I'm gay. There, I said it.The more inclusive and trendy term these days is "queer," and I mean no slight whatsoever to bisexuals or anyone else, but growing up, I associated queer only with its somewhat-antiquated original meaning, odd or bizarre. So for me to say that I am gay takes a lot more courage on my part.

That said, my sexuality is but one facet of my life, and the more that I remember that fact, the more I am able to avoid devoting so much of my thoughts to figuring out what to do with myself. I'm not saying that I now ignore my sexuality; rather, I've simply become comfortable enough with it that it doesn't have to be the focal point of my existence.



The fog lifts

I was somewhat of a late bloomer when it came to "getting it." To underline this, what follows is a homocentric, if you will, account of my travails through the boundless joys of adolescence.

My introduction to the concept of homosexuality came sometime around the sixth or seventh grade. A new epithet had found its way into us boys' vernacular, and suddenly it was cool to call someone a fag. Like what I'm sure was the vast majority of my cohorts at the time, I of course had absolutely no idea what the word actually meant. I finally found out when my cousin came down for a visit and heard me call my brother a fag. She cut in abruptly, asking, "Do you even know what that means?" I sheepishly admitted that, no, I hadn't a clue. So she told me, and that's when I stopped using the word.

Unfortunately, the others weren't so lucky to have had a relative fill them in, so they kept tossing the word around freely. When it was thrown at me, it really bothered me, but not only in the taboo-word sense. There was something else, but I was nowhere near ready to begin understanding what was going on.

Seventh grade found me in gym class, puzzled as ever. I'd catch myself staring at someone, my eyes lingering a little bit too long, feeling something, but I couldn't put my finger on what. I found it odd, but thought nothing of it and dismissed it.

The following summer, while away at camp, I had a bunkmate who was on a swim team (as was I at the time). As was inevitable, we eventually challenged each other to a race. I remember looking at him before we dove in, and I was struck by a feeling, not a sexual one, per se; it was more of a curiosity. I was still completely unaware of what any of this might mean.

Indeed, as I progressed through middle school and high school, the reality of the situation began to crystallize in my mind. The signals and stimuli became more frequent and more intense, and yet until it became completely clear, I was entirely unable to recognize what was going on. When it came to me one day, it utterly floored me.

I remember panicking, trying to figure out what to do. I decided quickly that I did not want this, not because the concept repulsed me; it was more that I didn't want to deal with this wall that had suddenly sprung up between my peers and me. I tried turning myself away from it, pretending it didn't exist, forcing myself to watch straight pornography, anything I could think of that might make it all just go away. Much to my dismay-though not to my surprise-it didn't work.

Sometime around tenth grade, I finally accepted the fact that this wasn't about to disappear. I did not embrace it; I simply resigned myself to it. Once I had finished acclimating myself for the time being, I remembered that there were, in fact, still other people in the world, and that I still existed among them. I couldn't fathom having to tell anyone about this revelation, so I conveniently rationalized it away under the premise of bisexuality: OK, so apparently I liked guys, but that didn't preclude me from liking girls-and as long as I stuck to dating girls, no one ever had to know the truth.



Like a turtle

But I couldn't hold something like this in for very long, and for the remainder of my high school career, I began telling a very few select friends that I was bisexual. It was such a huge disclosure for me that when they responded with "Oh, OK" rather than an "Oh good God! You can't be serious!" I actually found myself feeling a bit disappointed. But from that I learned to have faith in people-they tend to be far more accepting than one might imagine, especially when one is first coming out and is so acutely sensitive to everyone's reaction.

Of course, the significance of the reactions of one's peers pales in comparison to those of one's parents. As you might expect, breaching the subject with family members, especially immediate family members, can be the most daunting task in the process. I simply did not know how or when to speak to them about my sexuality.

The opportunity to tell my mother came during eleventh grade. We were watching a show on TV in which a female character had to decide whether or not to date a man after he disclosed that he was bisexual (she was ultimately too weirded out by it). After it ended, I asked my recently separated mother if she would date a bisexual man. She was caught off guard, thought briefly and responded negatively. When I pressed for a reason, she didn't really have a good one, just something about them "not having themselves figured out sexually." OK, that's it, I said to myself, she needs to think about this some more. So the next morning I told her my little secret. I was bombarded with a lot of "How can you know?" (to which I retorted, "How did you know you were straight?") but otherwise, the reaction was better than I expected. I am happy to report that she has since become much more supportive and compassionate about my sexual orientation.

At that point, I felt that I had told enough people to alleviate my need to let others know for the moment, but then I became conscious of feeling very alone. Although I hadn't been expecting them to, no one had responded with a "Really? Me too!" I didn't know where to turn.

I began looking around frantically, trying to find someone, anyone, to whom I could relate. I knew of one gay kid, but watching him suffer years of peer taunting didn't exactly encourage me to join him. Then, toward the end of my senior year, he approached his very religious parents, was brutally rebuffed and in a bout of despondency hanged himself in his garage. While I knew that that was an extreme case, it still shook me to my very core, and I refused to think about anything even tangentially relating to sexuality until I headed off to college.



A new environment

During my first semester here at Brandeis, the urge to share my sexuality with more people again began to build. I started telling my small group of friends, one by one, that I was bisexual. I remember one case in particular, where I was petrified of one friend's reaction-someone who today is one of my closest companions, as well as one of my strongest allies.

The following February, I finally mustered up the courage to accept that coming out "the rest of the way" meant that I would once and for all have to let go of my lingering conception of a "normal" life-a wife, two and a half kids, a white picket fence, etc. I was really looking forward to that half a kid, but then I realized that it was a false choice.

True, I won't be able physically to have children with a partner, but there is a plethora of alternative options today. Everything else in this master plan of mine remains intact, and thanks to recent legal developments, I can even get married, should I choose to do so.

(I feel that I should state for the record that I absolutely believe and acknowledge that there are guys who are legitimately bisexual; I don't mean to imply otherwise. I am simply saying that there are also many men who find it easier to step out of the closet one foot at a time, as it were.)

By the end of that semester, I had met a total of one other gay friend. He lived next door to me, and while it was wonderful at last to have someone nearby to chat and share experiences with, I found myself beginning to think in broader terms: Now that I had acknowledged who I was, I wanted to know where I stood in life. I knew of Triskelion, but at the time it was much more geared toward the exciting-fun-let's-party social aspect, something I was far too timid to approach.

So I started to look around, and the first resource I came across, the one that served as my introduction to the gay culture, was the first season of the Showtime series Queer as Folk. If you have never seen the show, suffice it to say that it was a very unfortunate first reference. I was traumatized-was this all there was to being gay? Skin, sweat, sex and drugs? Was monogamy even allowed? Did love always take a backseat to lust? So much for my master plan...

Unfortunately, with nothing to convince me otherwise, I was left in this mindset until a month or two into my sophomore year, when I sat down to talk with my phenomenal quad director Luigi. I am forever indebted to him, for he rescued me from that nightmarish perception. Yes, he said, some homosexuals live the lives of those characters (I learned way too much from TV). But there are plenty of others in loving, committed relationships, himself included. This was very reassuring, and it put my mind at ease for a long time. But as far as I was concerned, I still wasn't out.



Practice makes perfect

In fact, just uttering those two little words aloud was incredibly difficult for me. As I began to tell more people, I noticed that it became progressively easier to say it again. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I even spent some time in front of a mirror, repeating it until I could say "I'm gay" without cringing. I felt like Stuart Smalley, but it actually worked. Being up front about my sexuality became almost a non-issue. Case in point: I remember vividly my coming-out experience with my mother, but I have only a vague recollection of the circumstances surrounding my informing my father a few years later.

While the mere mention of my sexual orientation has become routine, until recently I was plagued by the notion that my life would have been easier if I was straight, and I couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't want to simplify life that way. In the past when I've heard someone say how proud he is to be gay and would never want to be anyone else, I have looked at him with both awe and envy. How was he able not to long for a life where one need not worry about discriminatory laws and ignorant bigotry? I think I've figured it out.

It's this feeling that I get sometimes. There's nothing quite like it; I am seized by this unbelievable rush of endorphins, just exulting in the feeling of being free from the societal constraints that kept me down for years. I'll be frank: Generally speaking, drag queens scare me. But when I feel this, for a brief moment I understand and experience the incredible joy that they radiate. That is something I could never feel as a heterosexual, and so for that, yes, I am comfortable at this point saying that I am happy to be gay, and, with the exception of some lonely and depressing moments, I would have it no other way.

Certainly, many people project their sexuality intentionally, perhaps as a means of creating an identity. But there are also people like me: I tend to dress relatively conservatively, my wrists are generally static, I do not affect a lisp and I am not typically flamboyant in the slightest. Does this mean I am trying to hide who I am? Absolutely not. I respect those who wear their sexuality on their sleeves; it's just not my style. My lack of distinguishing characteristics does not translate to me being ashamed, far from it.



Come out, come out, wherever you are

I was asked recently why this piece was worthy of being printed in the opinion section of this paper, rather than simply in a private journal. My immediate, somewhat indignant answer was that I thought the very fact that I was willing (and brave enough, if I do say so myself) to have it printed publicly was plenty of qualification in and of itself. Having given it more thought, though, I realize that I am largely motivated by, as the headline suggests, my desire to reach out to anyone with whom this at all strikes a chord. The Queer Resource Center (QRC), the support branch of Triskelion, is staffed by a wonderful group of students well trained in myriad sexuality-related issues. I should know-I worked there last year, and began this semester's shift last week.

I don't pretend to have all of the answers; relatively speaking, I am still very new to this whole thing myself. I can probably learn as much from you as can you from me. But I remember being absolutely terrified as a first-year, not knowing where to turn. The QRC would have been perfect for me then, but unfortunately, this is only our second year in existence. Take advantage of us-we like it.

I can also state unequivocally that the ultimate relief of this heavy burden dramatically outweighs any initial embarrassment and uneasiness that you might feel.

According to The Princeton Review, Brandeis is officially the most gay-friendly campus in Massachusetts-arguably the most gay-friendly state in the country-so if nowhere else, you are safe here. Safe to be yourself.

And please, if you are struggling with matters related to sexuality, have questions or just need a friend to talk to, come visit us on a weekday. Don't feel comfortable coming into the office? If you see me around campus, just pull me aside. It's what I would have wanted then; it's what I want now.