Integrity

Campus culture.

We're all a part of it. Most of us live here. Those of us who don't live here spend a great amount of our time here. We go to class,
we eat meals, we interact with faculty, and we attend parties. We're involved in countless organizations, we conduct groundbreaking research, and we push athletic limits.

We drink until we vomit. We'll never be as good as our peers. We reject others based on their position (or lack thereof) in the Greek system. We hurt collective groups of others and hide behind what we think is humor. We discriminate.

It might get better. "Duke isn't the real world."

Was Duke not the real world for the student who was assaulted after an on-campus party? Was Duke not the real world for someone who was rejected time after time for a major factor of identity or for just being themselves? Does all of that pain just go away after four years?

Our actions at Duke matter. The world after Duke is not identical to this university setting, but the effects last.

Those of us who went on Common Ground aren't innocent. Those of us who haven't gone aren't always guilty, either. We're all at fault, but we all have the capacity to change, to grow.

We can all use this time in which so much discussion and debate is developing between communities as well as within communities to learn and to express. We can use this time to take a stand for that which we wish social life at Duke could be. It's time to act on what we say we want to do in the comment sections of this blog, the Chronicle, and Develle Dish.

What do you value? What is it that you want? What do you think others want from you?

Whatever that may be:

Dear Duke guys world,

It's time for you to live in integrity.

Bitter Gay

I’m coming out again. The title says it all. I’m a bitter gay.

In some ways, saying that is a lot harder than saying I’m gay ever was. As someone who has no reservations in disclosing my sexuality to almost everyone (I even came out to my Russian host mother this summer… whoa), I feel like it’s my responsibility to carry myself with an air of HAPPPINESS and EVERYTHING IS GREAT-NESS. Academically, socially, and extracurricular-ly, everything is.

Romantically, however, I’ve hit a speed bump.

The realization of my bitterness started during conversation with an ex and our mutual friend. Mutual friend was talking about her frustrations with a guy she had been seeing. It wasn’t the first time we had such a conversation. I made some kind of remark that led my ex to call me bitter. I think he’s right.

I’m bitter because I have so fewer options than my friend has. I’m bitter because the way I go about meeting potential dates has to be completely different from the way she goes about meeting potential dates. In order to make a connection with someone I might be interested in, I feel like I have to be in the right context. That is, I can’t just see a guy anywhere, find him attractive, and approach him. I have to know he’s interested in men, or else I risk hitting on a straight guy (which has happened a couple of times recently… yikes). It’s great to be comfortable enough with myself to put myself out there in those situations, but it’s disappointing and almost humiliating to be wrong. When I DO meet a guy who is open about his sexuality (i.e. at an LGBT Center event or at a club), I automatically pigeonhole him into some kind of “I’m interested” or “I’m not interested” category. Don’t get me wrong; I know that first impressions aren’t always accurate, and I’m certainly not against making friends. However, even though I know that the LGBT Center stands against the idea that students only go looking to meet someone for their next date or hookup, sometimes, I am, and I’m not afraid to admit that. Where else?

I’m not looking for love, necessarily. I only want attraction and a connection, and I wish attraction and connection could surprise me more often rather than coming from someone whom I already know is an option. I am bitter about those dynamics. There are just fewer fish in the sea for me.

This isn’t the biggest deal in my life right now. Even though I feel this way and may always feel this way, I know I’ll eventually find something. I still stand by my mantra that life is better as an out gay man than a closeted one. I am a happy guy; the content of this blog post is just something I’ve been thinking about for a while. I highly doubt I’m alone in thinking the way I do, but feel free to disagree.

Shall We Dance?

Somehow, Duke taught me how to dance.

I was one of those kids in high school who stood in the corner with his friends at events like prom, refusing to dance. I was too self-conscious and too uptight. I acted like I didn't care about it, like I was "above" dancing or that I was too "cool" to dance, but I secretly always wanted to be out there on the floor having fun. I don't think any of my high-school friends would call me the life of the party, or even a part of the party, really. I wasn't shy, but I just couldn't bring myself to dance.

Entering Duke's party scene gave me a fresh start. I decided to give dancing a try, and it wasn't so bad. I managed. I had fun.

With the solution to that problem came another. With whom, exactly, am I supposed to dance? And where?

Dancing with both my male and female friends in groups is fine. I have a great time. When it comes to dancing one-on-one, however, the situation becomes a little more difficult. If I go to Shooters, I can't help but watch the couples with jealousy. I want to dance with someone to whom I'm really attracted, too.

And I have. Once upon a Tailgate (my first and only...), I danced with one of my gay friends. We danced... well. Being very new to Duke, I don't think I ever would have mustered up the courage to dance like that with a guy in that venue out of the Tailgate state of mind. We received a few compliments and pats on the back, but, even more so, we received criticism. Members of whichever section in which we were dancing asked us to leave, but we didn't. No one seemed to have a problem with us aside from these few people. That's what we told them. We weren't bothering anyone. They left us alone. We danced on.

Of course, that's not how every situation (or perhaps even most situations) plays out.

I'm writing this to hear your stories and your thoughts. I don't know if dancing like that is something I would do again in a similar situation. Of course I want to, and of course I have every right to, but would I? I don't know. Removed from the comfort of an LGBT-friendly club, would you dance with whom you really want to dance? Would you take your partner to Shooters?

I know there are places where I can dance with whomever I want without judgment, but, when the moment's right, I should be able to dance wherever, whenever, right?

The Whole Truth

I find it disheartening to write about problems to which I feel there is no real fix, but this blog is "Our Lives," right?

As much as I'd love to say that I'm open with everyone, that I'm completely confident in being my full self all of the time, and that I never have reservations in disclosing my sexuality, it's not true. I have a closet. It may only exist for fifty minutes out of the week, but it's there.

I spent my last two summers living in Russia on exchange. Why did I choose it? I felt the need to experience a new part of the world, and this program was without cost to me. It was my first time out of America (and flying, for that matter). Russia is far behind in terms of acceptance, so, for convenience and for safety (at our pre-departure orientations, the program advised against coming out to Russians: "No matter the bond you've built with your host family, they'll probably just kick you out."), I was only open with my American peers.

Ironically, I had my first relationship (with a fellow American) this summer abroad, but that's a story for another day.

Enter Russian class, Duke University.

"Do you want to get married?"

My response: "No."

Yes, of course I want to get married someday. I can't bring myself to tell my teacher that, though. In class, we learned two different expressions in Russian for the English phrase "to get married." There is one for those who marry women, and one for those who marry men. His question and my response both contained the "marrying a woman" verb. It isn't exactly a lie. I don't want to marry a woman. However, it's not the whole truth.

The follow-up: "Why not?"

"I like being alone."

A complete lie. It was all I could come up with in Russian on impulse, and I hate that I said it.

Maybe I'm not giving him a fair chance, but I feel that the classroom setting is neither the time nor place to speak out on this issue. Furthermore, I actually slipped up once and made the mistake of answering, "I am not married" using the participle form of the "marrying a man" verb. My teacher quickly corrected me, laughing, waving his hands, and stressing the importance "watching word choice" in that situation. "You don't want people to think . . . you know . . ."

It isn't like I want to strengthen the bond between my teacher and me. I just hate that I feel the need to keep the whole truth inside.

Like I said, I don't know if there is an immediate fix to this. For now, it's simply an annoyance. At least I'm an optimist. After all, times are changing. Look at how far we've come.

The Pinhook and The Flowergirl

"It's supposedly super queer!"

I wasn't sure what to expect, but, feeling spontaneous, I accepted my friend's offer to venture to The Pinhook in downtown Durham. I'm glad I did.

One of the headlines that night at The Pinhook was the band of the partner of a female friend of mine. I have always been a fan of live, original music, but this particular performance hit me in a very special way.

The night began with a band which already seemed to have pleased the crowd fairly well (I recall them singing about corpses in some body of water...). Eventually, my friend's partner took the stage. After a few songs in the set, she dedicated a song, "The Flowergirl," to her partner in the crowd. I felt myself getting excited.

I saw everyone else getting excited, too.

The band began to play, and I immediately sensed a connection between the two: the eye contact, the smiles, and the general happiness. Through all of these, they were saying so much more to each other than the story told in the lyrics of the song.

The crowd adored it. There was such a strong presence of acceptance and embrace in the room. That was the first time I had ever experienced something like that. A woman was singing to her lover, another woman, and no one thought twice about it. It was a celebration of love that may not have been so celebrated just a short time ago.

I couldn't stop smiling.

To those two: Thank you for your love.

To Those Anonymous

[Ed. Note: Our first-years just consistently impress me, and Ryan is no exception. I love this post, and I'm really happy to have him on board.]

I check this blog nearly every day and have done so for almost an entire year. The blog played a major role in my college decision. I especially looked forward to Mondays for the anonymous posts. Recently, I’ve noticed a developing trend in these posts, and I feel that the time is right to say how I feel. Allow me to introduce myself.

Hey. I’m Ryan, and I’m your friend.

But I’m not just Ryan. I’m that really interesting guy you met during O-Week. We hit it off at the baseball game and have been friends ever since, but you’re too afraid to tell me you’re gay; you think it will ruin our friendship. I’m your professor, too. Maybe you’re brave enough to display your BDU pin on your backpack, but you always hide it from my sight in class. I’m your best friend since kindergarten. We’ve separated to different colleges, and you’re not ready to tell me that you’re gay for fear of further widening the distance between us.

I’m all of these people, and I am your friend.

I want to know you. I want to know the real you. I appreciate and value your ideas, our jokes, and your friendship already. I LIKE you already. Is that going to change because of one difference between us?

Don’t forget, we already have differences. You’re black, I’m white. I never let you pick the music in the car. The way you always forget commas in text messages irritates me to no end, but I still love you, and you love me. We are friends. We have differences, but we are friends.

I want you to be happy. I want you to know that I support you. I don’t care that you’re black. I don’t care that you like terrible music. I care that your grammar is atrocious, but I can look past that. I don’t care who you love as long as you’re happy.

I want to reflect now on the time I needed these people. I was terrified once, too. I was a sophomore in high school, and life in general seemed to be going terribly. I felt unhappy with my friendships, I kept failing my driver’s test (stupid cones), and I wasn’t doing my best in anything in particular. I was scared to be gay. Because of all of this, I was a generally unhappy person, even to the point of losing my appetite. My family knew about my homosexuality for a while. (Sidetrack to anyone reading this: If you have a supportive family like I do, make sure they know how much they are appreciated.). My friends did not. I thought they would hate me. I come from a conservative, white-dominated, small town in eastern Ohio, and many of my friends fit the mold of this stereotype. Long story short, I grew tired of hiding myself, so, during junior year, I gradually came out to friends. To my surprise, no one cared. Many were surprised, and many needed explanation, but I did not get a negative response from a single one of them.

Some of you asked where we freshmen found our courage. On this subject, I speak for myself. Coming to Duke was awesome. There were so many flags, so many LGBT-identifying individuals, and so much warmth. I have heard some members of the community say that Duke is not as welcoming as their hometowns, but, I assure you, Duke is awesome. Just like in my experience in coming out at home, coming out at Duke has been entirely normal. I feel that normal is the best possible adjective for this situation—being gay isn’t the most important thing about me. It’s a completely normal part of me. It’s just one of the many differences between my friends and me. I find my confidence in knowing that my friends love me already and that one more difference between us won’t make that big of a difference in the big picture.

The Center for LGBT Life and its community are wonderful, but they aren’t my life. They are a great backbone, but so is everyone else. Because of the bonds I’ve made with people I’ve met in Randolph and on East Campus in general, if I feel upset over something “gay,” I don’t feel the need to run to the Center to vent. I have my friends, both straight and gay, right here.

So, anonymous posters of Duke, this post goes out to you. Without a doubt, you have heard this all over campus and the media in the past few days, but you must understand: you are not alone. No matter your situation at home, Duke is a safe haven. If you feel that you need listening ears, know that you already have them. If you are still unsure, I promise you: I am your friend. Find me. I fly my pride flag for you to know that.