Navigating Between Silence and Speech

I paced past the beds of Hampton Inn room 437, chewed a cold piece of pepperoni pizza and listened to my older sister’s voice through the cell phone. She spoke quickly: “Don’t let them know. Not if you care about your safety. We care about you too much.”

Not again. I hate that speech. It makes me feel like a sex offender. She gives me this talk every time I move. I put down the cell phone and slumped down on the bed. I was sick of my sister’s advice. If people asked, I’d tell them. If they said something bigoted, I’d let them know.

I confront the problem often: When should I stick up for my rights and reveal things about myself that might upset others? If I tell people the truth about me, people may get mad. If I don’t, I feel fake.

The details emerged a few days later. I talked to a classmate about moving away from friends when the conversation turned, sounding something like this:

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” he asked.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.

“You said you’ve been dating the same person for four years.”

“So?”

“So what’s her name?”

“I have a boyfriend. His name’s Dylan.”

After a pause so long I thought we’d never speak, the sermon detonated. He said he wouldn’t treat me differently. He said he had a friend who’s gay and -- believe it or not! -- realized gays can be human. He said gays were sinners. He said gays can’t be Christian. He said it didn’t matter that I’m gay because I see the world differently. He later said I’d be judged when I die. I remember a monologue.

Except maybe that didn’t happened. Maybe that’s just how it felt. When I spoke to the classmate, he said his “sermon” was really a Q & A. He said he realized I was gay when we met. He said he wouldn’t give that talk. I could have seen prejudice where it didn’t exist, been hurt by non-existant insults.

Still, for weeks that followed I wanted to force him to agree with me, to make him realize his argument -- biological and biblical references included -- was once said about blacks and women; I wanted him to realize gays exist in every mammal species and human culture; that almost every religion values human rights and love for others and for people to be the way their God or gods made them. I wanted to make him change, even if he wouldn’t. I wanted to call him a bigot – if he deserved it or not.

I didn’t.

I did what my sister told me to.

I smiled, nodded and said you’re welcome to have your opinion. Maybe I was right to stay quiet; maybe that person didn’t do anything wrong; maybe being openly gay is too dangerous; maybe it will make people treat me too differently. I didn’t know.

Similar things happened when I walked my beat and asking questions like, “Are any groups targeted in St. Petersburg.” Someone asked if I’m gay and offered to find me a “conversion therapist.” Apparently gays, unlike heterosexuals, choose their orientation and can permanently change it. Another person said I’d go to hell.

An unemployed father looking for work said, “Gay people in St. Petersburg get killed.” I didn’t interrupt. I rarely speak up for rights or inject opinions. As a journalist, it’s not my job to make everyone agree with me.

That afternoon, my hands shook as I took notes. Anger bounced in my head like a pingpong ball. Was this father threatening to kill me? Did he know I’m gay? Was it a warning? I usually walk home after an interview; this time, I ran.

As journalists, we like to think we’re unaffected by our stories -- that we’re objective, unbiased, untouched by our reporting. Not so.

Our stories filter through our world. We’re not immune to feelings. Sticks and stones may break bones, but words can smash our souls.

In the office, problems get worse because it’s harder to avoid people. How much should we reveal to co-workers? If I conceal myself, it’s like I’m holding my breath. If I tell, people make assumptions. I’m not a hairstylist. I don’t hate football. I’m not being an activist when I talk about my relationship. Being gay isn’t a sin.

What to do? I haven’t found an answer and may keep stumbling. Still, I’ve learned opening up doesn’t mean having to upset someone.

When playing soccer with some classmates, someone kicked the ball left of the goal and yelled, “That shot was gay!” He missed another shot and repeated the derogatory comment.

Bigots aren’t the best listeners, but I was mad. On the way back, I asked: “Why do you keep calling things gay?”

“I mean they’re bad,” he said.

“You consider gays bad? Do ‘Jewish’ and ‘black’ also mean bad? Are all minorities bad?”

The student listened and apologized. The incident, he said, made him more aware of prejudices.

I called my sister. She was unconvinced. Sometimes it’s dangerous to speak out. I felt vindicated. Sometimes it’s dangerous to stay quiet.