Understand that it is time to become who you are. Accept this, and do not cloak yourself in fear any longer.
The beginning will be rough—it will take you some time to adjust to college life. You will see the parties, and the girls, and the boys, and you will want to hide like you’ve done before—snap out of it.
The first friend you tell will be a girl. She will smile, nod and tell you she has many gay friends back home. She will make jokes from the very beginning. That night, look at yourself in your mirror. You know what you’ve begun, and there is no going back now.
Tell your other friends over the next few weeks: in a cab or at a pregame. They will drink in your honor. They will tell you that they’ve always known; that it was “obvious.” Let this pass. You will all smile at one another, at this secret that has been shared. They are pretty girls who have only gotten prettier to you. Keep them around.
People will start to find out on their own. Some will ask, while others won’t. It will seem like the air you are breathing is cleaner, easier somehow.
The years will roll onwards, and you will find a voice that had been buried for so long, like a bone in dirt. Speak openly and freely about your wants and your needs—you will find that people will relate.
You will come to feel, as time passes, and as people begin to come together, fit together like puzzle pieces, that you are lonely. You will look around and finally begin to see that there are people missing. When you look at someone, you will no longer expect to see someone like you. They do not exist. You will feel like tumbleweed, drifting through a desert.
Make jokes, and laugh. Nothing is the matter.
You will go to a party and you will meet him. You have seen him before. You have asked about him to others, but they will only tell you that he is not like that. Like you, they mean.
You will catch him staring at you, but he will look away. The music will be loud and the people will be dancing, but as the night progresses, it will all slow down and begin to disappear. He will come up to you and ask your name. He will tell you that he lives here, that this party is actually his. You will tell him you have never seen an apartment quite like this, and he will ask you to his room.
In the morning, you will wake up and he will be there. He will tell you that nobody knows, and nobody will know, right? You will nod.
He will text you and you will go to him, and this will continue for some time. You will begin to recognize something inside you that is familiar, yet you have never known. It may be love. But let it go. You must understand that he is not ready to be honest, and that you are no longer able to lie. Tell him quietly, one night, all of this. He will protest, but you will already be out the door.
You will return to your room, sad. Cheer yourself up—order some Cinelli’s, and let yourself laugh at a classic episode of “The Golden Girls.” Think to yourself: Misery certainly loves company.
You will heal quickly; you are stronger than you know. But something is being forgotten—avoided—something that must be done. Phone your parents one night, when a storm is raging beyond your window—you’ve learned that anything worth doing is done “on a dark and stormy night.” They will be upset and they will yell; try to convince you otherwise. Think to yourself: What would Bette Davis do?
Hang up. Expect 34 missed calls throughout the night. Do not answer a single one.
They will call you back in the morning; tell you that they are sorry and that they love you. Understand that this will take time. Nothing happens over night—except online shipping. Count your blessings; you have it better than most.
At night, as you fall asleep, you will think of many things: of your friends, of your family, of your want. Understand that though things fall apart, they will come together again, as they always do.
Thomas Gebremedhin is a Trinity senior. His column runs every other Thursday.
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