I'm coming out

Don't be fooled: I didn't want the world to know. I wanted to go about my business and never have anyone ask about my personal life. I never thought my sexuality should be my defining characteristic - I still don't. The difference now is that I also don't view it as a point of shame. Once I realized there was nothing inherently wrong with me, personal acceptance came pretty easily. This did not cure my inherent fear of rejection. I had grown pretty dismissive of disapproving acquaintances, but couldn't muster the courage to approach my family, for fear of being dismissed, myself. My fears were bolstered both by personal conversations with devoutly religious family members believing homosexuality to be a choice, and by stereotypes of familial judgment and rejection. Everyone has heard horror stories of parents disowning their gay children, or worse, cutting them off financially! One of my closest friends lived his own version of the former. These combined factors made me reticent to reveal this aspect of my life to my family. I will surely elucidate this story in further depth over the course of this project, but in short, what I experienced was nothing less than the precise opposite. My parents, not dolts by any stretch of the imagination, had been bracing for the news since I broke up with my high school girlfriend, who, frankly, was a bitch, but they believed her to be perfect, and were certain any man willing to end a relationship with her must not be entirely "normal." What they offered was precisely what I needed - unconditional love; not just tolerance, but acceptance. And they were completely unwilling to deny or hide my identity. Rather, they were proactive; they set about sharing the "news" with our entire family so that anyone with anything untoward to say would say it to them and not me. They were in parent mode - they protected me (albeit from nothing, as no one in my extended family proffered anything but kind words, either). I know for some, overcoming a traumatic "coming out" is a personal triumph. Do you think maybe I should begrudge my parents for robbing me of this obstacle to overcome?! But really, what I discovered through this experience was so much more valuable than any amount of relying on myself - I already knew how to do that. This proved to me that I could trust enough to rely on someone else.

A bedtime story

The following is a true story. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. It depicts the actual events of one night of collegiate frivolity. And lest you think I mean to glamorize such behavior, I will relate subsequent dark tales, too. For now, grab a snack and a blanket, and listen while I impart the harrowing tale of midterm-Ethan.

On the eve of my philosophy midterm, second semester of freshman year of college, I did what most good cosmologists do before they regurgitate Aristotle's theory of Form: shots with friends. Having exhausted what entertainment we believed we could muster for ourselves in the confines of our own apartment [read: we expended our on-hand liquor supply and were ready to drink someone else's surrounded by a crowd of strangers-soon-to-be-new-best-friends], Ethan, Adam, and I ventured to a party across campus. Adhering to his modus operandi, Ethan immediately evaluated the room to locate the woman with just the right combination of intoxication and/or low self esteem to make her the most willing to return home with him that evening. It didn't take long for him to acquire a target, though his aim was, shall we say, imperfect. The particular individual for whom he had eyes that evening preferred the company of other women. Not one to be easily dissuaded, Ethan kept a close eye on her for the remainder of the evening, and when she'd partied all she could, she departed, followed closely by an increasingly intoxicated Ethan. Adam and I took turns, and it was my night to play Ethan-sitter. Taking quick note of his absence, I gave chase, catching him before he had time to do anything warranting a restraining order. I convinced him that his chances of swaying this woman to have a one night stand with him were even lower than usual, given her adamantly-expressed sexual preference, and he decided to return with me to the festivities. We were greeted warmly back into the fold, and for a time Ethan forgot his failed conquest and settled into friendly banter with the event's host. No sooner had I forgotten my charge than he ducked out of sight, again in pursuit of his lesbian would-be lover. I drew my conversation on the merits of socialism to an untimely close and gave chase. Admittedly, I did not have to chase for long, because Ethan had forgotten his purpose in leaving the party, exhausted himself, and chosen to lie down on a park bench about 30 feet from the party. This time, I managed to convince Ethan it was time for the night to end, so we walked together across campus to tuck him into bed for the night. With his assurance that he would not leave his bed except to purge himself of excess liquor, I returned to what remained of the party. When we'd had our fill of discussing drunken solutions to world hunger, and upon solving our own immediate hunger with rations from the local late-night sandwichery, Adam and I returned home, unsurprisingly, to an empty apartment. Deciding we had done all we could to protect Ethan from himself for one night, Adam and I both slept soundly, guiltlessly. We awoke the next morning to calls from Ethan, who'd attempted to return to the party, only to get lost, somehow, in the labyrinthine business school, conveniently open 24 hours to allow dedicated students unlimited access to study space during midterms week. He'd found comfort where he could: an Ikea arm chair in a study room, conveniently adjacent to the classroom in which he would take an economics midterm just hours from then. Serendipity, indeed.

Despite Ethan's failed pursuit, it was I who learned a lesson that night: you cannot stand in the way of another man's dreams; just sit back and let him screw it up on his own.

I want to believe

I was raised in a staunchly, ever-increasingly religious home. Despite attending a fairly dogmatic, evangelical church, my parents believed because they studied and came to their own conclusions. They never believed because they were told to; they read scriptures, interpreted, listened and formed their own conclusions. And then imparted those upon us as fact. In fairness, they would later encourage us to come to our own conclusions, but from the time we could understand religion, we were taught theirs. To my mother's delight, I did study Christianity, deeply. To her dismay, I do not reach the same conclusion she had. I'm retrospectively certain my dissent must have begun when I realized the inherent dissonance between Jesus loving everyone, but being willing to condemn someone to hell for an eternity for not believing in him for a few years on earth. And depending on the sect, you could end up burning forever for much less - anything from being jealous of your neighbor, to screwing another dude, to cheating on a test. I was once taught that thinking about a sin was as bad as committing it. And then I remember thinking, which I'm sure must have fallen high on the sin scale, that if the thought is just as bad as the action, then why not just act?!

The rift expanded when members of my former congregation got so upset at their pastor for not stepping down to Associate-Minister and allowing the current Associate to become the Senior, that they excommunicated him. EXCOMMUNICATED?! That's still a thing? Imagine if NBC had excommunicated Jay Leno for refusing to step down. Well this was pretty similar, except I don't think this guy owned a car collection or a single decent suit.

My disbelief in Christianity intensified throughout college. I attended a Catholic university in the midwest. You might think this could have been a place of staunch conservatism, but the Jesuits are known for dedication to liberal arts education. I completed a course on Judaism, wherein I noted many discrepancies between the original scriptural intent and modern Christian interpretation. My mom was stunned when I informed her the book of Job was apocryphal. STUNNED. *Note: most Jewish people accept this as fact. The book is meant to be a parable.*

I spent many years away from the church, telling myself I believed in nothing. I think because I was so entirely dismayed by the actions of the Christian church. And also because I truly did not believe the gospel as they taught it. I realize now that I want to believe in something - not buying one pair of shoes doesn't mean I can't wear shoes. I just need to find the ones that fit...

I met a girl...

I actually met a lot of girls. I was friends with a lot of girls. But what I mean is that I also dated quite a few of them. That's what I was supposed to do. And in my world, one did what one ought, regardless of the desire to do so. Girls liked me, and that is a quality I just adore in people. When you believe in a spectrum of attraction, as I do (although I fall pretty securely on the other end of this spectrum), and you're told through all of adolescence that being attracted to men, which I very much was, is unacceptable, it is easy [read: prudent] to put off "sinful" sexual urges in favor of harmless, pseudo-romantic friend-relationships with women. So I did. I think at times I even had myself fooled into loving them. I think science calls that "denial," and my friend, I was floating smoothly down (or up?) that river. I barely even thought about men - unless you count feverishly masturbating to every boy on the football team, my best friend, or any underwear ad I could find multiple times a day... But despite being sex objects, men were never the object of a relational desire, because how could they be? Two men in a relationship? Who bought dinner? Where would the babies come from? And aren't babies the reason people get married?

Who even am I?

Tell me who you think I am. You're probably right. Tell me what you think I value. I'm sure you're correct.  If each of our lives is comprised of a series of perceived realities, then how can I begin to argue your opinion? What if every possible personality trait exists simultaneously within our consciousness and our "reality" is the series of choices of which trait to embrace and which to reject? And what if there is no wrong answer? No matter your perception, or conclusive detection; or product of misdirection, you'll require no correction. Sincere apologies - I indulged the part of my personality that can't resist rhyme, despite the fact that I am worse at constructing it than a sober Flo-Rida. Topical.

Like Michael Jackson, I can attempt to portray the man I see in the mirror (and hopefully not the boy standing next to him). I can attempt to embody the self I strive to be. But the finality rests with the beholder. Whether our opinions of me align - and unless yours fluctuates more than a menopausal woman's thermo-regulator, they do not likely do so for long - the only promise I can make is to live my own truth, to do so deliberately, and let you interpret it.

What even is this?

If you think you're about to read a comedic romp about a gay man who regained consciousness in a new world following a bout of amnesia, you could be right. If you think I'm about to relay the dramatic account of a human's struggle to contextualize his life via his surroundings, you could be right. Most importantly, if, when this is presumably purchased and turned into a book, you and your best friend and/or book club are reading this simultaneously and find yourselves on opposing sides of that argument, please stay friends long enough to tell me who wins it. Should you find a way to reconcile those concepts away from mutual exclusivity, please call me. You owe it to me to share.

What I honestly desire to craft is a an account; not a story, per se, but a conveyance of the choices that comprise my reality - cerebral actions and reactions, which define my present and intentionally, hopefully, shape my future. To what extent is that possible? Come with me; we'll find out together.