Part of my musing includes wondering where I’ll live when I’m older. I can’t really see myself moving back to suburban New Jersey, but New York is obviously pretty cool. Living in utopian Canada has jaded my view of the U.S. though, so maybe I should consider staying here: I love Montreal, but am skeptical on whether or not I’d be able to learn enough French to completely integrate into this city.

I often wonder if my queerness will resign me to always living in large, urban areas. I knew very little about Montreal before coming to school here, but as I made the decision to come here as a closeted teenager, I hoped it would be a good place to figure my queer self out. It has far surpassed the few expectations I had.

It’s a common narrative: a queer person coming to the city from a rural area or small town, escaping close-minded communities, unaccepting family members, and small-town mentalities.

It’s a common narrative: a queer person coming to the city from a rural area or small town, escaping close-minded communities, unaccepting family members, and small-town mentalities. Although I don’t identify with all those conditions, cities offer a solution to unprecedented numbers of people of all shapes, colours, sizes, and of course, sexual preferences.

Whether on purpose or inadvertently, cities seem to be the places where queer communities form, a fact with historical precedent. It was not until the late 19th century, following powerful forces of urbanization across Europe and North America, that same-sex relations led to the creation of a ‘homosexual identity,’ challenging the perception that these were merely sinful acts anyone was capable of.

Bert Hansen’s chapter in Framing Disease: Studies in Cultural History outlines the medicalization of homosexuality in North America in the last decades of the 19th century. Although homosexuality was stigmatized as a disease, the rise of sexologists across Europe and North America pioneered an important recognition and acknowledgement of (what was then termed) ‘the homosexual.’

In the U.S., Hansen remarks that urbanization in the 19th century brought people away from their family-farming communities and toward cities, offering greater opportunities for people – first men, and later women – to pursue sex differently. Those with same-sex desires seemed to find each other. As meeting places such as bars and parks formed, leading to clashes with doctors, reformers, and police, these communities developed a greater sense of self-awareness.

Contemporary writers, many of them in Canada, have focused on reclaiming the notion of the rural queer, establishing themselves as more relevant to LGBTQ populations than previously recognized.

Throughout the first half of the 20th century in the U.S., which brought new waves of urbanization, cities continued to be the sites of relaxed sexual morals, offering greater opportunities for sexual experimentation and fulfillment. Since then, what is considered the ‘gay liberation movement’ of the 1960s and 1970s, marked by events such as the Stonewall riots in New York in 1969, was focused on urban areas. Similarly, AIDS activism in the 1980s and 1990s was centred in San Francisco and New York, where large populations of gay men meant many people were affected by the epidemic.

This is a cursory look at queer history, but it is nonetheless easy to focus on cities when examining the advances and changes in perception of queer people. Today, queer communities still seem to have the greatest visibility and recognition in urban centres.
Nevertheless, contemporary writers, many of them in Canada, have focused on reclaiming the notion of the rural queer, establishing themselves as more relevant to LGBTQ populations than previously recognized. Lesley Marple, an LGBTQ advocate based in Nova Scotia, writes about the privileging of urban queerness and the need for greater interaction between queer communities in Rural Queers? The Loss of the Rural in Queer.

According to Marple, “Within the broader queer community, the rural queer needs space to talk about areas of struggle, without being dismissed with the familiar quote ‘why don’t you just move to the city?’ as though urban life is the solution to queer challenges.” Rural queer people need space to be respected and acknowledged, instead of disregarded and undermined.

I definitely find myself guilty of an urban-queer superiority complex, and Marple’s call for greater interaction, without urban queer people belittling the lifestyle choices of their rural counterparts, is valid and salient. With greater recognition and respect, increased solidarity between the various queer communities could result in increased visibility and acceptance of rural queer people, both by their urban counterparts and broader communities. The advancement of rural queerness, with activism focused outside cities, can only mean greater visibility, acceptance, and progress for more LGBTQ populations.

The advancement of rural queerness, with activism focused outside cities, can only mean greater visibility, acceptance, and progress for more LGBTQ populations.

Although articles such as Marple’s have helped me gain greater respect for rural queer people, at this point in my life, I know a city is where I need to be. In part it’s my personality; I like to be around people and am extroverted in some ways. I found integrating into Montreal’s queer community difficult at first, but have since enjoyed and benefited from interacting with more queer people. If I had gone to college in New Jersey, the only other option I considered besides coming to Montreal, I can’t see myself having become the gender-fucking, sparkly nail polish-wearing, proud queer that I am today.

I couldn’t wait to get out of my stuffy, conservative New Jersey town where I still don’t feel completely comfortable being the person I am. While I’ve had friends from small towns and rural areas struggle with their sexualities, many queer friends from urban areas tell stories of coming out at younger ages, sometimes with easier transitions. Of course, it’s all based on context, and everyone’s journey of sexual self discovery is different. Marple asserted that urban and rural queer people have various privileges, face different struggles, and confront diverse challenges.

I can’t help but see cities as the places where the largest queer communities will exist, be recognized, and mobilize. Cities have been centres of queer activism, and they will continue to be. However, that’s not to diminish the importance and credibility of rural queer people. The unity of various queer communities could mean stronger activism and a greater push for equality, acceptance, and respect. Above all, I hope a conglomeration of queer communities means allowing for any queer person to be who they want to be – free of judgment, violence, and discrimination.

White Noise is a column exploring what it means to identify as gay or queer in McGill and Montreal communities. Eric can be reached at whitenoise@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Out of the closet and into the city appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Now, months later, despite continued qualms about immersing myself in the dating scene, as a single 20-year-old gay male in a city with a large queer population, I know that this is my time to experiment. I need to see what works for me as I figure out what it is I want from my relationships.

The media obsesses over the ways relationships are changing because our generation tends to communicate using social media and texting. We resist labels and commitment, and have a proclivity for casual hook-ups over serious, committed relationships. For queers, the likelihood of experimenting with polyamory adds to the complexity of the dating scene.

In some ways, I sometimes feel this invisible pressure that as a queer person in this day and age, a successful polyamorous relationship is the rainbow-covered, glittery, golden peak I should be striving for.

Despite having more straight than queer friends, it seems more of my queer friends have experienced, or at least considered, open relationships. It’s probably because the essence of queerness implies challenging, avoiding, and questioning traditional gender norms and social relations. I’m sure straight people engage in polyamory as well, but I personally haven’t met too many who are into that sort of thing.

In some ways, I sometimes feel this invisible pressure that as a queer person in this day and age, a successful polyamorous relationship is the rainbow-covered, glittery, golden peak I should be striving for. Given the benefits of polyamory, I understand why.

I remember a great conversation with a queer friend who has been in a successful, albeit sometimes challenging, open relationship. We discussed how being able to see other people while still having a committed relationship can mean fulfilling different sexual desires and preferences. Different people can provide you with different pleasures and help you discover different sexual practices and preferences. Polyamory can definitely limit the potential for boredom in a relationship, making things more fun and dynamic.

Being able to see other people while still having a committed relationship can mean fulfilling different sexual desires and preferences.

If you’re able to make it work and strike a balance, a successful open relationship can mean a much more interesting and challenging sex life. For a sexual young adult, what could be more attractive than that?

Of course, given the dimensions that seeing other people adds to a relationship, it can mean a lot of hard work and commitment in figuring out what makes you and your partner comfortable. Based on my own experiences, and what I’ve heard and seen from friends, nothing is more pivotal to an open relationship than communication.

After flirtily texting with one guy for multiple weeks, he told me that he and his boyfriend were trying to be open – yet after enjoying one late night rendezvous together, he stopped answering my texts and I’m inclined to believe they realized polyamory wasn’t right for them. It might work for you to tell your partner when you’ve seen someone else, or it might not. Reevaluating may be a necessity too. Setting boundaries, sticking to them (or altering them if need be), as well as continuing the dialogue, immensely increase the chances that an open relationship will work.

Problems can go beyond jealousy. Figuring out to what extent you and your partner are allowed to see other people can be a tricky thing. What if a couple decided they could hook-up with, but not date, other people? What would be acceptable? Does that limit someone to Grindr hook-ups and one night stands? Are casual beers and coffee dates out of the question? It’s tough to say, and relates to the importance of defining terms and boundaries.

Every polyamorous relationship is going to take a different shape and allow for different experiences and understandings of what one wants from their different sexual partners.

It’s common to scroll through the plethora of guys on Grindr and see plenty whose status is ‘open relationship.’ There are also plenty of couples, anywhere from their early 20s to past 50, scanning Grindr for guys to come add a little spark to their relationships that monogamy probably couldn’t provide.

Every polyamorous relationship is going to take a different shape and allow for different experiences and understandings of what one wants from their different sexual partners. Open relationships have the potential to challenge concepts and ideas of the differences between sex and love. What are the implications of sustaining loving relationships with more than one person? Emotional attachment to someone besides your primary partner could have serious implications for the relationship. I’ve found it can be quite difficult to play the role of the mistress too, especially when the motives of your polyamorous love interest are unclear.

Since beginning to overcome my fear of the dating scene, I’ve had one open relationship that spanned a few months. We established a mutual desire to also see other people early on, and were able to sustain a comfortable, enjoyable, and I’d like to think healthy relationship thereafter. Once it was no longer working, our commitment to ‘not being committed’ meant the relationship ended more easily than it probably would have otherwise. In this case, establishing openness from the onset allowed us to sidestep commitment.

There are times I want things to be simpler though. Isn’t seeing one guy at a time enough? It may be, but resisting experimenting with polyamory will be a tough thing to do, both because of my own prerogative and since so many queers are just doing it anyway.

I’m aware of the potential polyamory has for redefining commitment, allowing for different concepts and forms of sexual expression.

I’m sure some stigma surrounding polyamory will remain, despite changing ideas and concepts of relationships on a more societal level. People are likely to believe open relationships aren’t legitimate, assume they can’t work, and disregard their potential for success and greater sexual fulfillment. Nevertheless, I’m becoming more comfortable with the fact that as a queer person, the way I interact, hook-up, and go about my relationships will inherently deviate from current and past concepts of the norm.

Despite my current desire to explore, date, hook up, and see what’s out there, having known the comfort and stability a committed relationship can provide, I secretly look forward to getting back there. Whether or not polyamory is a part of that equation remains to be seen, but I’m aware of the potential polyamory has for redefining commitment, allowing for different concepts and forms of sexual expression. Overall, I definitely see this as a good thing; considering and embracing polyamory can only mean a wider array of options and opportunities for relationships, and a more interesting pursuit toward understanding what queerness means for the way I date, hook-up, and fuck.

White Noise is a column exploring what it means to identify as gay or queer in McGill and Montreal communities. Eric can be reached at whitenoise@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Rethinking commitment appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I’m sure not everyone feels the same way. Although there’s a strong part of me that wants people to know I’m gay – in large part because of my experiences with people not assuming my sexuality – at the same time I know that my sexuality isn’t relevant to every conversation I have, and shouldn’t be. Sexuality is obviously a personal issue for everyone, and what people project and feel like projecting will vary widely.

As someone who’s struggled with the never-ending process of coming out, and as someone who often defies gay stereotypes, there are still situations where people don’t, and aren’t, going to know that I’m gay. It seems most people have internalized common stereotypes of who is, seems, or should be queer; and who isn’t. This can make life difficult as a queer person, as it can be uncomfortable to figure out when, and how, to come out to people, or if you even should.

I’m constantly thinking about whether or not I seem gay – whether or not people I meet ‘pick up’ on my gayness.

“Because assumed straightness is such a thing, I feel like eventually it will come out that I am some sort of ‘other,’” said Concordia student Amy Collier, who identifies as queer. “I’m kind of forced to expose my sexuality in a way that straight people aren’t really forced to do and that makes me feel kind of vulnerable.”

I’m constantly thinking about whether or not I seem gay – whether or not people I meet ‘pick up’ on my gayness. What kind of vibes am I giving off? I make a conscious effort to cross my legs. Sometimes, I find ankle over knee more comfortable, but I know for the vibes I’m trying to give off, that just won’t cut it. I try to let my wrists hang, limp as can be. I try to dress well, never leave the house without applying copious amounts of hair gel, and exclusively have some sort of longer-on-the-top-shaved-sides haircut since most people I see with those cuts are queer as fuck.

Nevertheless, I know plenty of people, especially when we first meet, are going to assume I’m straight. I get nervous that a nice, (seemingly) straight girl in class might mistake my kindness for something more, and it’s happened before.

It’s good to know that I’m not the only one that feels anxious in these situations. “There’s this panic or worry I have when I meet guys that I’ll say or do something that will be seen as flirting or taken as an advance,” said Collier. “I’ll go along with it but it can be kind of uncomfortable and lead to some awkward situations.”

There are other situations where I know people are going to assume I’m straight too. When I go to play soccer – in the park when Montreal isn’t a frozen wasteland, or indoors in the winter – conceptions of who plays sports will mean that no one thinks I’m gay.

I’ve felt for a long time that my sexuality has a tough time coexisting with my interest in playing and watching sports. Despite the homophobic tendencies of sports culture, I enjoy soccer as an activity and as a form of exercise. Despite internal dilemmas, I continue to love the sport, yet I can’t help but remember one of my gay friend’s remarks upon moving into my apartment this summer; before we really knew each other, he saw the posters of soccer players hanging in my bedroom and assumed I was some kind of bro.

I’m still figuring out how badly I want people to know I’m gay, and how I’ll act and present myself in order to relate that.

 For the most part, people won’t think I’m gay because I don’t possess certain traits people believe gays to possess. While many gay men I know have elements of a feminine twang to their voices, that’s something I don’t really have. Is it something I should work on? “My voice has definitely gotten gayer over the past few years,” said Angel, a McGill student and self-identified queer man. “And my vernacular has changed too.”

Come to think of it, my own vocabulary has definitely changed. I may not perpetuate the stereotype of the ‘gay lisp,’ but did I used to call things “cute” or “adorable” as much as I do now? Definitely not.

I realize that if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be that hard to make my sexuality more obvious, leaving less room for interpretation. Angel reminded me that gender is a process and performance. “When I first started painting my nails it was definitely a signal of my queerness,” she said. I myself have been tempted to paint my nails, but have only really considered it since quitting my job, where most people didn’t know I was gay. I could wear makeup, too; having dressed in drag a few times, I know that eyeliner makes me look damn hot.

For the most part, and especially among friends, I find that my sexuality is already understood. There are also situations where I know my gayness is much more likely to be assumed, especially when I’m with gay friends, at a gay bar, or in my History of Sexuality class, where for once straight boys are a minority.

I know sexuality isn’t relevant to all social interactions, but I can’t help but hate the common situation of crushing on some boy, only to find out he’s straight. Whether they’re a bit effeminate, dress really well, or give off ambiguous vibes, I’m often blinded by these adolescent-type crushes. Occupying a world in which sexuality and gender are increasingly fluid, I find no discernable difference between these hopeful crushes of mine, and seemingly-straight gay boys. So how am I supposed to identify those gay boys? Maybe I’m not. Maybe they love living in anonymity, not being identifiable or picked up on anyone’s ‘gaydar.’ And that’s totally fine. I’m still figuring out how badly I want people to know I’m gay, and how I’ll act and present myself in order to relate that. But given my statistical disadvantages in terms of the number of gay people out there, I can’t help but wish that there was just some way to know who’s gay and who’s not. I realize that’s far too much to ask, and a ridiculous request.

I’m not going to pretend my ‘gaydar’ can be sharpened, since there will always be plenty of gay boys who ‘seem straight’ and vice versa. I wish I could ask for gay vs. straight stereotypes to be thrown out the window, but that’s just not going to happen either. All I can do is own it, regardless of stereotypes, expectations, and people’s concepts of who seems or doesn’t seem queer.

White Noise is a column exploring what it means to identify as gay or queer in McGill and Montreal communities. Eric can be reached at whitenoise@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Stereotype conformity appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Nevertheless, having seen a few drag shows I understood what it does for people and knew how liberating it could be. I saw how drag let someone be who they were never otherwise allowed to be. In drag queens, I’ve seen men who weren’t men, and never wanted to be men. I’ve seen beautiful, graceful divas, strutting their stuff and not letting anyone see or think of them as being anything but beautiful.

In September, a friend of mine performed in drag for the first time. I was honoured and delighted to be a part of the process, as they chose to get ready at my apartment and we attended the event together. I know it was an emotional process for them, but I think an overall positive one. As I watched them transform from an average gay guy into a symbol of feminine beauty, I felt empowered. I was inspired by witnessing her beauty and angelic presence, and I started wondering when my turn would be.

I couldn’t really see myself performing on stage, and couldn’t see myself dressing up just for a dance party, even if it was in the Village or mostly attended by queer people. I decided Halloween, a night when anyone can be someone else, would be the perfect night to experiment with drag.

I had no idea who – or what – to be. After a few weak ideas, my costume threw itself together at the last minute. At a thrift store I bought a little black dress with a deep, gold-sequined neckline. I borrowed my roommate’s wig, a black bob that she had worn the previous Halloween as Mia Wallace, Uma Thurman’s character in Pulp Fiction. With no other ideas, I decided that I too would be the iconic, swing dancing, cocaine-snorting mob boss’s wife. I bought some bright red lipstick and borrowed a black choker. My friend Amy, who did the rest of my makeup for me, was able to find some painfully perfect black suede flats at a thrift store that day. A women’s size 11.5, the shoes were a tight fit and would later bloody my heels and toenails, but nothing else would’ve complemented my outfit so perfectly.

Once fully dragged out, I looked hot. I felt unstoppable. I went with Amy and a few other queer friends to a costume party with mostly queer people. Although it was Halloween, which made me less nervous about being seen in public, it was definitely good to start my night off around people who I knew would better understand my costume choice.

Except, for me, it wasn’t just a costume. Even though it’s a night when everyone has the chance to be someone else, for me it was so much more. I took drag seriously. I wasn’t the same boy that had been raised to be a man. All of those expectations for me to be masculine, to act a certain way and to live up to an ideal, were thrown out the window. I was Mia Wallace. With my gait, my posture, and my mannerisms, I was more fabulous a woman than I could ever have dreamed of.

After the party, we went to one of the Plateau’s great dive-y dance bars. We danced our asses off to everything but top 40 hits and had a great time. Multiple guys told me I was “très sexy,” and even though at one point I got my ass slapped, I just rolled with it.

Overall, my first experience in drag was a great one. The next day, I chose not to shower before going to class. Even though my feet were bloody and hurt like hell, I strutted to campus in a proud walk of shame, wearing the heavy eyeliner and mascara from the night before. I relished the last hours of my divine feminine beauty, and the way that the darkness brought out my eyes. For a few more hours, I could be fabulous.

I can definitely see myself dressing up in drag again, although I’m not exactly sure when or how. Although the idea daunts me, maybe I’ll give performance a shot someday. More intimidating than performance itself is the idea of being in drag in public. Outside of the context of Halloween, I know I’d be vulnerable to stares and potential abuse. The night I watched my friend perform in their first drag show, they were verbally harassed and followed on their way home. That kind of discrimination scares the shit out of me. As much as I tell myself I don’t care what other people think, and although I’ve gotten immense support when sharing my drag experience with friends, I know that there are people and places where I wouldn’t receive the same support. After my one night of fabulousness, I’ve returned to my conformist, boring, average aesthetic.

I can’t help but think about the next time I’ll dress in drag. I feel it might be sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I can try to care less about what people think of me on a day-to-day basis. Although at this point I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing makeup to class on a regular day, maybe I’ll get there.

Nevertheless, I still have this Halloween to look back on as the night when I reached a potential for beauty that I never knew I had. I was beautiful. I rocked it. Sooner or later, I’m going to rock it again.

White Noise is a column exploring what it means to identify as gay or queer in McGill and Montreal communities. Eric can be reached at whitenoise@mcgilldaily.com.

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I’m a big believer that one’s sexuality falls on a spectrum and that understanding one’s sexuality is a dynamic and fluid process. A growing number of people seem to think this way nowadays, particularly in the queer community and especially in the context of liberal North America.

Although I’m comfortable with my identity as a gay male, and am attracted primarily to men, I never rule out attraction to people of all genders.

A friend told me recently that despite being in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, she doesn’t label her sexuality and doesn’t feel attracted to specific genders, but just to individual people.

But when does that ambivalence about defining sexuality, especially when someone is primarily ‘straight,’ cross into the realm of ‘queerness?’ Although it can be easier to ignore or stay away from attaching labels, the term ‘heteroflexibility’ provides a middle ground for people looking to potentially branch out and experiment with people of the same sex.

I’ve noticed that most of the people I discuss heteroflexible attractions or tendencies with are young women. As a gay guy who often finds himself attracted to straight guys — friends have told me I need more gay friends, and they’re probably right — I often wonder where all the heteroflexible dudes are. Would one of The OC’s main male characters, say the cute, charming, and sensitive dweeb Seth Cohen, ever have experimented with their sexuality? Probably not.

Men’s sexuality is often viewed as completely black and white. It’s tough to imagine a group of straight guys sitting around and talking about same-sex attractions.

I wonder if there are just as many heteroflexible guys as girls, but young women are disproportionately encouraged to experiment with their sexualities. That encouragement can be in a fetishized and demeaning manner by straight men, such as on Girls Gone Wild, or in the more liberating sense of women claiming and embracing their sexualities, which I’ve witnessed and discussed with female friends.

One friend said this divide might exist because society takes women’s sexuality less seriously than men’s sexuality. While for women, experimentation is more accepted and can be nonchalant, if a guy experiments, he must be gay, and in our often macho-dominated culture, that just wouldn’t fly. Men’s sexuality is often viewed as completely black and white. It’s tough to imagine a group of straight guys sitting around and talking about same-sex attractions. If they had any such attractions, I imagine most straight guys would try pretty hard to suppress and ignore them (having used to think I was straight, I can speak from first hand experience). As compared to the fetishization of female sexual experimentation, a straight guy experimenting with another guy is less common, less socially acceptable, and consistently looked down upon.

Orange is the New Black, the hit Netflix show about an all-female prison, effectively portrays sexuality’s fluidness and heteroflexibility. The main character, Piper, has had both same-sex relationships and a male fiancé. Something I really admire about the show is that it refrains from labelling Piper’s sexuality. She may be bisexual, and seems to be beyond an experimental phase with women, yet her particular commitment to her fiancé implies something closer to heteroflexibility. Despite this interesting and thought provoking portrayal, it’s difficult to imagine a TV show or movie having a male lead role in a similar situation.

Numerous gay friends say they’ve had sexual encounters with ‘straight’ guys. One claims to have slept with a married National Hockey League player whom he met on Grindr. The only serious relationship I’ve been in was with someone who was ‘straight’ when we first met (although he also told me he was bi-curious). Coming out can be a slow process, and one that might involve long periods of secretive sexual experimentation before actually admitting to friends and family that they’re not straight.

When I have my straight guy crushes, I often wonder if they’ve ever been attracted to guys or ever considered sexual experimentation with another guy. At this point, I often assume they haven’t, and thus revert my gaze to the many beautiful members of McGill’s and Montreal’s queer communities.

Although it’s disheartening that women’s sexuality is taken less seriously than men’s, an increased acceptance offers women opportunities to fantasize and to explore their identities. As society’s ideas about sexuality slowly change, people will gain a better understanding of it as a spectrum, rather than a binary. I’m optimistic that concepts and perceptions of men’s sexuality will change as well and that with greater acceptance, more guys will feel comfortable admitting to and acting upon any secret same-sex attractions.

White Noise is a column exploring what it means to identify as gay or queer in McGill and Montreal communities. Eric can be reached at whitenoise@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Pushing boundaries appeared first on The McGill Daily.

It seems funny to him that a strapping, young university student like myself isn’t interested in a girlfriend. To him, saying I don’t want a girl meant I’m more interested in casual hookups and don’t want to be tied down.

Of course, he’s assuming that I’m into girls. And why wouldn’t he? The other kitchen workers at this high-end burger joint are all straight men (or at least seem to be). Although there was one cashier I strongly suspected might be gay, work in the kitchen often meant bros gawking at a wide range of women waiting in line to order their burgers.

I’ve never given my boss, or anyone in the kitchen, many hints that I’m gay. I do try to keep my nose out of situations like the one earlier described. One of them points out a girl to me and I don’t really say anything. They’ve asked me whether or not I frequent Montreal’s strip clubs, and on one occasion, I politely declined an invite to a post-work Friday night trip to one of Ste. Catherine’s fine establishments.

I don’t blame them for thinking I’m straight. In my uniform I look far from fabulous: black pants, a baggy black polo shirt, long white apron, and a silly burger cap. I keep to myself, don’t talk much, and when I do, it’s not about girls. As a dishwasher, I can pretty easily alienate myself from the guys working the grill.

It’s just a job. I’m working less now that the semester has started again, yet I can’t escape the feeling that for those 15 hours a week, I’m back in the closet. That dark, scary, confusing place. Am I okay with that? I’m completely comfortable with my sexuality. I’m comfortable with my gay identity and like to think I’m far past the part of my life when I struggled with that fact. But when I’m at work, I’m lying.

Nevertheless, the kitchen guys increasingly seem to understand I don’t really respond to their comments and questions about my preferences for women. I don’t know if I’ve given them enough hints to help them realize I might not be straight, or if I’ve just made it seem like I’d rather be left alone, but as long as I’m not constantly berated with stupid comments, I don’t care too much what they’re thinking or suspecting. At this point I’d rather continue lying to the guys in the kitchen than come out and risk further alienation.

In addition, I’m no longer lying to everyone at work. After two months of working there, I finally came out to some coworkers. They weren’t the kitchen staff, though, as I’ve always felt more comfortable relating to the cashiers and servers, the majority of whom are young women.

The first time I came out was immediately after attending Montreal’s Pride parade. After donning my tank top, short shorts, and basking in the gay glory of the parade, I hated being in my stupid burger hat and apron — the uniform that put me in the closet. As I walked out of work with one of the cashiers, she was wearing a colourful dress and told me that she had gone to the parade as well. Even telling one person brought huge relief.

A week later, a female server I’m friendly with texted me and asked to hang out. It’s one of those moments I fear, and it’s happened before: a girl will mistake my casual friendliness for something more. I responded saying I’d love to hang out, but by the way, I’m gay. She was cool with it, mentioned she was bisexual, and that her roommate, the aforementioned cashier at our restaurant, is also gay, confirming my suspicions.

Just when I was losing hope, I was reminded that us queer people do have secret strength in numbers. Soon after, I talked to the cashier about being gay at work. Since he’s in the front of the restaurant, it doesn’t seem too difficult for him. He knows how the guys in the kitchen can be, but doesn’t have to interact with them the way I do. I may still have to deal with the bros in the kitchen, but I can’t undervalue that companionship in terms of my comfort at work.

It’s too bad my French isn’t good enough to deal with customers, or else I’d hands down prefer to work up front. For now, I’ll probably deal with the kitchen’s unwelcoming, rigid straightness. But you never know when I’ll crack.

When a pretty girl about my age started working there a few weeks ago, the kitchen guys kept asking me if I liked her. No, I replied. Why not, they asked? Despite the urge to yell out “Because I like dick!” I resisted one of my temptations to come out in a shocking and grand way. Instead, I told them she wasn’t my type. Although for now I’ll have to settle with the companionship of a few queer coworkers, this silent battle isn’t over yet.

Eric White is a U3 History student. He can be reached at ehwhite93@gmail.com.

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