RYAN LEE
| 10.8.2008
THERE WERE ONLY ABOUT 10 people that I ever came out to, in terms of sitting down with them and explaining that there was something more about me that I thought they should know. Once I told those folks, I didn’t feel as though I owed anyone else a disclosure and figured anyone who paid attention would catch on soon enough.
Those coming out episodes, spaced over about six years, had a familiar pattern to them, and they were always emotionally draining. I remember how my heartbeat accelerated even before the discussions began, and how every drop of moisture would flee from my throat.
No matter how cool I tried to play things, I must’ve always had a panicked look on my face because almost everyone who I came out to immediately started the discussion by asking, “What’s wrong?” I would reassure them that, in the grand scheme of things, everything was OK, but there was something important that we needed to talk about.
After that, I would start our talk with prolonged silence, lasting anywhere from 30 seconds to a few minutes. When all of your life up to that moment you’ve avoided discussing this part of who you are, and when you’ve lived and loved and suffered in silence forever, words don’t come easy.
During the silence, a million thoughts were ricocheting inside my head: What words should I use? Am I sure this is who I am? Will they still love me?
Before I said anything, I usually started to cry. Not subtle tears that dropped down my face one at a time, but gushing tears that mixed with snot and slob and triggered hyperventilation — the kind of crying you do when you fear that the biggest risk you’ve ever taken in life won’t pay off.
But the tears sped up my confession because I regularly worried about being overdramatic and looking a mess when coming out, only to have people respond, “Why are you crying? Everyone already knows that.”
THAT'S A BIT OF WHAT I FELT like when I heard that Clay Aiken finally came out of the closet. All of the heartache, all of the drama, all of the years of rationalizations, all to avoid stating what couldn’t be more obvious.
But bravo, Clay, and welcome home. It would’ve been nice if he had acknowledged he was gay sooner, but coming out — even and especially for celebrities — remains a fundamentally personal decision, and most people deserve the opportunity to take that step on their own terms.
Like John Amaechi, the former NBA player who came out last year, I hope that Clay Aiken finds peace in no longer living a lie. But like Amaechi’s, Aiken’s announcement shouldn’t be seen as bold or inspiring, or as a particularly promising sign of how far gay people have come.
The standard for such bravery continues to be Ellen Degeneres, with Neil Patrick Harris coming in an impressive second. Ellen is often unfairly criticized by gay men and lesbians as not doing enough for the movement, or of trying to straight-wash her show to make it digestible to middle America.
But 11 years ago, just as her years of grinding as a stand-up comedian were beginning to mold a career as a TV star, Ellen risked everything by deciding that she had to live her life authentically. Unlike most celebrities, Ellen didn’t wait for the safety of retirement before announcing what couldn’t have been more obvious.
Ellen paid a price, as a year later her sitcom was off the air and she was reviled by conservatives for “focusing on her sexuality” and “pushing the gay agenda.” But we see how that turned out, haven’t we? Every bit of Ellen’s success and happiness is a testimony of the potential for gay and lesbian lives when they are no longer burdened by secrets and shame.
THERE ARE USUALLY TRIGGERS to coming out, like Clay Aiken having a baby and not wanting to raise the child to believe that lying is OK.
My first disclosure to my two closest friends was prompted by me going off to college, meeting a special guy and wanting to share with my friends the way he made me feel. Another coming out discussion came after a weekend trip to Atlanta, when a simple picnic helped me realize that being gay wasn’t just about sex and marginalization.
I came out to my college roommate of two years after going to a drag show in Montgomery, Ala. We always talked about writing a movie together over late-night bongs, and I was convinced that the characters and location of the drag show at Fat Boys were a comedic gold mine.
“There’s something really funny I want to tell you about, but before I can do that I have to tell you something really important,” I said, figuring I needed to explain how I happened to see a drag show in Montgomery. My throat was dry and my heart was racing.
“What’s wrong?” my roommate asked, prompting about 40 seconds of silence.
“I’m gay,” I finally said.
“You are?” said my roommate, a rich conservative Republican. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and waved his arms trying to clarify himself.
“I mean, I’m not sorry that you’re gay,” he said. “I’m sorry that we’ve lived together this long and you felt like you couldn’t tell me, and that you didn’t feel like you could be yourself with me. I understand why you didn’t, and I’m sorry for all of the shit you have to put up with being gay.”
“Thank you,” I said, more sincerely than I ever had before.
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