor, tilt my head to the exit, and walk out of the sweaty air and into the incredible October night.
"Faggot."
There's a word I haven't heard in a while.
"Hey, faggot."
Is someone fighting? My head was heavy, lolling side-to-side, trying to find a face in the trees outside The Dive.
"Yes, you, faggot."
And I realize he (she?) is speaking to me. Well, at me. A Gustavus sweatshirt with a head and arms and legs: walks up to and then passed me, edging toward the chapel.
"Fucking faggots. Dunno how you all fucking got in here."
= = =
I stopped coming out because my sexuality is not anyone's business but my own.
I quit the facade of self-loathing and straight-acting because that's a really quick way to be miserable.
I know. I did it for too long.
That I did it all...that's another thing I regret.
= = =
The minute I got back to my room, I placed three phone calls. I flipped my razr open and dialed "mom" and immediately hung up. I called "Bobby" and hung up. I called "Granny" and I let the phone ring. And ring. And ring.
When the voicemail picked up, I snapped my phone shut.
I cried. I blew my nose.
I opened my phone and redialed the last number.
I was a faggot and needed to get that off my chest.
I needed her to know who I was. Needed everyone to understand. Needed to hear, "I know and everything is okay."
It's funny the way clarity works. I wonder if it's the same for us all? In almost any messy situation or scenario, I can reliably point to the moment, the one instance when everything came into focus and the performance just stopped. When the second voicemail picked up, that was one of those moments.
This random passerby's hatred of me for some uncontrollable fraction of the person I am was immaterial, irrelevant to my life. It was one word, and it didn't define or control me. And I think that's why it no longer mattered, why I hung up the phone.
Why the conversation never occurred.
= = =
You know, clarity acts a lot like stage fright. One minute, you're living, breathing, reciting this representation of you that's in no way the person you are. And suddenly you're stuck, spotlit, your flaws and insecurities flooding out of you in waves and waves of vulnerability.
What is it in our nature to make ordeals out of nothing? To put on productions for no one but ourselves?
If we stopped the charade: does anything change? Do we lose a thing? How much more do we gain through exposure and honesty and sincerity?
The rewards are...intangible, numerous.
But we do lose something.
We lose the heavy, unarticulated pain. We lose the moments spending eternity in unresolved unrest.
We lose our regret.
And then: we get to play ourselves.
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