Andrew Sullivan recently advocated coming out. Jeff Pearlman, a Sports Illustrated writer, wrote on his blog the necessity of coming out. I’d like to think to agree with that. Yet, it’s a tad more complicated than that. I’m also not necessarily sure what I feel on this.
The question is: when one discovers that they are in a closet, why do they remain there? I imagine, with a supportive family structure and well recognized, public acceptance of homosexuality, nobody would actually stay in the closet. That’s not true for most individuals. There is a very early recognition of the deviance of your behavior: throughout your life, you understand that as a boy, your job is to eventually marry a girl. It’s simple, it’s accepted and it’s not discussed as anything other than the way it is.
Homosexuality, in some places, isn’t talked about at all, though there is a vague understanding of its negativity. I lived in South Texas, where it was an openly discussed, negative status that involved gender bending, sickness, perversion and immorality. When you first recognize yourself as one of those, it’s a very frightening time.
I remember the tears; I knew who I was and I had been taught to be ashamed. The simple childhood slurs of ‘gay, faggot, joto’ stung every time I heard them. In retrospect, I know it had little to do with my supposed homosexuality and more to do with any natural difference in behavior: I was geeky and intelligent, a little weird, and so it happened.
Yet, every time they would say those words, I panicked: did they know me better than I knew myself? Was there something I was signaling to people that made them think I was a homosexual, when I knew I was? Eventually, I realized that even as my social peers used the idea of homosexuality as a slur, the adults didn’t take it as a signifier of my condition. That’s who I was really scared: the authority, the power of contempt and safety. How would my mother react? How would my father? Would I be abandoned? Would I be beaten? The fear is everywhere. Every semblance of behavior becomes scrutinized. I remember looking at my jeans and hoping that it wasn’t a covert signal I was sending.
Being in the closet makes you an expert at lying. It makes you skilled in the art of illusion and pretend, manifestly by its nature. You have to continue the sham that you know others expect. In fact, you have to become better at being straight than they are. Sexual prowess, hanging out with girls, the heteronormative world that you define yourself becomes even more suffocating. There are nights of self-hate, frustration. The days are filled with lust, particularly prevalent in a teenage boy, for another that you cannot but help desire. Every time I looked at a boy, I was terrified that the stare would be met would public confirmation of my societal deviance. I began to turn away, to stop looking, to stop searching for hope. Nobody needed to close the door for me; I gladly bolted it locked from the inside.
The closet becomes your own prison and it changes you. It is a constant siege, without end or relief. You push away from any real connections: the level of trust is an inch deep. New experiences are only new complications to how you have to hide. It is like an ever-changing puzzle: you are placing the final pieces on the wall protecting your secret, and suddenly, it expands. It makes doing new things unwelcomed, filled with the paranoia of potential failure.
I know this from my own youth. To those reading this that know me, it might be surprising to see the inner anguish, but I tried to create a wall, as high and as thick as was possible. Junior high was complete and utter anguish. I made every possible attempt at deception, scene-creation, and yes, even fake romances, both public and private. Every time I pulled it off, I smirked. It was another day of relief.
The fear was compounded by the fact that I felt I was working for my bed, food and comfort every day, by ensuring the secret. I wasn’t scared of what my friends would say: they were already objects from my continued treatment of them as barriers to avoid, not as friends to hold. It was the family finding out and pushing me out the door, crushing the few dreams that I had.
It becomes a very lonely exercise of futility. It was unbearable; the ability to be in a room full of people, individuals that held the label of ‘friends’, and still not be able to enjoy their company without the filter of fear. It made for very lonely nights on my computer, seeking the companionship of people that could not harm and investing myself emotionally in situation and beings who had no power over me. I discovered role-play, immersed myself in gaming, and only really released emotionally to a bunch of wires and tubes.
High school was confusing: being in love with your best friend while attempting to secure the foundation for future success is a tight-rope. I let more people into the secret: individuals that had taken years of practice to cultivate. Every time I opened up, I felt a little freer: the closet was less restrained. Yet, my paranoia would only increase: I understood very quickly that increasing comfort also meant more risk, for others would not share in my delusion of fear.
It also became an issue when I fell in love with my best friend, and would have been willing to do anything for him. I felt my first love, and it wasn’t for a girl; it was for a boy and he had been one of the few people I assumed I could trust. Yet, I also knew that I had done unforgiveable things to him earlier in life, including using him as a public scapegoat, to continue the appearance of heterosexuality. On September 1st, 2005, I told him. Our relationship was okay. Yet the love I hoped for was never there: he was straight, and all that effort was for naught.
I eventually came out to my mother on June 26th, 2007. It was an interesting day. The reaction wasn’t violent, it wasn’t horrifying, it wasn’t even that interesting. A couple of tears and we were done with it. So many years of fear, dislike, self-hatred, paranoia and the endless nights of sadness and despair all seemed so stupid. If only I had asked earlier; yet the mind of somebody in the closet isn’t developed in the rational realm of adulthood, complete with individual responsibility. It comes as an early adolescent, in the realm of new hormones and devices that you can’t explain. The siege was broken.
Being in the closet is an irreparably harmful status. It traumatizes the individual for life. It traumatized me for my life. I sense it in my relations to others: can I fully trust them? I’m hesitant to engage with new people and I’m lost socially when I’m around more than 8 people. It also gave me the ability to lie and to lie easily. The lies are completely utilitarian, without remorse for the actions I had taken. Morals are easier to modify, I believe, when you’ve been under siege for more than a third of your life. When I see friends being able to sit down with someone they’ve never met and talked to them, without any context, it still scares me. I can’t do that. I demand shared context with every individual I know, a side effect of a time where shared interests was the only aspect of communication that I had accepted as not trying to out me.
What does this all mean? To a teenager, this means that the closet has consequences that aren’t as obvious when you spend every day in it. For an adult, it means that if you can, come out: it is easier outside of it, particularly if you can secure your own livelihood. If you’re a potential role model, unlike Pearlman, I don’t think you should merely come out: you have an obligation to do so. Yet, I understand it’s not up to me to make that bargain: indeed, I’m just another obstacle in the process of protecting an identity. The nuisance of individuals involve in gay rights is just another roadblock to being able to spend the night with another man while being able to hide it during the day.
I don’t blame you. I probably would commit the same choice. It’s the siege, the never ending bombardment from reality and society that keeps you hidden, scared, terrified and traumatized. There is no hope in it. None at all. Yet it’s more comforting than the fear of rejection, abuse, and hatred.
Should we know hope? Should we give into despair? I wish my answer was more declarative, less waffling, and far more indignant. I wish I could stand up and demand that they come out of the closet: I can’t. Perhaps the closest thing to any action is to write this down, to leave it up so that maybe a gay teenager discovers it, and sees the ramifications of being in the closet. I don’t blame anybody for being it. It’s the wrong decision for most; those with actually abusive parents and real fears of being kicked out should probably not do it. Though, the fear is again, perceptual. Staying in the closet might protect you in that end, but it isn’t a free trade-off.
The point in all of this is that the decision to come out will never be seen as a political one: the idea that somebody immersed in the closet, under constant siege, would ever willingly have themselves shot is laughable. It’s not a fair claim to make upon them.
That said, I think Mr. Sullivan glorifies the archetype of the self-reliant homosexual a little too much. It’s not born out of magic, and there is a real payment that is felt in trying to accomplish that. It seems he avoided paying it, or at least, he publicly avoids complicating it. I on the other hand, am less shy:
I’ll always be under siege. I know that. Accepting it is not a fair proposition.