Fridae

"I'm gay."

I'd probably spoken those words more times this year than I ever had in my entire 32 years. It was both novel and exhilarating, and looking back on how my year has gone, possibly the best, most liberating statement I'd made all decade.

I'd said them to a group of straight friends I'd known nearly 20 years (they told me to order more beer). I'd said them to my new colleagues (who didn't believe me at first, but who were eventually convinced). I'd said them to my 18-year old male cousin, who was tagging along one afternoon, not knowing I was headed out to meet my boy (he shrugged it off). I'd said them to new friends and acquaintances to head off questions about my marital status. I'd said them to my old boss, a 60-year old lady I respected and admired greatly. I'd said them to some macho shit breeder who'd looked scornful when I kissed my date goodnight in public.

And each time, it felt good to hold my head up.

Not that I'd been hiding my penchant for men and musicals these last few years of my life. But during the time I had been away in Singapore, I didn't feel that there was any conflict between my public and private life. I lived as wantonly as I wanted, and never felt that I had to hide my sexuality or my individuality. The friends I cared enough about to tell, they learned to accept it, or we went our separate ways. The restrictiveness of the government did necessitate some measure of discretion, but not really enough to cramp my lifestyle.

But it was different when I came home. The life I'd established since I was a child, the cultures and mores and taboos I'd learned to grow up with, the friends who'd known me even before I knew myself, all these needed to fit within the current paradigm of my life. I'd spent the last seven years being as free and as gay as I wished, despite the insistence of some of my fag friends that I was a closet heterosexual. I wasn't going back into hiding.

One bad side about this whole thing is, I've found myself less patient and tolerant of people who are still in the closet. I'm sympathetic, yes, and I can understand their situations. But I've heard the same fears and issues so many times before, I have no patience to listen to them again. And even less patience with people who voluntarily chain themselves when there's no reason to.

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Case in point. I'd met and briefly dated (very briefly) a young guy this year who was still fairly new to being gay. Seeing someone who seemed as lost and confused as I had been at that age, I thought maybe he could benefit from having a mentor. But I gave up soon after. This guy didn't have baggage; he had a whole luggage compartment.

Here was a guy who lived away from family, who was employed and independent, who was young and reasonably attractive, and who wasn't bound to a group of straight friends. Yet, he was terrified every time I suggested an opportunity for him to explore his gay options. He'd refuse to go to Malate (local nightlife area with both straight and gay bars), for fear of being seen. He refused to visit the private clubs, nor the other cruising areas. He was scared of going to the motels because of how the staff would see him, etc. He'd chained himself up so effectively, he couldn't break out. He voraciously wanted details, as if experiencing gay life vicariously would satisfy his hunger. He didn't have the restrictions and obstacles other closeted people have, yet he chose to lock himself up. And when I asked him outright how he could continually live in fear like that, he denied it vehemently.

So I gave up. Shrug. Can't help someone who refuses to be helped.

But going back. For many people who've lived all their lives out and happily gay, this may be just so much babble. Certainly I might have felt that way when I still lived overseas. But now, being back, and seeing the way that time has changed the roles of gays in the social consciousness, I can appreciate the disparities between my life before I'd left and now on my return. Part of my "coming home anxiety" had been the fear that I'd have to segregate the gay and non-gay parts of my life again. Fortunately, I didn't.

Now, there's just one last hurdle. Dear old mom. It should be easy, but I still have to work myself up to being to able to nonchalantly say, "I'm gay. Pass the ketchup, please."

Oh well. Perhaps this coming year.