In which I am still coming out, forever

Coming out never ends. Not exactly news; the only surprise is that I haven't written a blog post about it yet. But, well, it's a new semester and that means a new batch of professors and classmates to explain myself to. And I realised today that I haven't bothered to Explain Myself to any of them. In fact, it's been a long time since I've properly come out to anybody.

Now, to a certain extent, I don't need to come out because the bureaucracy loves to out me. On the official class roster given to all of my professors, for example, my name is "Lavinia Bandersnatch (Lawrence)"* -- an arrangement borne of a deep failure to understand the meaning of a preferred name. But when one of my instructors called me Lavinia, I just told him that he'd gotten my name wrong. He cheerfully crossed out the Lavinia and circled the Lawrence and hasn't made a mistake yet. And I cheerfully did not volunteer any explanation whatsoever.

But most of the time, I'm not even doing the reduced coming-out of telling someone my name has changed. Most of the time I'm just introducing myself as Lawrence and carrying on with my life. A lot of people probably just I'm a girl named Lawrence and carry on with their lives. But if you get to know me, you'll... get to know me. It's a tautology but it's what happens. I talk about being the only guy in a Jane Austen class, or being in a fraternity, or whatever, and people figure it out. (Or maybe they know me from the blog, or noticed the disappearing-reappearing tits, or ohmigod maybe they think my moustache is growing in!) It doesn't matter; I end up with acquaintances who know I'm a transman without ever having to have The Conversation with them.

I'm growing to really like this way of being out, because I feel like I'm starting to really enjoy my transition as something focused on myself. The 'trans 101' version of my life story is not the same as my actual life. My actual life is a lot of things; it is my moustache and my thesis; Sherlock and approximately seven chest hairs; walks in the gardens and Shakespeare and having a lot of blood drawn; my life is on my own terms. And I love it.

But there's still that part of me that's almost annoyed that coming out is different for me again, and yet still always there. I started the post with this because I think it might be the most relatable aspect of my life right now; I've had a lot of different 'strategies' for coming out, and I've gone through phases of aggressive announcements and phases of quiet hints, and the only unchanging element was the fact that there are always more people to tell. Or to not tell. The decisions of who, how, and when-- they never stop coming back.

When I first came to Duke, I thought I had perfected the process of coming out. The first time I met somebody, I didn't mention anything queer. If I saw them again, I'd look for chances to make some kind of gay joke at my own expense, or to reference my ex-girlfriend; I would drop exactly two of these hints to determine if I was going to tell them. (It was soothing to Have A System; if anything went wrong, it wasn't my fault.) If I decided to tell them, I'd drop a third hint, and then say, "Oh, did you know that I'm a lesbian? Ha, ha! Turns out I am a lesbian!" -- and then usually they would ask questions and we would have The Conversation and I would be another one-sixtrillionth closer to informing the entire planet that I was Definitely A Lesbian.

Then I started kissing boys and binding and it all got very confusing for a time, and I had to change everything. And then I had to change it all again, and again. And probably, six months from now, I'll write a completely different blog post about how I thought I had finally gotten used to coming out, and finally finished telling everyone who needed to know -- and it'll all change again. And I don't know if folks who aren't queer feel the same way about their own identities, in different respects, or if this one is Just For Us. But at this point, it feels like it's just how things go.

*Ok, that's a lie, it didn't really say Lavinia Bandersnatch, it had my legal girl name on it. But I don't give that out any more so you get a fake name. It's even more aggressively, pretentiously British than my real name, so of course I adore it. I should never reproduce, I'd name my children terrible things.

Repeal, The Question, and JFK

[Editor's Note: Today marks the first day that LGBQ service-members can serve openly. Here at the BDU Blog we could not be more excited to celebrate the occasion by featuring a post by one of Duke's own LGBQ ROTC members. We've been waiting for this moment since your first year, Pruitt!]

Sometimes, I like to consider the legacy of President Kennedy to be one of my personal enemies. Folks who know me well might be able to tell you how quickly I can turn a topical discussion of current politics into an only-somewhat-related angry tirade against the former Commander in Chief. Now, there are all too many gripes I have with Kennedy that I won't bother writing here. Instead, I'm only going to address my biggest issue with the man: his most famous statement has ruined how we, as a people, think about ourselves and the nation. Every time I hear "ask not what your country can do for you…," a part of me cringes.

Now, I know, that's a fairly edgy set of political/philosophical/governmental statements for our less-than-edgy support/celebration/ community blog here, so allow me to clear up the association with an example. Anytime you get interviewed within the military, or have a friend learn you're in the military, or walk on a bus in uniform, there is a pretty solid chance that you'll get the Question. "So, [awkwardly leans over and reads nameplate], what made you want to join the Navy?" There's only a few different answers generally given in polite company, and it only takes a bit of time around military personnel and prospective to have heard them all. "I wanted to serve my country," or "To do my part," or "To help defend democracy," all get played out fairly quickly. I should think even just saying "Freedom," with enough oo-rah in your voice should get a fairly warm reception. The answers we give—the answers we're comfortable giving—are always about what we can do for our country. I like to think that people who have heard all the normal answers but still keep asking the Question (I'm looking at you, interview board for Congressional nominations to the Naval Academy) want a bit more of an honest, gritty answer so they can really see the muck and guts that form sailor's loyalties. After forty years on the job, they want to hear Real Talk about the money, the women, and the resumes.

The first time I remember getting the Question was from an interviewing Navy Lieutenant when I applied for an NROTC scholarship. I was at a residential arts school at the time and, since we couldn't have personal vehicles on campus, she had to come to the school to meet with me. I met her at the front admissions desk, her in prim, official Khaki and myself in some dressy get-up that screamed Art School Kid. I led her by practice rooms where a strand of Rachmaninoff was played and replayed every five seconds, a courtyard where a giggly gaggle of dancers arabesqued between us, and finally through a small library with more than half its shelves full of art history into a quiet meeting room. After sitting down, filling in the beginning of some Very Official Paperwork and opening a thermos of coffee, she laid it on me—Why? Even though she hasn't so much as glanced at my application yet or read a single entry under "activities," our Lieutenant knows I'm a far shot from the traditional officer candidate or enlistee. Even if she was paying attention on her way inside, LT probably wouldn't have been able to find our one American flag on campus—finding any Eagle Scouts, Varsity football stars, or JROTC Student Commanders would be even harder. I clearly belonged in a coffee house or an obscure (still hip) local art gallery, not on a drill field. So, she asked, why?

For her watching, it probably looked like I blanked and had not yet thought of a reason behind my newly decided career path. The truth is, I had the answer on the tip of my tongue, the slightly-selfish answer that could knock the dust right off of Congressman Barrett's interviewing board, the completely-left-field answer to startle the curious stranger on the bus, and the sufficiently-unique answer to get all manner of asterisks on my FITREPs. I wanted to toss the meeting room door back open and gesture at my absurd campus, saying, "I want to be more than this. I shape my own identity, and I refuse to be locked up in the Art Haus closets of so many from the LGBT community. I am so sick of all the spangles and glitter that blots out my sight whenever I see queer men in media, and I'm sick of the fact that's all the rest of America can see too. In five years, I want people to go to my commissioning and say 'That's what a queer American male looks like, and damn does it look fine.' I want to be one of the first openly bisexual men to be made an officer in the United States Navy."

Instead, though, I was stunned into silence. "Want to see the world, maybe? Call of the sea?" she prompted." I looked at her confused for a moment before stumbling over my words, that, yeah, call of the sea, love traveling, right. I wasn't even in the Navy yet, and they already had my first lie. On that day, just like every time turned aside and smiled at an off-handed gay joke, and every time I mentioned Sharon to my ROTC peers, and every time I dropped my last boyfriend's hand as we exited our dorm together, DADT had me lying and lying and lying. I tried to stay sane through other outlets: I gave a few anonymous interviews, I had a photo (courtesy Jeff Sheng) run everywhere from Newsweek to NPR along with their coverage of repeal, and I sank to dangerously dependent levels in an increasingly painful relationship that could have never have a public face. As of today, though, I don't need special outlets or mediums to be myself and stay afloat. So, while I can't officially give opinions on any military policy, I can say that today's repeal means I can finally stop lying and start giving real answers to the Question. More importantly, though, LGB servicemen currently on active duty can finally have some reprieve from Kennedy's cruel burden of national duty: for the first time in a very, very long time, they aren't being asked what more they can give to their country before it finally does something for them.

In which I take everything too seriously

[In addition to all of our awesome visible and identifying columnists, we also have some awesome anonymous columnists that for one reason or another must use a pseudonym not their full name (and pseudopic?). Details on anonymous columnists here.]

People tell me I'm brave, for being so out. I've been hearing this since I started dating a girl, when I was fifteen years old, but I've never really been able to agree with the assessment.

A sense of honor is critical to my identity. Throughout this post I'm going to be using some pretty strong language to describe my relationship with honor, but that's because I really do feel this way; please understand that it's not silly to me. I can't be satisfied with myself unless I am able to think of myself as being an honorable person. Truth is the foundation of honor.

So, when I was fifteen and I realised I was totally in love with the cute girl in my math class, I broke up with my boyfriend of ten months and asked her out. And then I told my parents and my friends that I had a girlfriend. My friends were great, even if my timing was laughably bad-- two of the girls were actually topless at the time, what was I thinking??-- and my parents were terrible, but I didn't consider the results when I decided to tell them. If I had thought about their reactions-- well, I probably would have waited until all my friends had their shirts on, and I might not have told my parents at all. But I also would have been a little disappointed in myself for considering a lie.

Honor comes at a cost. I accidentally broke someone's headphones at work last month and they cost me $250 to replace, but that's an easy cost to pay. When I was fifteen, my honor cost me a lot more than that.

I refused to break up with my girlfriend, and I refused to lie about us. I followed every single one of my mother's draconian rules. I spoke on the phone with my girlfriend for 120 minutes a week and no more; I never emailed her; I received one good night text a day but did not send any; I only saw her in person with the appropriate chaperones (an odd number, three or greater) and went home as soon as one chaperone was ready to leave; I didn't even say "I love you too" if my mother could overhear our conversation.

I stopped eating, that year.

However, I am still much happier about that year than I am about the years that followed. When my girlfriend graduated high school, my mother declared that our relationship was over. I was seventeen by this point and exhausted. I decided that, apparently, all the honor in the world couldn't make me happy, and I started seeing my girlfriend in secret.

It didn't last long; it was always hard on her that we could spend so little time together, and her life was different as a college student. She tended to feel shortchanged by my unwillingness to confront my parents more. She started cheating on me, and after a month or so I found out and we broke up.

It hit me hard, because I felt like I had sacrificed everything I had for her. I had damaged my relationship with my family by coming out, and I destroyed it by lying. I couldn't look my friends in the eye any more, because I was so ashamed of having involved them in my lies. But the thing that hurt the most, really, was knowing that I didn't even have my honor. Maybe forcing the issue with my parents, and refusing to end the relationship, would still have ended in disaster-- but I would have been able to hold my head high through the fallout.

These days it seems like poetic justice, really, or perhaps just a fact of the world, that my girlfriend cheated on me; I colluded with her to betray my parents' trust in me, and she betrayed my trust in her -- if she had so few qualms about one betrayal, why would she balk at a second? I tried to learn my lesson from it.

Which is why, this Christmas, I finally finished coming out to my fraternity. I swore an oath to my brothers, and I take my oaths seriously. I had always felt a little uncomfortable with my place in the fraternity, as if I wasn't as honest with my brothers as I wanted to be, but I had no idea why I felt that way. As soon as I was sure that I was not the cisgendered woman I had been presenting myself as, I began to withdraw from the fraternity as much as possible, until I knew who I really was. It is always painful to be around people who misgender me and be unable to correct them, but it was unbearable with my brothers because I felt so keenly that I was forsworn. I couldn't stand to lie to them, but I didn't know the truth yet. I felt sixteen all over again.

So as soon as I had a name, I started introducing myself to everyone all over again.

Maybe it was brave. I'll never be able to think of myself as brave until I've told my parents the whole truth, unflinchingly. What I've done so far is only what I had to do. And it doesn't matter to me how painful it is to do the honorable thing; it is infinitely more painful to know I have chosen dishonor.

I think this has turned into a pep talk to convince me to tell my mother the truth, when I make my obligatory weekly call tonight. I was going to wait until it had been a year since I first put into words my desire to transition, which will be mid-April. I was going to wait until it had been a year since I chose my name, which would be nine months from now. I was going to wait until my youngest brother was away at college, a few years from now. I was going to wait... until I absolutely couldn't stand waiting any longer.

But I think that might be now.

I'm really fucking terrified by the idea, so I'm not going to commit and say it's definitely happening -- but if it does, I promise I'll post again.

Wish me luck?

As I Sit Here and Freeze...

It's midnight, I'm alone in my tent, and I'm a Floridian. Aside from what I will discuss, can someone explain to me the logic of living in K-Ville? Just saying...

As I sit here and freeze, I have had the chance to reflect on how my life has changed over the past year. Until this past year, I had always pushed my sexuality aside from my life, or as I called it, "focused on my studies." I've known for a long time that I am gay, but I didn't know what to do. I knew the stigma, and especially in high school, my objective was to avoid all antagonizing remarks. I was already a math-and-science loving nerd, so I just wanted to try and remain as normal as normal could be for me.

At the beginning of my senior year in high school, I knew that I had to come to terms with who I was, especially before college. It was already October and I was already feeling sort of lost, I had very little guidance, and I really didn't have anybody to ask for advice, and then I met my best friend. Without Raymond, my life would not be the same.

Now to be honest, if I didn't have a crush on Raymond, I don't know if I would've even approached him, given the randomness of such a conversation and my awkwardness. However, if I never summoned the courage to just say hi and get to know him better, we would not be as close as we are today. But he was able to be the guidance and support that I desired. Raymond knew my concerns; he had already been through the process of coming out, even though he is two years younger than me. He has such strength and courage that he was able to pass on and reveal in me as I began my coming out process. My new year's resolution in 2010 was to be comfortable with myself, and not lie about who I am. I can say that is the only resolution I have ever completed in my eighteen years of living.

As I sit here and freeze, I think about what resolutions I could potentially make that I would be able to fulfill (yes, it's the 16th of January, I can still make resolutions). Actually, this resolution didn't dawn on me until I started writing this post, but I think it's a good one: I want to be somebody's Raymond. I want to be helpful to anyone who needs help. Raymond has been there for me from the beginning, and I can't thank him enough.

Now I want to return the favor.

I have spoken with some of you, the readers, about your concerns with coming out to friends and family. I am more than honored, and there are many wonderful contributors to this fabulous blog who would love to help you out. Please, if I can stress anything about this post, and you ignore the details above, please know this:

You are not alone. You should not come out alone. There is a group of people, not just me, but your friends who want to help.

Just like Raymond is there to help me, we are here to help you.