Not Another Gay Column

Last year, around this time, I wrote a column about coming out of the closet. Printed the week following UB's celebration of Coming Out Day, and a month after Gender Week, I felt the time was right to air my laundry. I'd say what I had waited 21 years to get out, let the stereotypes run rampant, make a few Cher jokes, and go on with my life.

That was the plan.

For the most part, coming out was a flash-in-the-pan experience. I took my time telling my friends and family, over the course of last summer, and with my column I would seal the deal. (If you thought telling just one person was hard, try telling 30,000.)

I'm here to report, nearly one year later, that life as I know it is pretty much the same. I learned a lot about who I am, what I want in life, what I want in a partner (or a "friend," as my mother calls him), but was surprised to realize I had learned more about others than I had myself.

Of the many new experiences I've had -- crushes, asking someone out for the first time (tip: keep AIM out of it), full disclosure in the workplace -- none has been more universally relevant as the battle of stereotypes.

Right off the bat, you can start by throwing them right out the window. It's true - clich?(c)s are based in fact, and more often than not, they're accurate descriptions of otherwise socially biased preconceptions. When you walk into a gay bar, you're going to find limp-wristed dancers wearing silk and sparkles just as much as you will drama club teachers with dyed mustaches. I'm not going to lie -- they exist.

But lesson No. 1: Not all gay people go to gay bars. And if they do, they just might have their own personal style that doesn't fit into said categories. You never know whom you're sitting next to - in class, on the bus, at the office, at home - or what their personal preference might be. Maybe the alpha-male best friend who you thought liked the bun really fancied the hot dog. I'm just saying.

My first time in a gay bar -- which I'll preface right now by admitting was a lesbian bar; not exactly my cup of tea, but it sufficed -- wasn't nearly as frightening as I thought. Yes, there were more square-toed boots and trailer mullets than I cared to see on a single day, but there were also those who wouldn't have normally fit my perception of your typical lesbian. For every Ellen DeGeneres I saw, there were three Angelina Jolies. (And regretfully, a few Sandra Bernhardts.)

I did discover an entirely new breed of homosexual: the Glesbian. This is a gay male whose femininity has crossed so far over into the sixth dimension that he's become a lesbian. Lots of hemp and Lilith Fair t-shirts. They're nice, the glesbians. (Just don't bring up Rosie O'Donnell or Clay Aiken.) Can be found at any lesbian bar or Borders cafe. Retail price: $19.99.

But I digress.

There was much in the newspapers about homosexuals this year. The hot button issue of the year was gay marriage, something our president vehemently opposes, claiming it as some sort of moral or ethical crisis. What's the difference between morals and ethics anyway? I don't know. Go rent "Election."

While I most certainly support the idea of freedom for all, which must include legalized same-sex marriages in all 50 states, I can't say that I would ever personally go through with it. I'm all for the wedding gifts, and a registry at IKEA would make my day any day, but I find the use of the word husband -- for my own vision of my own future -- more awkward than Harvey Fierstein in a mumu.

As long as politics are on the table, lest we forget New Jersey governor James McGreevey, who on Aug. 13 held a press conference to announce his resignation amidst news that he was having a homosexual affair with an Israeli man on his payroll. Talk about coming out.

In my family, I've had to have "the discussion" a few times with family members. My grandmother, the one who divulged she had been planning since 1989 to tell me I was gay, informed me during dinner last summer that a Celine Dion concert would be on TV that week and maybe I'd like to watch it.

I told her that not all gay guys like Celine Dion and that, furthermore, she's like sooo 1997. Her ship sunk with the Titanic. Grandma didn't get it.

But discussion with your grandmother is only one step to speaking your mind. Take the step. Vote with your heart. If you're still in the closet, by all means, open the door. There's plenty of room out here. Because if you don't, no one else will.

And for god's sake, someone kill Celine Dion.