The first time I came out was an absolute disaster. After a year of internal screaming matches, I finally decided to come out to my father when I was 13. Fearing the worst, instead of starting a conversation during dinner or even sending him a text, I decided to tell him as I left for school to eliminate any possibility of facing his reaction head-on.
Every morning, my father would wake up early to make me breakfast and walk me to the door. A self-identified teenage master strategist, I waited until a hectic Tuesday morning when I knew he would be too busy to watch me leave. As I slid my shoes on and heard my father bustle in the living room, my tongue went dry, my palms caked with sweat, and my head went dizzy. Almost involuntarily, I screamed a strangled “I’m bi!” and sprinted out of the apartment, slamming the door shut and spamming the elevator button.
I spent the day worrying about everything that could go wrong. I saw my dad sitting at the dining table with his head in his hands — rage, and disappointment etched on his shoulders. He didn’t text or call, which meant that he must be preparing to kick me out. It wasn’t until I came home that I realized the truth: he just thought I said goodbye before going to school.
Months later, when I finally found the courage to sit down with both of my parents, my actual coming out was filled with much less drama, planning, and evasion, and was instead crammed with awkward silences and confusion. They gave the usual cliches: you’re going through a phase, you’re not being serious, you don’t know what you’re talking about. For years afterward, these words knocked at my skull, charging stress-filled nights with doubt. But gradually, the awkward silences gave way to messages of support. What was once confusion became my parents’ pursuit of understanding. Ultimately, my parents’ love for me was reaffirmed, and from then on, I could seemingly live out and proud.
This is where the movie ends. The credits roll as a song about finding yourself begins to blare. We exit the theater, leaving behind unpopped popcorn kernels and crumpled straw wrappers.
But after the audience leaves, the screen flickers to life again with the static haze of a new impossibility to confront: the uncertain abyss that surrounds each new community, place, and day for the rest of our lives.
In my hometown, I found a community that seemed to disintegrate the uncertainty. I became comfortable expressing my own sexual orientation and advocated for the LGBTQ+ community through activism organizations, theaters, and PFLAGs. Finally, seven years after coming out, I attended my first Pride March in a new city. Yearning to be more than a bystander, I signed up to volunteer and headed off, armed with a volunteer T-shirt and a complimentary rainbow donut.
The march was a dream come true. Despite going solo in a city where I’m a stranger, I found a group of other volunteers who quickly took me under their wing. From a lesbian motorcyclist who gently drew face paint rainbows on my arms and cheeks to a friendly Starbucks employee who handed out free lemonade samples, the people at the march reminded me of the joy of coming out. The relief and hope of being accepted as you are. That despite the choking nerves and sweat-stained palms, I could be free. I volunteered with pride, hollering and hooting with jubilance when I finally joined the march. I wanted that feeling of belonging, support, and freedom to go on forever.
It lasted until I entered the subway station. Already on edge as the adrenaline faded and I faced traveling alone in an unfamiliar part of the city, my head started racing with all that could go wrong. The train car was crowded and monotonous, void of the brilliance that blanketed the parade. The painted rainbows that had given me belonging and joy just a few hours ago felt like targets painted on my face. My volunteer t-shirt was sticky against my skin. Did I need to wash off my arms and face? Was it dangerous to wear a Pride t-shirt outside?
I began answering these questions with angry and more righteous questions. Why on Earth should I have to fear for my safety because of rainbow face paint? Why should being myself be the reason for someone to attack me? Of course, I shouldn’t have to be afraid. Of course that’s not a reason to attack anybody. Still, invisibility is safe. Refusing to acknowledge that part of myself lets me blend in, and if I can’t be seen then I can’t be targeted. The cynical and violent reality of our world doesn’t bend to my angry questions. Out of my thoughts, the most puzzling, and in some ways terrifying question surfaced: What do you do when what’s safe is what’s wrong?
When a movie ends, people don’t tell you what happens after the credits roll. We don’t follow the story of what follows, the life that continues after you come out. The reboots of fear, danger, and uncertainty that surround the rest of your life. Sequels upon sequels, to the point that you can only ask, “Why are these movies still getting made?”
Because hiding is safe; because being invisible is what’s expected. But we can’t allow ourselves to live that way. As long as there are people who can’t be themselves without risking their lives, especially as people are still ruthlessly oppressed for living authentically, we need to have courage and express ourselves with volume.
It’s easy to get lost in the comfort of corporate rainbows. And to an extent, maybe that is a sign of some societal shift. However, our identities don’t disappear after things stop getting easy. Instead of mumbling a phrase and running into the elevator, we need to stand our ground through the awkward and ugly confrontations.
Life can feel more like a neverending franchise than a film. Every new school, train car, and group of friends becomes uncertain the second they learn about who we are. Nevertheless, the only way to mitigate these risks is to keep taking the next step: to choose ourselves over what’s easy, and sometimes, what feels safe. To keep our heads up when we move from a welcoming parade to a bleak train station. With each choice, we make that new place a little bit easier and a little bit safer for those around us, and we declare our identities unconditional to ourselves. This courage is a horrible thing to ask for, and unfortunately an often dangerous or unimaginable step, but the alternative is to live in fear. Thankfully, it’s also a path that widens the more times it’s taken, a phrase that becomes easier to say, and a lesson I find vibrantly embedded into every stroke of rainbow face paint in a sticky and crowded subway car in June.
