Coming Out Monologues 2011 Script 61j3z

THE COMING OUT MONOLOGUES 2011 Texas A&M University ©

Introduction C1 Gays

C2 Lesbians

C3 Bisexuals And transgender people

C1 There are tons of things we don’t know about them

C2 But we DO know some things about GLBT people.

Chorus 1 It is important to that the so-called “gay community” is not monolithic… it is more of a confederation of individuals with identities as diverse as the general population.

Chorus 2 Gay men’s buying habits have little to do with gay women’s. Transgender and bisexual people may or may not identify as “gay.”

Chorus 3 Gay men may live in Atlanta, Memphis and Hollywood or they may be nomadic truckers.

C1 They might own a home in the suburbs with a partner and child; they may be in a retirement home or could be struggling to make ends meet.

C2 Lesbians may own a vegetarian restaurant in Colorado or they may run a major media company.

C3 They might live in a penthouse in the city with their partner, or in a mobile home in California.

C1 Gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people are Hispanic, African-American, Asian, American-Indian, White, bi-racial. C2 Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Mormon, Buddhist, Atheist, Agnostic.

C3 War veterans, retired, teenagers, Republican, Democrat, rural, suburban, and many, many other layers of identities.

C1 Like everyone else, they face issues based on race, class, ethnicity, nationality, age, religion, health and socioeconomic status.

C2 They mirror the general public population.

C3 Then there’s the questions that do very often get asked, often the result of the myths and stereotypes associated with being different:

C1 There’s the age old question of nature vs nurture C2 How did you know?

C3 When did you know?

C1 Are you sure?

C2 Do your parents know?

C3 What did they say?

C1 Are you sure?

C2

Since when? C3 Do you even know how to be gay?

C2 Are you sure?

ALL ARE WE SURE?! YES!

C1 One important thing to about the GLBT community is…We are everywhere!

C2 You may not know it but the person sitting next to you…gay!

C3 GLBT people are involved in all kinds of professions and trades

C1

There are quite a few celebrities and famous figures who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender…. Just to name a few, there’s: C2 ‘N Sync Member Lance Bass Author Truman Capote Roman Emperor Hadrian Actor Neil Patrick Harris

C3 Comedienne Margaret Cho Actor James Dean Mary Cheney-Daughter of former Vice President Dick Cheney Singer/Songwriter Melissa Etheridge

C1 Actress Alexis Arquette NASCAR racer Terri O' Connell Singer Tracy Chapman Actress Amanda Bearse - Marcy from Married with Children

C2 Musician Ricky Martin Artist Frida Kahlo Musician Janis Joplin Tennis player Billie Jean King

C3 Master Leonardo da Vinci Football player Dave Kopay Singer Johnny Mathis Actor Ian McKellen –Gandalf in Lord of the Rings

C1 Singer/Songwriter Freddie Mercury from QUEEN Artist Michaelangelo Actor Robert Reed from The Brady Bunch Transgender Activist Chaz Bono

C2 Rosie O’Donnell First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt Actresses Ellen DeGeneres and wife Portia de Rossi Ancient Greek poet Sappho

C3 REM Singer Michael Stipe Actor Sir Laurence Olivier Singer/Songwriter Billy Joe Armstrong from Green Day Writer Oscar Wilde

C1 The Real World’s Pedro Zamora Singer/Songwriter PINK Author Gertrude Stein Singer/Songwriter Lady Gaga

C2 WNBA Star Sheryl Swoops Musician Elton John Star Trek Actor George Takei Singer/Songwriter Adam Lambert

C3 Actress Katharine Hepburn Filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar Actress Drew Barrymore Comedienne Wanda Sykes

C1 Point is gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people are all around you.

C2 They are daughters and sons

C3 Mothers and fathers

C1 Brothers and sisters

C2 Cousins and Grandparents

C3 Uncles, aunts, foster parents, in-laws

C1 Adoptive parents, co-workers, friends, and ALL AGGIES!!

“Nocturne” It all started with the thoughts. A fleeting word or feeling as I saw a guy from a distance. “He’s kinda..., or I real like...”Not even complete before I brushed them aside. Not me, anyone but me. I couldn’t be gay. I thought to myself, “I can’t be gay because I’m smart, I’m cool, my mom won’t approve, I'm athletic, because I'm a percussionist, etc.” Excuse after tired excuse, half of them made no sense at all. The truth was, I was trying to say “I’m not gay because I’m not like them.” “I’m not gay because that’s not what I want!” Without even knowing who they where. I had this idea of gay people in my head. They where arrogant, narcissistic, promiscuous, feminine, and sinful. I would sit outside on the bench in my apartments in the dead of night, looking at the night sky and trying to ponder the gay away. In actuality, I knew these things weren’t always true but I held onto them because they where the only thing that kept me away from accepting the truth. I was one of them. I knew the whole time, I knew it but I tried repeatedly to rationalize the facts away, and this cerebral dance of the dusk I did every night was the only thing that slowed my path to the eventual truth. But I had been doing some thinking for a long time. I sat under those stars and I steadily began to realize that no matter how much I didn’t want it to be the truth. It was. I liked boys. I liked boys and I like them a lot. I didn’t officially come out of the closet until my sophomore year of High School. I it well. It was the most perfect timing. I had just moved to a new school (Mayde Creek High School if anyone knows of it), so I had free reign as far as creating my image was

concerned. But then a new conundrum occurred to me. I’m gay, but what “kind” of gay am I? What kind of gay should I be? MTV and LOGO had filled my head with this idea that every gay belongs to a genre like a song or something. Hmm, if I had to pick a type of song to describe me, it would definitely be the nocturne. For those that don’t know, a nocturne is a piece of music that is inspired and usually evocative of the night. Its feel mixes with the night air flawlessly and it’s tone seems to make the stars sparkle all the brighter. They are soft, lucid, dreamy, and ethereal. I’ve found that I’m usually a different person at night. During the day, I’m busy, rushed, full of energy and usually a bit out of it. But when night time comes, I’m calm, contemplative, full of a kind of daring, emotion, and clarity of thought that only night time seems to bring. There’s just something about the brightness of the stars on the inky black of space and the night air that just takes me to my most comfortable place. Takes me to myself I guess you could say. But I eventually learned that these thoughts where not quite correct. Just like music varies and sometimes doesn’t quite fit into a single genre, gays are very diverse. Sure everyone has there favorites kinds, but no one listens to one thing only. There’s no rule that says you must “choose” what kind of gay you are. No one will strike you down if you aren’t really masculine or really feminine. Lightning won’t burn you to a crisp if your not the most fashionable guy at your job, school, church, etc. You don’t have to learn an art or play a sport or work out 24/7 if you don’t want to. And you will not be executed if you dislike Cher and Lady Gaga! I promise! What’s important is that you do

what you like to do, act the way you would like to, and overall, just be who you are. The ones that matter don’t mind and the ones that mind don’t matter. And You’ll enjoy yourself a lot more, trust me. Things after that where smooth sailing. I came out to quite a few other people. Of course I had my rejections and of course people talked. But just as I expected most of my friends didn’t mind at all. One of the times that I really treasure is when I found out that my drum-line buddies knew I was gay. Everyone knows that gossip spreads like wildfire in High School. I never really told them but of course they heard the rumors and a few of them where brave enough to ask me if they were true. At this point I wasn’t ashamed and so I told them the truth. They took it quite well. I had expected to by ostracized and disrespected with the raw maleness of drum-line and all. I had expected to be shunned and exiled. But all of them where really cool about it, nothing changed about our friendship except for a gay joke here and there. I was still invited to the football matches against the brass and the drum-line pool parties. I was still asked to come do homework and just shoot the breeze. I was still asked about how this or that should be played and how much did I like this solo or that ensemble. I was still apart of the group and I was still the really awesome percussionist that they had befriended at the beginning of the year. It really made me feel good that my sexuality didn’t affect the chemistry of the group as I had expected that it would. Going into College, I felt secure in my sexuality. I was proud to be gay and Coming out to people was something I had done before and something that I knew I could do again. But unfortunately I

realized that coming out to people had become easier, but it was still not easy. In High School, you tell like 3 people and the whole school knows. In College, you tell 3 people and maybe 5 people find out. I found that college wasn’t so much different from high school socially. People still had their social circles and the people they hung out with. These groups just seemed to be a lot smaller than in high school and didn’t gossip anywhere near as much. So it was up to me to come out to everyone I wanted to. The last person that I recall coming out to was my good friend Tyler. We had met in Physics 218 and had become good friends and percussion buddies. It was coming out day and I had decided it was about that time in our friendship. But I was lame, and scared of what he would think, so I texted him. “Hey Tyler, there’s something I have to tell you...” “What’s up?”,“Tyler, today is coming out day, and the person I’ve decided to come out to is you. I’m Gay.” He didn’t text me back for like 15 minutes. I thought my life was over. “So what, do you hate me now?” I texted him. “Oh, Sorry. I was riding my bike to the rec and so I didn’t look at my phone till I got there. No, I don’t hate you. That’s really cool and I’m honored you decided to come out to me. Thanks man. I don’t regret much in life. And I must say, I definitely don’t regret the thinking, the pondering I did in my youth. I don’t regret the soul searching and the nights spent sitting in my bed awake thinking about who I was. My experiences have made me who I am. But my journey isn’t quite over, it’s just getting started, and I look forward to the future with my head held high and my eyes on the night sky.

“Five Years of Honesty” Honesty. It is the pillar that we dance around, that we lean against, we push and pull, love and hate, avoid and ultimately learn to accept. And in that very moment of acceptance everything changes, things begin to click and there is a boost of energy unlike any other. In that moment I realized something great about honesty, that the truth that I once knew, the truth that was “stretched,” the so-called truth that became my daily norm was in fact just a lie. In that moment I realized that lying only forced me to succumb to square one. And In that moment I realized I should have dressed better for the occasion. I’m currently 20 and have been out and proud for a little over 5 years now. That is 25% of my existence that I have lived in freedom. It was my former self, the façade and the lies that I created; it was myself that I broke away from. In retrospect I understand that the pressures society had on me of course influenced my decisions to do the things that I did but I was the one who took it even further. It was I who created and fostered a toxic environment that led me to contemplate but never attempt suicide. It just didn’t sit right that I lived this double life, never sought for help, would be fine externally yet go home to cry in the middle of the night. I realized in those moments that we all inherently know the problems in our life and we as individuals have the abilities to fix them. We are ultimately in control. So let me set up when I first came out. I had an extra push: a friend of mine came out as a lesbian during sophomore year of high school and I observed how

her life changed dramatically. She dressed differently, she shaved her head, and she had this liberated confidence that was intoxicating, and I wanted that for myself. So there was a day in my math class where we had a substitute teacher who fell asleep. A group of us started to play to truth or dare. When it came to my turn that friend of mine decided to be my ‘challenger’ if you will. She asked “truth or dare?” and I’m not willing to pull off someone’s weave so I chose truth. She asked, “Ryan, are you gay?” I knew it was coming. This wasn’t a question that slapped me in the face. In that moment, it was right. It was my time. So I responded to her and others, “No, I’m bi.” I had always known that I was gay but fear once again held its grip on me. I knew it and they knew it. But, I acknowledge that it was a step in the right direction. I started to begin to free myself from the shackles that held me down. I wasn’t completely liberated but the opportunity had opened its door. And I understood that with patience comes transition. By the time junior year came around I shed myself of the bisexual identity since I had come to grow into my homosexual self. Once I felt the time to be right again, I decided to come out to my sister, she is my only sibling, and I thought she could be the step that would lead to coming out to my parents. At the time I was sixteen, she had already left to college and we were having a conversation by phone. I thought because she was hundreds of miles away if she didn’t accept me what would it matter? I was safe and there was a distance that kept it that way. I watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy whilst talking to her. I watching these people and

thinking, “if they’re on television being who they are I can be like that in my own life.” So I gathered my strength and this is how that conversation went: Me: “Lucy I have something to say.” Sister: “What? It better not be something stupid.” Me: “No it’s not something stupid.” Sister: “Then what?” Me: “I’m gay.” Sister: pauses. “Well, DUH!” It went over very well. If it were anyone else I would’ve been highly irritated and ever more confused. I realized the extent and virtuoso to the phrase “words have power.” The way I dress, the way I talk, the way I listen, the way I move has impact in some form or fashion. I realized that the few years I was out before coming to college I had started to gain control but had no idea what to do with it. The moment I came out to my parents stemmed from frustration; I was standing in the garage with my mother and she had been questioning my friendship with one of my best friends. My mom wanted me to stay away from her because she thought that girl was trying to ‘do something’ with me. I told her that nothing was going to ever happen but she was adamant that something would. This wasn’t the way I had planned on telling my mother but it just happened. I said to her “Nothing will ever happen because I’M GAY!” The look on her face was purely stunned. She didn’t say anything and then she gave me a hug that only a mother could give. She took a step back and asked, “Does your father know? I’m

going to tell your father.” And like a six year old she ran inside before I had a chance to explain myself. That night my dad came into my bedroom and sat down and we conversed for a bit about how I was gay and the fact that they accepted and loved me no matter what. I realized once attending college that I am now in control. I am left alone to my own devices and nothing except for myself can get in my way. As I continue to evolve and grow my confidence explodes, as does the cloud of glitter that surrounds me. I want any sort of extension that I project to have positive impact to those who encounter it. I like to think of myself as a metaphorical beacon of light. At the age of 20, I understand that this process is much bigger than myself and I want to this energy and opportunity to others, that honesty really is the best policy. I’m in a position now that my experience makes me a self proclaimed wise soul, and I have the attire to match. So in hopes that you’ll benefit I want to close with some words of encouragement written by Dr. Suess: “I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind. But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!”

“Is That a Challenge?” My sexuality is a game. A complicated one, almost like Magic or Dungeons and Dragons, but still a game that I find enjoyable and almost enchanting to play. Others are infuriated by my constantly changing rules and playing fields, but it's not their game. It's mine. All mine. My sexuality belongs to me. From age 11 to age 16, I was pronouncing myself as asexual. I had no sex drive, no desire to get one, nor a desire to do anything but kiss someone briefly on the mouth. I was perfectly happy this way, numb to emotions and completely turned off by everything even remotely sexual. Then...she happened. One day in Chemistry class, a person walked by me and I glanced up, catching a glimpse of their clothing and haircut. Immediately, I thought, “Huh, new guy in school.” That is...until SHE opened her mouth. My jaw dropped, along with the rest of our small-town class I'm sure, and we all stared at her. I knew she could feel us all looking and my eyes were back on my book before she turned around. I'd never seen anyone like her, someone so...androgynous. She was cute...as a man. Kind of an adolescent-boy type, kind of like our present-day Justin Bieber. As a woman, well...she didn't look like a woman at all, so it was hard to imagine her as such. After the first class, I found myself showing off for her. Displaying my intelligence and flimsy knowledge of Chemistry with an obvious air of

superiority, sarcastically snapping at other students and to questions I thought too stupid for an actual answer, stripping off my jacket even in the dead of winter to flash small bits of skin here and there. Lucky me...this ridiculous display was a turn on for her. Slowly, over the first few weeks of class, I found things that would catch her attention. Dropping my pencil or paper, playing with my hair and such other things that she could see me from where she sat a few rows behind me. During chemistry class, my partner and I finished our lab quickly, soon to set the standard for the order in which groups finished, and I went over to mess with my friend. Soon, SHE ed in with me, and my friend, being a good sport, let it go without incident. Near the end of the lab, we somehow got on the subject of lesbians. I knew what a lesbian was, of course, I wasn't sheltered quite that much. And I didn't think there was anything wrong with being a lesbian, I had simply never encountered one myself. She then began to tell me that there were different types of lesbians. I was flabbergasted! Surely there wasn't more than two types, that was impossible! There had to be a masculine one and a feminine one, right? Well, I was more wrong that had ever thought possible. She defined 4 types of lesbians that I had never even known about: the lipstick, the femme, the dyke, and the butch. I was used to the butch/femme pairing as I'd seen on certain TV shows,

but I also knew about femme/femme pairings, like Ross' ex-wife and her new wife on the show Friends. I finally gathered up the courage, looked at her and asked, “Do you think I'm a lesbian?” With a straight face, she said, “No.” I had no idea why, but I was a bit irritated by this simple response. I asked why and she just shrugged and continued doodling on her paper. Now highly agitated, I folded my arms across my chest and asked, “Is that a challenge?” She laughed and looked directly at me and said, “Sure.” Three weeks later we were dating. The way I chose to tell my parents was unorthodox at best. I waited until both of them were home, sitting in their bed watching television. I knew that my dad would be in a good mood, since he was already sitting in his underwear and ugly old t-shirt watching Star Trek. My mother was texting, her new-found obsession, and was pretty involved with whoever she was talking to. I walked into their room, stood at the foot of their bed, drumming on their footboard, and asked if I could tell them something. When they said, “Sure,” I started with, “I have a girlfriend. Okay, well, I'm pretty tired. Night!” I had just made it to the doorway of their bedroom when my dad called me back and insisted that I explain. After I was finished, he looked at my mother and rubbed his face. “Who did you tell?” he asked. I told him that I'd told my friends and that they were all a little surprised, but excited. He then instructed me to go

back to them the next morning and tell them it had all been a joke, and to tell HER that, too. I stayed up all night in my room, crying and being angry with my parents and what they were asking me to do. I was happy that I'd finally found someone that activated the part of me I'd shut off for so many years. My parents were supposed to be happy for me, they were supposed to me. Why were they telling me to lie to the people that cared about me? The next morning, I'd decided I wasn't going to do it. It was my life, they were my friends, and she was my girlfriend. My parents couldn't make me lie about who I was any more than they could change it, and lord knows my mother tried. I told my new girlfriend that we were going to have to be careful, especially around my parents. We had to tread lightly or my parents would make our lives hell. She agreed and told me that she understood; she was always understanding for the most part. I didn't make it 3 days before I no longer cared if we were secretive or not. My parents could deal with it. When my grades weren't good enough, of course she was the first thing I was grounded from, but I still got to see her at school every day. Soon enough, seeing her at school wasn't enough and I began to do what every single one of you have done: I lied to my parents. Don't anyone out there be

shocked, you all know what I'm talking about. You ask your best friend that maybe owes you a favor to lie to your parents and say you're at their place if your parents call them or let you “spend the night” at their house so you can go off somewhere else. I got very, very good at this lying thing until one day I went out after being grounded to see her. We went for a walk and ended up near a busy street when my mother's co-worker spotted us both and reported it to my mother, not seeing anything wrong with the news. Of course, my mother went home and I wasn't there, so she left me a note that read: “You're grounded now. Get back to the house, call me when you get here”. With my new-found confidence and identity, my game gained a new level of sophistication: I was now a bisexual. I had an orientation! I had a sex drive! I was...human. The realization was a relief on my end, even growing up in a stifling community, I found the strength and courage to be myself. I'd been raised to speak my mind, be myself, and lead my own life. And that's just what I have done since then. I face adversity head-on with a smile on my face and a sarcastic remark up my sleeve. I am proud to be who I am and proud of the story I'm writing for myself. I am me and that's all anyone can ever require from me.

“Out Of The Closet, Into Hell” “I’m not a stranger, no I am yours, with crippled anger, and tears that still drop sore, a fragile frame aged with misery, and when our eyes meet I know you see, that I do not want to be afraid, I do not wanna die inside to just breathe in, I’m tired of being so numb, relief exists when I am cut. These scars wouldn’t be so hidden if you would just look me in the eye, I feel alone here and cold here, oh I don’t wanna die, but the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside, I do not wanna be afraid, I do not wanna die inside just to breathe in, relief exists when I am cut, I am not alone.” This song brings tears to my eyes even to this day it’s called “Cut” by Plumb and broke my heart with every word. I knew I had hit rock bottom, something had to change. But before we get to the sad sappy part, let’s talk about my actual coming out story. I was 17 and horribly miserable in high school, I’m sure that it sounds very redundant because most of us were miserable in high school. I was tormented by the jocks, being called things ranging from faggot to broke back cowboy. I was so miserable that I was about to call it quits and end my own life, but then I saw the impact that suicide had on my best friends family. So I stayed alive, not for myself but to keep my mother and father from being destroyed, so I destroyed myself in other ways on the inside. I disconnected from the world. I decided that I would write my “freedom’s challenge” speech about the ability for gay marriage and how unfair it was that straight people could get married and I couldn’t…ever. After giving my speech in from of my entire school all 300 of us,

and part of the small little Baptist community that I grew up in, life got worse. I told my mother in February of my senior year. She laid on the floor of our kitchen in the fetal position and cried of hours, she went weeks without speaking more than a word or two to me. When she did speak she was hostile, sometimes very demeaning, saying I was ruining my life by making this decision. I was so confused because I thought I was born this way, and my mother was telling me that I chose to be gay? Last time I checked no one would choose to make their life harder. I graduated finally but not before meeting someone that would change my life forever unbeknownst to me. Dad was completely amazing through all of this, I know right? This shit never happens to anyone. Dad didn’t say much for the first few days, but then he came in my room when I was in the isolation phase of fighting with mom, sat on my bed and said “scooter I want to talk.” He proceeded to talk to me about my life and where I was going but at the very end he told me he just wanted me to be happy no matter who I was with, man or woman. That was the year HE walked into my life, he will remain nameless because that is all he deserves after what he did to me. Enough of the actual coming out let’s talk about what brought me to the floor of my apartment alone crying. I met him the June after I graduated high school and immediately fell in love, he seemed to be genuinely concerned with my problems and with my issues. Well I was horribly wrong, he was the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to me. I’m not trying to make anyone feel sorry for me by telling

this, that isn’t the point at all I’m just trying to make you see that domestic violence and abuse happens in gay couples not just straight couples. He waged psychological warfare one me. He used anything he could to hold it over my head, he would compare me to every single guy that was at our junior college. Tell me why don’t you look like that? Or why can’t you be him? I ignored this for a while, then it just got worse, I won’t go into details because this is not about him, but the damage he has caused to me, and what happened after that. I reached out for help in two individuals; We ed each other because all three of us were battered and broken by society, outcasts thrown away like trash. For the first time in our lives we were accepted, and somewhat normal. But our common bond was the dark secret that we all shared, and unspoken rule that no one knew about any of us. We were all self mutilators, black sheep in our family, in society, felt only pain because we had numbed ourselves to everything else. The only way to feel anything was to cut ourselves, feeling anything was a welcome relief, even if it was pain. We shared many laughs and tears, trying to recover from the tragedies that struck us down when we were younger. Fighting through the ostracization that junior college provided because we weren’t the “norm”. We were everything but that, we realized that the God that loved us so dearly had betrayed us, left us abandoned and broken like old children’s toys. Fast forward to a year later, I left my junior college with a 3.7 gpa and working in a restaurant in my hometown, I decided to make the move to

Aggieland, one of the most conservative universities in the nation, and there I was the little homo that could, thinking, “I’m gonna be out, and loud and proud of my sexuality” Wrong again Scooter. I was out and loud and proud for a hot minute, and then I just wanted to be left alone. I met the greatest love of my life during my first semester; he was everything I wanted and more in a man. Smart, funny, damn fine, blah blah blah the list goes on. We got engaged under the century tree, and by the way I think the century tree is a homophobe because it doesn’t work. I thought that I wasn’t getting enough emotional on the homefront and I decided to look elsewhere and he left. Talk about a rock bottom, the only true real relationship I had was gone, in less than 30 minutes. I turned to drugs for comfort. At first I just smoked a shit ton of cigarettes. Then came other stuff. I had a psychological dependence, a need to be high to forget that he was gone. I couldn’t cut because I felt everything at that point in my life. I turned to uppers to help with the depression, and became hooked on them, I couldn’t function without them. They seemed to be the only thing keeping me held together by the stitches of my being. This continued until the end of the fall semester, then I had my epiphany, laying on the floor in my bathtub, razorblade in hand listening to music, my epiphany was that my life was a complete and utter mess. I threw all my pills and razorblade, and moved back home for Christmas. I thought that going home would be a good plan to go get sober. Wrong again scooter. I quit doing drugs, went through an emotional rollercoaster of coming off dependency while quitting smoking cigarettes in the

process. Needless to say I was not a pleasant person to be around for about 2 weeks. My mother would do things just to push my buttons, and I felt if I ever relapsed it will because of that cold hearted bitch. She would deliberately do things to piss me off and make me moody. I came back to aggieland on New Years Eve, and got a text from the guy I was with saying that I wasn’t good enough to be with him because he wanted to travel and being with me was like having an anchor attached to him. I felt my heart crash on the floor of my apartment. He abandoned me, just like my two friends left, leaving a huge gaping wound in what was left in my heart. So here I stand before you 21 years old: a self mutilator, a recovering drug addict, a fulltime student, a full time worker, and a fulltime fragile being. Let this be a lesson to everyone, my life may seem all pretty roses and unicorns and all that other stupid shit that I can’t stand, but it’s because I learned at a young age to hide what was in my heart. I never would have chosen to be gay, and I would change it if I could. Don’t be like me, don’t be a victim of society, don’t become a victim of addictions too strong to overcome. Do everything you possibly can to be the complete opposite of me, I’m the worst role model ever, I have done everything in my life wrong. I went to having everything, a great love, a stable relationship, a stable emotional state, and I crashed like the fucking stock market. I lost everything, my love, my stable emotions, most of my friends. I would give up everything that I have left for a chance to do things differently or to even live a different life. But that’s not in the cards for me, what is in the cards

is finding help for myself. Look at my life, don’t be like me, you will end up with so many built emotions that you break. Learn from my mistakes because I seem to never do. I have done horrible things to my body, and it took a lot of thinking to finally decide to tell my story but I felt like if I didn’t I would continue to destroy my body, and wage psychological warfare upon myself.

“Dance Through The Dark”

This is a story about the transformative power of dance. This is the story of how I found myself on a dance floor, in a small college town. It’s a story about community. It’s a story from a subculture about extraordinary experiences. And in all of that, it’s a story about my identity. I can’t tell you the moment when I first realized I was gay. I really don’t know when that happened. There wasn’t a crystal clear moment for me. But I can tell you the first moment when I learned to love my queerness. It was in a small college bar. A place with loud music and flashing lights. I was 18 years old. I had heard there was a gay bar in town, and I was curious. Perhaps it’s the fact that it was Halloween weekend or maybe it was the crushing silence of my apartment that got me to drive over, alone, in the middle of the night, to a bar where I knew nobody, and next to nothing about the people I would find there. I wish I could tell you what was the first song I danced to, but unfortunately when you’re having transformative experiences in your life the little details you by. I do , though, that whatever it was it liberated me of my hesitations, of my fears, of my self doubt. I walking out on that dance floor, alone. For the first time really alone. I didn’t have other people’s expectations dancing with me. I wasn’t doing the two step with my fear. I wasn’t tangoing with this secret. I wasn’t holding back. The only thing I was holding onto was the beat.

At this bar there’s this little pedestal you can dance on. There’s not a whole lot of room, but like most things in life technique trumps size. When I climbed up on that pedestal for the first time something happened. Something inside of me changed. Somewhere between the heavy base and the synth was a message. Somewhere in the flashing lights and fog machine was a voice calling out, and that voice said Imma Be, just dance it’ll be ok, you are who you are, and baby you’re a firework. This is the best I’ve ever had, and I’m not blaming it on the alcohol. That old me is dead and gone, Oh My God, I like it, cause baby I was born this way. What I found that weekend is what I’ve been finding ever since. These dance loors are sanctuary for our tired and marginalized souls. They are the home for our wandering identities. They are the unifying force in a culture without a shared background. And whether you love them or hate them, they are the nexus of our community. I dance. I dance with myself as a way to who I am. I dance to discover myself. I dance through the beat. I dance to live. I dance to feel alive. I dance to forget about who I am, and then discover myself all over again. I’ve never really understood the phrase dance like no one is watching. I always dance like everyone is. I’ve danced at weddings, I’ve danced at straight bars, and I’ve danced at proms, but there’s only one place that I keep coming back to. Where the DJ knows my favorite songs. Where the bouncer smiles at me, where

the drag queens say hello. You see it’s this place I know, if you’re lookin for a show, where we go hardcore and there’s glitter on the floor.

“The Pursuit of Happiness” I really hated myself when I was a teenager. Revolutionary, isn’t it? A teenager who hates themselves and hates their life and doesn’t think anyone understands them and all that “but I love him!” and “leave me alone” and “you’re not my real mom!” shit. Ok, I never said any of those things to my parents as a teenager, the first two because I respected my parents too much and the third because, unless I really need to have an in-depth conversation with my parents, my mom is in fact my real mom. But I digress. I always thought I was smarter than my peers. Wasn’t hard. You grow up in a town of 2,500 where everyone goes to the Baptist church and have blue collar jobs and see if you don’t feel just a little superior to the other people there. Of course, I also always thought I was a pretty pathetic excuse for a human being. I guess it all started when I was six. See when I was six I made the mistake of telling my family I wanted to be a “pasture” and, once my family figured out that I actually meant “pastor”, I was stuck with it. I don’t know why I did itprobably because the pastor was the only guy I knew of who got everyone’s attention on a big stage. I was always a little attention whore like that. Still am… I mean why else do you think I’m doing this in front of hundreds of people? But when I told my parents the news you’d have thought I told them I was Jesus himself. So, by high school I was a kid who lived in a town that firmly believed that drinking and dancing were the devil’s tools, whose parent’s thought I was the

next coming of the Lord, and who absolutely hated every fiber of his very existence. Oh, and I was in the closet. Deep. Now don’t get me wrong, I believed in God. I believed every word that came out of my preacher’s mouth. I was 100% certain that I was going to hell. Not a doubt in my mind. But that’s all boring. I got through to college, even graduated valedictorian, and then I went crazy. Parties every weekend every night Thursday to Saturday (Sunday is, after all, a day of rest). I was drinking, I was smoking, I was doing anything I wanted to. But I was still in the closet. I still hated myself. But when I drank I wasn’t the “gay boy” anymore. I was the drunk boy and that was a hell of a lot better to me. I mean, I started to tell people that I was gay. Slowly but surely. Never made it back to my hometown, though. I was careful. I’m smart, ? But then I got into the community theatre and met some other gay people, and most importantly I met him. Doesn’t quite matter what his name was now (and for sake of pride I’m not going to say it), but he was… gorgeous. And sweet and funny and talented and sensible and… oh Lord I think I need a moment… I mean he was by no means perfect but it was the first time I’d ever had a crush on a guy who wasn’t straight, as terribly desperate as that may sound. He was… attainable. Sort of. I mean nothing happened romantically but he did provide a great example. He was gay. He was out. He was what I wanted to be and he was doing it so easily. He was happy. I just wanted to be happy.

So I decided, almost impulsively, to come out to my parents and, well, everyone. My parents were coming down for the opening night of the show and it was the eighteenth of June and my birthday was the next Tuesday. It wasn’t actually until later that I ed the fact that I was keeping up with the tradition of ruining holidays by coming out. Of course, I ruined father’s day, which isn’t that great of a holiday anyways. So the play premiered and I took them back to my first apartment, told them to sit down on my sparse furniture, and I just said it. “Mom, Dad, I’m gay.” And nothing. I told them the biggest secret in my goddamn life and they were fine with it. They weren’t even surprised. And you know what? It still pisses me off. I’m an attention whore, ? I wanted a scene! I wanted tears! I wanted a Lifetime movie for Christ’s sake! I wanted them to hate me so I’d know I wasn’t crazy for hating myself. I wanted someone to hate me! Why the hell did everyone always assume I was so perfect anyways? And you know what the worst thing is? After coming out of the closet I was supposed to suddenly love myself and finally love other people. But you know what? I still fucking hate myself and I’m afraid that I spent so long making myself not love any other men because it was wrong that I’ll never be able to do it. I spent so long teaching myself to hate myself that I’m stuck as that stupid six year old was with being a preacher. And I am still so goddamn lonely that it hurts. SO WHEN THE FUCK DO I GET TO BE HAPPY?!

And you know what the weirdest thing was? For a while after that, my parents still thought I wanted to be a pastor. I guess some dreams just die hard…

Chorus #2 C1 This was a big year for the GLBT community.

C2 We have faced some challenges as the fight for human rights and equality for all continues

C3 Hey, “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”…….BUH—BYE!!! We’re not going to miss you!

C1 Fred Karger, an openly gay Republican, just announced that he will run for president in 2012

C2 Many employers STILL do not offer domestic partner benefits to their GLBT workers…including Texas A&M University…but queer visibility on campus is definitely on the rise.

C3

Texas A&M University was the first campus to host an official NOH8 photoshoot with over 400 people photographed. C1 And for the first time in history, over 50% of Americans surveyed samesex marriage.

C2 But we’re still waiting…

C3 Have we mentioned Kurt and Blaine and Brittany and Santana bumping uglies on Glee

ALL HOT!

C1 GLBT Aggies celebrated 25 years of being recognized as a student organization on campus.

C2

But Flower Bluff High School in nearby Corpus Christi made national headlines when they had to fight a legal battle to start up a Gay Straight Alliance.

C3 Candlelight vigils were held all over the nation in memory of the GLBT youth who took their lives due to bullying and harassment in schools.

C1 Colorado legalized civil unions and Maryland legalized same-sex marriage.

ALL WHOOP!

C2 And this year, Texas A&M’s GLBT Resource Center has had more visits than ever before!

C3 Now it’s time to put your paws up! Because baby, you were

ALL BORN THIS WAY!!

“Contrary To What They Want” It’s funny how one can take what society deems a curse and turn it into a beautiful and glorious blessing, a personal example for me being coming to with my own sexuality. For as long as I can , I’ve never liked girls. Don’t get me wrong, you ladies are all wonderful people and great friends and such, but breeding—ugh. I don’t have the slightest clue what happens down there and I’ve seen the Vagina Monologues. Nor do I care to find out. But since none of you are here to hear my speculation on sub-equatorial geography, I think it’s necessary and proper that I give a brief synopsis of my timeline of coming out: to myself, then to my parents, and ultimately, to the world…or at least, my world. As implied before, I identify myself as just about as gay as they get: a Kinsey-37 gay, which is described as, and this is a littleknown fact—“nothing but your finest sausage for me, Waiter.” But despite what I couldn’t deny were quite homosexual feelings, I told myself I was straight essentially all the way until my senior year of high school. Yeah, so maybe I was absolutely infatuated with this guy in sixth grade [and seventh, and eighth, and pretty much consistently until…well, when I die], but I wrote those feelings off as just weird buddy-buddy relationships for the longest time. For I was an upstanding young man: where every other boy my age was looking at pictures of sexy women on the Internet, I did not. I looked at pictures of sexy men on the Internet. In the tenth grade, my mom found out about my curiosity, and it was

met with her utmost fury-osity. Or her “loving concern,” as she put it. I was swiftly sent to counseling in order to reform my ways and ne’er return. Yet despite my constant denial and intense desire to reverse the unfavorable role I had been dealt, I made a point to leave out the fact that my browsing habit was of a homosexual nature. Whether it was out of a sense of embarrassment or a sense of pride, I found that to be a significant initial step in coming out to myself. But that was the easy part. I still had the world to come out to, and I had no idea how they would react. Fast-forward to a warm and humid night in late September of last year. I’m sitting in Fat Burger with my parents, gripping the edges of my seat, running through scenarios of the best possible way to break the news to my ultramasculine father and re-break the news to my ultra-conservative mother (who had both visited for the night) that I was in a relationship of over a year with another guy. So mom they say you crave what your mother ate when she was was pregnant with, so just what the hell were you eating when you were pregnant with me? Or my friend Andrew? Yep, DEFINITELY more than a friend. Yeah, like one of those wait-until-the-family’s-left-the-house type of friend. Why didn’t I tell you earlier? Because then we’d never have the house to ourselves. Running out of ideas, I just started shaking uncontrollably and crying right there in the middle of Fat Burger with the football game blaring on the TV next to our table. My dad noticed and me and was suddenly on the alert, having no earthly idea why his son was in such a state all of the sudden. I removed my wet hands from my

snotty contorted face I croaked “Relationship trouble. Bad day,” which is all I could manage without using the word “gay,” which would’ve most likely sparked the biggest College Station manhunt of the year. My parents rushed me out to the car to drive me back to my dorm, which was certainly the most silent and awkward trip I had ever had to endure. Before we left the parking lot, my mom turned around in her seat and commanded me to explain what was wrong. I turned my head to the window, cleared my throat, and said, “Mom, Dad, I was in a relationship with another guy. I’m sorry if this disappoints you, but that’s just the way it is and that’s just who I am.” A huge wave of finality flooded my mom’s car as the words still hung in the air. My dad, who had always been such a manly leader in our household, expressed how proud we was of me for having the bravery to tell them. My mom stared at the ground near my feet for a few seconds before turning around and silently and rigidly watching the night road ahead. Fast-forward again to last November: the day I came out to the world. Or Facebook, at least, which is about as big as my world gets, so it’ll have to do. My boyfriend Andrew and I, who had been together for about a year-and-a-half by that point, had talked about it and we were both ready to take the plunge and actually made it Facebook official. For a few uncertain hours, however, my relationship status just read “Aaron is in a relationship.” I posted that, went to the restroom, and when I returned, four thousand five hundred seventy-three people like this! Congrats, Aaron! Awwwww, I’m so proud of you! Who’s the lucky girl?! To

which I responded, “Aha, that’s what you think!” When it was eventually revealed to all of Facebook that I was in a relationship with Andrew, I received some additional comments and likes, but noticed that one of my comments from before had been erased. My bitch of an ex-piano teacher—God bless her—was the culprit. And to make things worse, her status was “Can someone tell me how to remove a friend? I have to deal with a homosexual issue. ☺” With the smiley face and everything. Since she was old as dirt and all her friends were too, I was the first to comment. Ooh, this was gonna be good. I told her how to remove me as a friend and followed up expressing my condolences that this different part of me couldn’t be something appreciated, accepted, or looked over by her, and that it pained me to not be friends with her anymore (Facebook drama at its finest). It was that landmark event, though small, that marked a complete coming-tomaturity in who I was…in who I was made to be…in who I had been blessed to be. I was seeing everything through different lenses. From the uncertainty regarding my feelings growing up, to the paper I wrote in high school condemning gays and gay marriage even in the knowledge of who I knew I was, all the way to the one night I nearly drove my truck into a ditch just wanting to put to death that within me that I found ugly, repulsive, and evil, everything had inverted. Rather than being ashamed of the “lot I had been dealt in this life,” I found myself to love and find beauty in who I was, even in the face of those who pulled as hard as they could to straighten me out. My mom told me shortly after I came out and told me that what I had become was contrary to what [she]

want[ed] for me.” But I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was who I was meant be, and who I had become proud to be, even in the face of such opposition from many sides.

“Semper Fidelis”

I didn’t grow up with much, but values that were instilled in me at a young age have been the guiding light for every decision that I have made. I firmly believe that it is those principles that compelled me to eventually the Marine Corps. When I was seventeen, I decided to meet with a recruiter and quite honestly he couldn’t have been more disgusted with me. I know this, only because he told me. I was not athletic. At 5 feet 2 inches I weighed a mere 85 pounds, and was able to do one complete pull-up.

One.

Despite lacking in athleticism, my recruiter, committed to his efforts to helping me become a good Marine. He motivated me, called me his ‘prodigy,’ and before long I was in love with the Corps. Despite this initial interest, I knew how important a college education was. I would be the first in my family to attend a university, yet I couldn’t seem to find a school that would fit me. That is until I learned about Texas A&M and their Corps of Cadets. I never visited campus, but instead took the advice of “old Ags” and the Texas A&M web site, and stepped foot on my beloved Aggieland for the first time in May of 2005 for my New Student Conference. I was beyond excited for my new experiences as an Aggie. I ed the Corps, was a part of the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band, and was even the Commanding Officer of my outfit during my senior year. I was a Ross Volunteer, a Fish Camp counselor, even a tour guide. To say that I was in love with Texas A&M would be an understatement. In fact, I never wanted to leave.

As college went on, I became more and more aware of my sexuality. I talked to a few close friends along the way, (most of them buddies in the Corps), but still considered myself “in the closet” as I came to with the fact that I may be gay. This fact played a small part of my decision making when I decided after my junior year that I still wanted to the Marines. I had an idea of what “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was, but my aspirations and hard work meant more to me at the time than the struggle of understanding my sexuality. At twenty years old, like many young adults gay and straight, I just wasn’t sure about who I was. Years later, I think I am still figuring it out, but the difference now is, I know that I am gay. I had worked for a year before I went to college to excel as a Marine, yet I never ed, so in between my junior and senior year I left A&M to begin and complete my training for the Marine Corps.

After three years of the Corps at A&M, I was in excellent shape and never once faltered. Even during the 10 mile hikes, with 80 pound packs my back, I stayed as close to the front as possible. After this initial training I returned to A&M and began duty as a reservist at a small unit in Waco. I was enjoying college, enjoying the Marine Corps and I had no complaints.

(In the spring of 2009) However, Shortly After, things began to take a turn for the worst. It started when I went out with some friends to a local bar. I was around a lot of people, a few who knew I was gay, and some who didn’t. The fact that I was gay was brought up in conversation and was at first shrugged off. Some other Marines began heckling

and started making inappropriate comments towards me and it became aggressive. The days that followed involved me worrying that Marines at the bar would tell my command chain about my sexual orientation. “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” forced me into isolation and into a point in my life where I thought I couldn't trust anyone. Events that followed made these feelings even worse After a few weeks I reluctantly talked to a Corporal from my unit, an E-4 who I felt comfortable around. I told him what had happened and consequently told him that I was gay. He told my Sergeant the story and surprisingly, they calmed me, reassured me and told me it was not a big deal. To them, the only thing that mattered was that I get to the unit in Waco for weekend drill. I did as instructed only to find out that my story had spread and reached my 1st Sergeant and Commanding Officer. The two Marines I had confided in were asked to write written statements and they complied. This began the ten month investigation.

When I walked in to my 1st Sergeant’s office that day the first thing he asked me was, “Are you gay?” I stood there in what was immediately a hostile environment. I hesitated, but answered honestly. He proceeded to tell me that there was no way he could protect my privacy, as he could not stop the “grapevine” and that he would not be responsible for what people within the unit said or did. When I met with my Commanding Officer later the same day he went over everything I had said and told me why I should be getting discharged but said nothing to confirm it. I was simply told to “hang tight” and wait on what the Battalion Commander would say.

I hoped that the two Marines that I had confided in would be the people that would

help protect my privacy. At that point I did not feel safe and I did not know who else to . I wasn't out to my family and my pride kept me from telling my friends in college about it. I was alone, I was depressed. I waited and waited to see what would happen to my position in the Marines and did not hear anything for months. Ultimately I ed a friend from the unit and asked him to find out my status. He got back to me about a week later and informed me that I was discharged from the Marine Corps in April of 2010.

It took everything I had in me to call home. My family still didn’t know about my sexuality, and they didn’t know that I had been discharged. When I finally called, it was a conversation that I hadn’t expected. Growing up in a devout Catholic household, I didn’t know how my family would take the news. Once I told them everything that had happened, I started crying and tears were coming from both ends of the phone. There was no anger or betrayal. The biggest concern that my family had was that I had to endure the struggle alone.

Since coming out I’ve been very vocal about the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, having appeared on MSNBC, CNN and in newspapers and blogs nationally. I have received a lot of , especially from people at A&M. Unfortunately, it hasn’t all been positive. One person told me that I was single-handedly destroying our nation’s military. Another told me I was a disgrace to Aggies everywhere. Several said that I should keep my mouth shut and that I should have kept my mouth shut in the first place. There were many times when I wondered if I had done the right thing.

Many will say that I have lived through a series of unfortunate events. I won’t deny that statement, but I choose to look at it differently. I am in my position because I decided not to compromise my integrity; because I chose to stand up instead of turn a blind eye; because I chose to say something instead of shutting up like many urged me to do. I didn’t think I had it in me to do those things, but I can say I am a better man because of it. I’m still growing, still learning, like everyone else, but for once I know this: I will never again be silent, I will never back down and I will not waste any more time hiding who I am.

I am a gay man, and I couldn’t be prouder.

“Purple” Growing up in deep East Texas, it took me a long time to really come to with my sexuality. My school was really conservative and I didn’t know of any gay, lesbian, bi, or transgender people. I didn’t even allow myself to even question my sexuality till college. After transferring to Texas A&M, I finally had the space and the freedom to really figure my self out. It took some time, but I slowly started to come out to my closest friends. Eventually, I was ready to come out to my friends at A&M. Let’s just say it didn’t go as planned. My first mission as a lesbian was to make other GLBT friends. I had know clue how to do this. I knew about the GLBT center and organizations on campus, but was still to scarred to go check them out. Luckily, a friend of mine told me about a dating website that had a decent amount of GLBT people. While I made a few friends and met a couple of cool people this way, only one of them is related to this story. I started chatting with this one girl online, I’ll refer to her as D. Well D and I had a lot in common, mainly nerdy things. We both watched a lot of TV and fan-girled over Skins, Pretty Little Liars, and Rizzoli and Isles. Eventually we decided to get some coffee together, and we immediately hit it off. After hanging out with D a couple of times, she invited me to go with her to this super gay party. The party was the last weekend before school started back up. I was super pumped to make new friends and have a blast. As at most parties, there

was alcohol, and I did legally partake. By the end of the night D and I were all buddy buddy. Luckily, her roommate volunteered to be the designated driver. After we got back to her apartment, she insisted I stick around to sober up. One thing led to another, and I’m just going to fast forward to the next morning for decency reasons. I had a hunch that I might have a hickey or two that morning, little did I know how wrong I was. When I finally got home that morning, I went to take a shower before work and stopped dead in my tracks as soon as I saw my reflection in the mirror. My neck and shoulders were covered in hickeys, at least ten or more. And these weren’t meek little hickeys. They were big ass purple hickeys. No makeup in my collection could cover these things up, and since this was my first time dealing with hickeys, I didn’t know of any other ways of hiding them successfully. I reluctantly went to work that morning. I’d only been working at Freebirds for about a month, but it’s Freebirds. I didn’t think it would be that big a deal. I was wrong. Everyone at work was totally cool and had a fun time making jokes. My co-workers kept trying to put the YUM tattoos we give out on me. Two days later there’s a new notice at the front of the manager book. Because of me there is now a rule about coming to work with visible “love bites.” Basically, it was a three strikes and you’re out kind of notice. After the fiasco at work that weekend, I was kind of dreading the first day of school. I had to have my picture taken in three classes for roll, and my friends had a never ending list of questions. After a few days, things finally started to

slow down, but one of my friends just had to know and kept asking. “Was it your boy friend?” I said, “No.” Then the next day came and she asked, “Was it your girl friend?”…. I froze. I’d already told myself, if someone asks me if I’m gay. I’d just strait up tell them yes. While I’m pretty sure the long pause and my deer in the headlights look gave it away. I replied with my oh so intelligent response, “Kinda.” After making this statement in front of most of my class mates. I was a little worried, but everyone was amazingly accepting. I got high fives and thumbs up from some of the guys, and a bunch of questions like “who is she” and “have we met her” from the girls. D and I parted ways a few weeks after school started, but I will be forever thankful for those damn hickeys. Even thought I had to live with those things for over three weeks.

“Barefoot Freedom” [The performer enters, stands center, and stomps loudly] Stomp went the feet. Crush went the bones. “UNNH” went my voice as the air was thrust from my lungs. The feet slammed into me, faster and faster, harder and harder as I curled into a ball, trying to protect my most vulnerable parts. My nose began to bleed, my vision blurred, and all I could see were the feet as they slammed into me. [Stomp] Again. [Stomp] Again. [Stomp] Again. Then my own feet, fighting to get away, threw off the sweat-soaked covers and pulled me from the all-too-familiar nightmare into the real world. Even awake, I kept seeing those feet, moving faster and faster towards me, with pain following swiftly in their wake. Feet are tools and weapons, considered unclean, unwelcome, and disgusting. In some Asian cultures, they bound feet. In the Middle East, they hide feet. There, showing the bottom of your foot to someone is like showing them your middle finger here. In our culture, feet get thought about when they smell, or when they look nasty in the summer months. It doesn’t start out that way though. Babies’ feet aren’t disgusting. As a baby I was fascinated with my own feet, content to suck on my toes and make cooing sounds, both of which were met with cries of “awww!” and “who’s a goo babyyy!” My feet were a wonder, a tool that I didn’t yet know the full power of until that first day when I stood on my own and realized exactly what they can do. I assumed that I could go anywhere now. But I was wrong. As soon as my feet began to take me places, they were confined to

shoes and socks, the places they could go were limited, and I was taught “the truth” about them. My feet, my foundations, the things that moved me, were no longer seen as cute and beautiful, but dangerous, dirty things that must be controlled. I tried to go back to sleep, tried to shut my eyes and dream about something else, something that didn’t want to break my body and my spirit like those feet did. I started dreaming about James, one of the first boys I fell in love with, and his smile made me relax into deeper sleep and start to forget about the bruises in my mind caused by those stomping, crushing feet. But then I did something stupid, something that I had never done before, even in a dream. I grabbed his hand, looked him in the eye and told him that I loved him. His smile disappeared, and all of a sudden his feet turned away from me and took him away, because he knew what would happen if he stayed. The feet would come back and kick him too. And come back they did. Stomp went the feet. Crush went the bones. “UNNH” went my voice as the air was thrust from my lungs. I learned the rules quickly. Boys’ feet can’t wear the fun shoes with the high heels. Boys’ feet don’t get pretty colors put on them, no matter how much you plead. Boys’ feet should be dirty and muddy because they’re outside, not white and soft because you stay inside all day. Boys’ feet should carry them to sports practice with the grunting and yelling, not ballet classes with the beautiful movement and music. Boys’ feet belong around other boys’ feet, not always surrounded by girls’ feet. But the rule that I more than any other was

that you don’t play footsie with another boy under the dinner table. Boys’ feet weren’t supposed to touch other boys’ feet for fun. Boys’ feet shouldn’t touch each other when you’re sitting on the couch watching movies or playing video games. Boys’ feet shouldn’t touch each other if, for some horrible reason, you had to share a bed, or a tent on a camping trip. Boys’ feet touched girls’ feet. End of story. The nightmares came and went throughout the years. Anytime my feet broke a rule, they would come back with a vengeance, like when my feet started ballet classes, or spent all their free time hanging out with girls’ feet, or stayed indoors instead of being outside playing with the other boys and their feet. My feet were disgusting in more ways than one. I hated and despised them. I was terrified that they would start playing footsie with another boy under the table, or that they would carry me into the embrace of another boy, or pull me too close to another boy on the sofa while we watched a movie. I knew that if any of that happened, the feet in my dreams might just kill me and I might never wake up. [Stomp] Again. [Stomp] Again. [Stomp] Again. And then I met Kasey. I was in college, so desperate for the touch of another man that I was willing to subject myself to the beatings of my nightmares just to see if it was worth it. I met Kasey online, and we met a few times in public places to get to know each other. He was older and taller than me, and he walked with a confidence that I had never been able to muster. His feet knew where they were going, and they weren’t afraid to go there. After each date, my

nightmares were worse than ever before, each time bringing me closer and closer to death before I could wrench myself awake. But I couldn’t stay away, even knowing that every time I saw him I would have to endure a beating in my dreams. Finally, he invited me over to his apartment one night. When we got there, he started to remove my shoes and socks. I almost screamed at him as I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. He told me that he wanted to see my feet. The terror that washed through my body was indescribable…feet were dirty, feet were not to be touched or fondled or loved. Feet were dangerous and deadly. After all, they’d carried me to his apartment. And it would be feet that would finally beat me to death tonight in my dreams. He smiled at me and asked me to trust him, and for some unknowable reason I did. My body was tense, my blood pounding in my ears, but I trusted him. He just looked and touched my feet for what seemed like ages. He told me how beautiful they were, how he could tell that I’d danced just by looking at them. He said that my feet held the record of my life because they were what carried me everywhere I went. I thought he was nuts, and just wanted to get out of there. My feet carried me back home, and straight to the medicine cabinet. I knew that tonight I would die because of the feet in my dreams, the stomping, pounding, painful feet. I had broken too many of the rules. Another boy had finally touched my feet. I was terrified, and I didn’t want to die that way, broken and bleeding. So I pulled down the bottle of sleeping pills, poured them into my

hand, and swallowed them as fast as I could. I would end my own life before those feet would kill me. But even when I tried to control my own death, the feet still came. As I drifted off to finally end the pain of those beatings, the feet descended on me like never before, crushing not just my body but my spirit and my soul. Even as the pain wracked my body, I realized that this final beating was different. Before, the feet had come from nowhere. This time, the feet were attached to a body, that body to a head, a head which had a face. And as I looked upward through the blood that dripped from my eyelashes, I finally saw the face of my lifelong attacker, my own worst enemy. The cry of pain that left my lips when I saw that face was unlike any cry of pain before. The face of my attacker was red with blood, dripping from his eyelashes, his body curled into a ball, trying to protect his most vulnerable parts, even as his feet slammed into me. Nothing could have prepared me to look into the face of my attacker and see my own. But with that cry of pain came a surge of energy, of determination that propelled me out of that dream world to the toilet where, choking, gagging, retching, I expelled the sleeping pills from my body before collapsing onto the floor sobbing and gasping for air. [The performer, caught in the emotion of the moment, removes his shoes and socks hurriedly, as if they are choking the life out of him. The movements below are performed as they are recited.]

Swish went the feet. Brush went the toes. [loud exhale] went my breath as I landed a cabriole, spun into a pirouette, and finished with my feet extended in a proud arabesque. Today, my feet are my friends. They are no longer an enemy to be avoided, they are a part of me. My dreams celebrate them instead of fear them, whether they lead me to the end of a perfect ballet combination or carry me down the aisle to marry the man I love. They are my record keepers, my atlas of the places I have been, the people I have met, and the stories that I have been a part of. They no longer stomp my spirit and soul, because I have taken that power away from them. Like Kasey, I removed the shoes and socks that closed them in and gave them their destructive power, freeing them to dance through life without fear.

“Going Public” As someone raised in the super liberal, accepting city of Seattle, Washington, I never imagined that I would have anything to say about the GLBT movement— never considered being an “Ally”, because everyone appeared to be an ally. Live and let live is a typical west coast motto. In high school (in the 90s) we had a Gay Straight Alliance, and a teacher who was living with AIDS. The community ed him, and treated him as an equal--someone with worth and a purpose. I’m not sure I ever recall a time when “gay” was made apparent to me: people love people. I have no clear recollection of when someone told me what “gay” meant—and I suppose my first knowledge that boys could like boys and girls could like girls came early. When I was seven, I was molested by a female babysitter. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time…as she described the encounters as a “game”, simply playing “house”. But even then, I never wondered if it made me gay. I forced the experiences out of my mind, and they never resurfaced until high school; when I was date raped by a male teammate from the track team. This didn’t make me wonder if I was straight…it left me confused. Many people are quick to say that people “turn gay” because they’ve been molested or experience abuse at a young age--but where did this leave me? Even at 18, I couldn’t wrap my brain around these experiences, and what they meant. What would a 7 year old girl have to offer an older, “woman”? It “made sense”; for a male to want his way with a female…and we were drinking, after all, so it was my fault at some

level, (or so I thought). There were only 2 weeks left of the summer, and each day was full of ing experiences, and desperately trying to forget. The summer after high school quickly ed, and I was frenzied to leave home FAR FAR behind. I was going to college, where I could be the epitome of a southern belle—not damaged, broken, or dirty. My parents are Greek, country club , well off, established, educated, and “important” within our home community—and I was off to a large, SEC school to be the same, but better. If I was going to be a sorority girl, I was going to be a southern sorority girl…big hair, manners, pearls, pretty clothes, and perfect. No one would or could know that I was damaged--how would my sorority sisters take the “news” of having a sister who was molested by a female? Would they think I was gay? What if they knew about the man? Would they think I was bi? Straight? Or, would they just know that I was dirty, broken, damaged and not as good as them? There were many secrets to be kept (and hidden) behind perfectly manicured nails, blown out hair, designer clothes, foreign cars, and extravagant trips. As I got more involved with my sorority sisters, and my southern lifestyle, I found myself at church—asking God if He was real, how did all those things happen to me? What did they mean? How could He love me if He allowed those things to happen? After searching and examining for months, I found God…but this turned the rest of my world upside down. Over the coming years, I stepped into the role of sorority chaplain, small group leader, worship leader, and became a vital part of a giant college ministry. A giant college ministry that

didn’t believe in homosexuality. I found myself in a culture that viewed sexuality as a choice—a choice to deviate from Biblical standards. I had a hard time navigating this—so I hid my story, but most embarrassingly, I hid my friends. I had many gay men in my life (and still do), but spending time with them was not mentioned, their orientation not mentioned, as to not disturb the status quo. I didn’t attend or participate in LGBT issues or events on my campus until graduate school. In spring of 2009, I spent the semester researching the gay male undergraduate experience at my alma mater. And the stories horrified me. The words hurled in their direction, the fear that was in every fiber of their being, the abuse and mistreatment these students went through was unfathomable to me. But, I was still faced with a dilemma—how could I reconcile my deep, unwavering Christian faith and my of this community? My fellow researchers and I thought about publishing our work…but all I could think about was if I’d ever be able to get a job at a Christian school if I published an article about gay students. What would be my consequence for publishing something so wildly liberal? I didn’t want to suffer any consequences or discomfort from this, yet I couldn’t stay silent. In college and graduate school I had many gay men come out to me—and one of them said—“I didn’t tell you sooner because I didn’t know how you’d respond”. The first words out of my mouth were “if you are happy, I am happy. I love you. Period.” The thought of someone, thinking that I would change my attitude, actions, or love towards them because

of who they love, made me disappointed in who I was. Clearly I missed the “love your neighbor as yourself” boat. It was then I started to make a conscious decision to be an ally. As I left Tennessee to take my job here at A&M, I didn’t envision becoming involved with Aggie Allies or the GLBT resource center, but now it is one of the most important things in my life. I met Lowell and other community within the first week or two of being in College Station, and let me say, the first dining out experience was quite an eye opener for this southern sorority girl. But, I started going to Halo (a GLBT friendly bar in Bryan)…started meeting more people…and soon, my friend group became largely GLBT. So, when I got the facebook invite for the Day of Silence, inviting people to wear free, “Gay? Fine by Me” shirts, I knew I had to participate. I got my shirt, and was excited to wear it on the designated Friday—forgetting I had planned an off campus lunch date with a female friend. So, my friend, Mo (a shorter, athletic, black woman) and I went to lunch at a small sandwich shop, generally frequented by older folks. We were both wearing our “Gay? Fine by me” t-shirts, and thought nothing of it. We walked in, and all of a sudden, I felt eyes on me. It seemed like a movie—a hush fell on the crowd and eyes burned into my skin. People blatantly stared, made comments, and clearly thought Mo and I were together— and not only lesbian, but interracial! Throughout the entire lunch I was anxious—what were people thinking? Saying? Muttering under their breath? I got back to campus, finished out the work day, and as soon as I walked in the

door to my apartment, I peeled off that t-shirt. I couldn’t get rid of the discomfort, staring eyes, and disapproving faces quickly enough. But that is when “it” hit me. I can take of that shirt and go back to my normal, Christian, Republican, well-off, white girl life. My friends, students, and other GLBT community can’t just take off a shirt and change their reality. The day of discomfort I had was just that—one day…and not even a full 24 hours. That day solidified my commitment to being a vocal, public Ally. The gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, transgender, or otherwise “different” people in our community don’t get the luxury of a break—they have to hide it, , or deal with consequences. And this is the reason I am committed to change. I am Texas A&M. I am a mirror of the students. I have a unique understanding and privilege to speak to those “like me”--explain that accepting others, loving others, doesn’t diminish their faith, their Christian ideals (or conservative perspective). I am white, from a well-off family, I vote republican, I am a southern sorority girl, and I am a member of a mega Christian church in town. But most importantly I am an Ally...committed to change, progress, and loving— always.

“Be A Hero” I am standing here in front of you tonight because I believe in the power of performance. I know that performance has saved my life on countless occasions. But I am a Performance Studies Graduate student, after all, so I might be a little biased. From the time I first learned about the Coming Out Monologues, I have been wracking my brain for the story I wanted to tell, but everything I could come up with seemed to fall short. I kept thinking of the message that I wanted to send to all my brothers and sisters out there – gay or straight, in or out of the closet. I wanted to give people hope, but I didn’t think my story was a story about hope. My Coming Out story – or what I perceived to be my Coming Out story at the time – wasn’t happy, and it wasn’t even really over, not that any of our stories ever are. It was about a girl who was outed to her parents before she was ready for them to hear it, before she was really even fully out to herself. It was a girl who got careless in her first romantic relationship and didn’t to cover her tracks. It was the story of a girl whose parents cornered her in her bedroom, calling her the Devil, accusing her of destroying their family, and telling her that if she lived an openly gay life, all the orphaned children whose parents died of AIDS – that those deaths would be on her head for daring to say that being gay is an acceptable way to live. My story was the story of a girl who carried around so much guilt and shame with her every day that she tried to kill herself and had to be hospitalized for her depression. It was the story of a 23-

year-old who hadn’t planned on seeing her 20th birthday, and spent it eating chocolate cake with her family in the psychiatric ward of Fairmont General Hospital. I thought that my story was that story, and that wasn’t a story I knew how to share. In fact, most of my story was a story I hadn’t told anyone – a story that no one knew except for the people who were there when it happened. I was ashamed of my story and afraid of what people would say or think about me if they knew. I didn’t want their pity; I didn’t want them to look at me and only see some girl who tried to kill herself. I wanted to be much braver and more puttogether, much stronger and more self-confident than I thought my past would allow. Besides that, my family – as I am sure many families do – taught me well the face I ought to present to others. Taught me not to ask for help or it to weakness. Taught me to gloss over family difficulties and pretend they never happened. My family is excellent at keeping secrets, at showing only what is meant to be seen. So I hid my past as well as I could manage, and put my acting talents to the test. I created the Dana I wasn’t able to be in life, and that’s the face I tried to show the world. But all the pain, shame, and guilt were still bubbling under the surface. Though I refused to acknowledge my story publicly, its ramifications were still deeply felt. As time ed, and I kept my story buried, it began to be second nature. I hadn’t told it for so long, I never thought that I would be able to tell anyone. I

didn’t think that I knew how. But then I met Tim Miller. Tim is a gay performance artist, and I had been told his workshop on solo performance would change my life forever, but I had no idea just how much of a prophesy that would turn out to be. Every night that week in October, the 23 of us chosen for the workshop would do exercises meant unlock our past, and reveal our broken parts. These exercises were meant to uncover the story we were supposed to tell that week. I planned to tell a story about my larger-than-average feet, but at the dress rehearsal I saw so many people being brave and digging deep, revealing parts of themselves and their history that were of real consequence in their lives. I couldn’t sleep that night because I knew I had a story like that, too. A story I’d been keeping under wraps for years. A story that had festered in my soul for so long, that if it hadn’t been for the 22 people standing behind me, I’m sure the words would never have come out of my mouth. I wrote my script during lunch on Friday, and spent the next four hours trying frantically to memorize it before the performance that evening. I was slated first in the program, and no one in the cast, even, had seen me perform this brand new monologue. As I stood there on the stage, hot bright lights beaming down on my cheeks, it was all I could to do to even speak. I fought to the words I had written hours earlier, and I couldn’t even bear to lift my downcast eyes, because I didn’t want to see the faces of anyone in the audience that night. I was too afraid of what I might find. After my bit was over, I stumbled to the sidelines and spent the rest of the show just trying not to think about anything at all. I put

all of my focus on being there for the other performers, whether as an actor in their performance or an attentive listener on the sidelines. After the evening was over, the audience came out to greet the performers, and I stayed off on the sidelines. I was still too nervous to seek out anyone, and I wished that I could just melt into the walls or floor. But to my surprise, that night, instead of pity, I received more hugs than I think I’ve ever gotten in the span of a day. Instead of awkward silences, my fellow performers, professors, and people that I’ve never met before told me how brave I was and how proud they were of me for saying what I said, and how glad they were that I was still around. Brave? Proud? Glad? None of those words encomed a response I had ever expected. Where was the judgment? What about all those fears I’d carried around for so long? I left Rudder Forum that night feeling confused and drained, but also somehow lighter than I’d felt in a long time. Suddenly, I wasn’t carrying around the burden of my suicide like a chain around my neck. I firmly believe that performance saved my life, just like acting in Top Girls three and a half years ago – the semester after the time I spent in the hospital. But this time it wasn’t throwing myself into a role that saved me; it was facing my biggest fear. It was doing the thing that I never thought I could do, and only did because there were twenty-two other brave people behind me telling their stories, too. It took me several months to realize the magnitude of that performance and the weight it took off of my shoulders. I had been carrying around my

attempted suicide like Atlas holding up the globe. I was pumped full to bursting of internalized guilt and shame – the poison of the soul. I had thought that itting to a suicide attempt would leave me forever defined by it; but what I began to realize was that that event itself, and more importantly, the pain of keeping it a secret, had been defining my life for a long time anyway. I can’t tell you when to Come Out or how or to whom. I can’t guarantee that you won’t be outed like I was, long before you are emotionally prepared to deal with the ramifications of it. But what I realize now is that we can write our own Coming Out stories. That doesn’t mean you make up a lie – it means you can decide how to frame the story, and you can choose to be the hero of your own narrative. I made myself the victim of my own Coming Out story. I gave my parents all the power and saw myself as reacting to events beyond my control. And in some ways, perhaps that was accurate. But I was living a life filled with guilt – staying half-way out of the closet – in an attempt to appease my parents, whose opinions might never change. I wasn’t giving myself any credit or any agency to live openly or happily despite the opinions of others. And meanwhile, I was denying myself the of people who can see past my past and accept me not despite it but because of the person it has caused me to be. I’ve heard people say they don’t have a Coming Out story to tell – but you do. Even if you’re only out to yourself, that’s still a story, and an important first step. We all have these stories, however funny or awkward, or painful they might be, and it’s important to tell them because the telling releases the weight,

sucks out the poison, and allows us to finally stand up straight and look people in the eye. I can’t tell you when the right time is to come out for you. But when you do, don’t make the same mistake I did: make sure you’re the hero of your own Coming Out story. You don’t have to be the girl who tried to commit suicide – you can be the girl who took a stand, who told the truth, and learned that weakness only means we’re human. You’ll have to find your own way of being a hero – you might have to work for it a little bit harder than I did, too. Get creative: make yourself a cape and a costume if you need to, and give yourself lots of awesome superpowers so you can defeat the Brother Jeds and Westboro Baptists out there. Trust me, you’ll need those powers sometimes when things get rough and you start to feel alone again. I’m still in the process of Coming Out, as we all are, but if I can tell you anything I’ve learned on the journey, it’s that if there is ever a story you think you can’t tell, that’s exactly the story you need to tell. But why not re-image your role first, and make yourself the star?