Out of the Closet, Into the Streets

In honour of National Coming Out Day…

Some years ago, I read an article that discussed how to come out to family and friends. It talked about neutral, safe spaces and trying not to answer hysteria (if met) with hysteria. As I recall, it was a good article, but (much like the one I read on the perfect kiss) I’ve done a little better following my instinct. I’ve found that just being who I am is enough to get me through any situation.

Often in gay themed media parents and friends are supposed to freak out or answer “I know” when you come out to them. I got neither. By the time I came out, my father was dead, and Mom, being the fag hag, had a fairly lackadaisical reaction. “Oh, okay,” was what I recall getting. And the only time my sister had any freakishness was when, a few weeks after telling her, she realized we were lusting after the same, cute construction worker as he jackhammered the asphalt.

To be honest, there are people who don’t realize that I’m gay. After all, I’m a bear. I’m not a nelly queen (Gods bless ‘em) or a twink. I don’t drag. Think of all that shaving! Despite my BDSM affiliation, I’m not one of the Castro Clones. I’m just me. Sometimes I forget that my sexual preference is not quite as obvious as my tattoos, and I’ll just start talking about some gay topic. It’s amazing when I have to go back and come out before I can move on.

To me being out is not some political statement. It’s being free to be me with all of my fortes and foibles — some tied to my sexuality, some not-so-much. My homosexuality does influence my world view, and when others know that fact, they can being to better understand, and know, me. Only by being true to ourselves can our potential become kinetic. Only when we all learn mutual acceptance and mutual respect can our community become that city on the hill we hear about so often, and only when we strive to our own greatness can we help humanity earn its place among the Stars.

Remember Me

World AIDS day is Saturday, December 1st.

Picture it, 1985: I was 20 years old. Regan was in the Oval Office. The Cold War was pretty hot, and Gay Cancer was killing all the right people — homosexual men, drug addicts, and black men. I was ready to come out. Then I was promptly scared, not into the closet, but into a limbo of being non-sexual. It’s twenty-two years later, and I’m obviously over it. After all, a life lived in fear is a life half lived.

Not willing to buy into the convention wisdom of the day that HIV/AIDS is God’s retribution on the Sodomites (Silver Star and otherwise), I got the facts. I learned to protect myself and others. But I wonder why there’s neither cure nor vaccine. I try to find some rationale. I know that science isn’t the fastest process in the Universe. But why did people who took a trial vaccine recently got AIDS at a higher rate than those who didn’t? I want to believe there was a scientific reason. Hell, I’ll even buy that it was Fated if someone presents it well enough. But there’s a part of me going for the conspiracy theory. I hope I’m being foolish.

Every day my wrist bears a very battered Until There’s a Cure cuff (www.until.org). I write checks to causes dedicated to curing the disease or caring for those who have it. I speak out. But most of all, I will remember everyone who has been touched by AIDS.

I bid you peace.