Walking a Fine Line: Tony's Introduction

I (Tony) put on my pack and approach the start of a fourteen-mile overnight hike. I am with my friends Carolyn and Art, and two of their friends whom I have never met, Cindy and Susan.

Typically I am fine interacting with strangers for a short time. But with the length of time we'll spend together, two days and a night, I feel sure the unfamiliar others will ask about my life, particularly my relationships, research interests, and teaching. And I feel anxious: as a gay man who studies and teaches about gay identity, I put pressure on myself about deciding when and how to inform others of my identity and my work.

I fear negative responses to my identity, particularly from people who find gayness inappropriate or immoral. Persons who identify as or are perceived to be gay are often targets of physical violence (Pascoe, 2007), and in places like the United States, same-sex relationships are not recognized as a legitimate kind of coupling in many significant contexts (such as hospitals, governments, and families). Such institutions as the military (Brouwer, 2004); the education system (Gust & Warren, 2008); and some religious sects (Cobb, 2006) require a person to vigilantly regulate or stay silent about same-sex desire, and intimate same-sex affairs are often absent from or disregarded in mundane conversation (Foster, 2008).

Personal experiences of negative attitudes toward being gay also flood my memory: an aunt who, after I said, “I am gay,” no longer allows me to visit; an ex-lover who may have killed himself after coming out to his father; and a student who reported me to the president of the university for being out in the classroom—the student and the president didn't think “gay” had any part in a college curriculum. I also recall the man interviewing me for a job who told me during the interview that he was gay but no one else at his university knew (he feared such information would tarnish his case for tenure); the female student who, the week after I came out to the class, wrote in a paper that she liked women but refused to talk about it with anyone (as of this writing, three years later, she still has told only one other person); and the high school acquaintance, who, after inferring from my Myspace Web page that I date men, e-mailed me for advice on getting out of reparative therapy, therapy required and funded by his parents to “correct” his same-sex desire.

These examples and experiences provide the context for the anxiety I feel as I approach a long, overnight hike with two strangers. I want to enjoy the experience but cannot not concern myself with whether, when, and how to disclose whom I like to love and what I like to study. I can keep my gay self and work secret, but I know it may be difficult should mundane questions about my relationships or my research enter the conversation—such questions as “Are you married?” “Do you have a girlfriend?” and “What do you teach about and study?”

But secrecy has its problems too. If I come out later into the hike, the strangers may consider me manipulative (Downs, 2005; Phellas, 2005) and possibly shameful of my identity and relational interests (Yoshino, 2006). The (potentially dangerous) reactions I experience on coming out may thus happen not because another finds gayness inappropriate or immoral but rather because I kept my identity and work interests hidden too long or because the others were upset that I wrongly assumed that they would be less than okay with my gayness. With self-disclosure being “embedded in the history of past disclosures” (Bochner, 1984, p. 610), an omission of personal information might mark me as having told a lie (Brown-Smith, 1998).

I could come out with my identity and interests immediately upon meeting unfamiliar others, but this might make for discomfort as well. From my perspective, I might say, “Hi, I'm Tony and I'm gay,” a tactless greeting. Though it may make me feel better to tell others of my gayness, the fear that my statement might make others uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. And so I decide against coming out immediately, and instead wait and hope for a more comfortable time to disclose (Adams, 2011).

“What do you do for a living?” Susan asks, a common one-liner that is about as safe as talking about the weather—usually.

“I teach college,” I respond. I do not say, “I am also a researcher and writer,” as these statements might invite her to ask what I research and write about. Given that my topic is gay identity, discussing my research and writing can serve as coming out. Even though I know numerous heterosexual-identified scholars who write about gay identity, I recognize that one who researches and writes about homosexuality may be marked and, consequently, evaluated as gay, at least until proving heterosexuality.

I recall advice from an interviewer for an academic job I did not get: “Say you research and write about ‘sexuality,’ not ‘gay identity,’” she said. “I know you write about gay identity, and I am okay with it. But I also know that you made other faculty uncomfortable—they found the topic of gay identity inappropriate and immoral.”

I remember dissonance rolling through my body: I felt sad for making other people uncomfortable, disingenuous for thinking about masking my work as more general (“sexuality”) than specific (“gay identity”), angry that others still consider gay identity inappropriate and immoral, and regretful for hearing that had I changed a few words I might have been offered the job. I continue to feel unsure about the threshold of coming out—the threshold of needing and wanting to be open and honest with others while still being able to be open and honest with myself (Bochner, 1984).

Now I am in a similar situation, worried about how strangers may be offended by or uncomfortable with my gay identity or with hearing about work that may mark me as gay. But saying I study sexuality feels like a lie, and I hear the voices of friends, family, and pro-gay commentators who refer to being out as healthy, a sign of maturity, and politically responsible (Yoshino, 2006); choosing to not tell is rarely considered a good, viable option (Adams, 2011).

I compromise with myself: not wanting to start off on the “wrong foot,” I feel fine saying “I teach college” at the start of the trip, but only as long as I force myself to come out later.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask Susan.

“I'm a dental assistant,” she responds. “I primarily help dental surgeons with surgery.”

“Sounds interesting,” I remark.

“Oh, it is. I have some great stories.”

“Do tell!” Carolyn says. “Entertain us—we have at least six more miles to hike today, and six more tomorrow.”

“There was this time a male patient underwent anesthesia,” Susan begins. “His girlfriend was in the room, and apparently the patient had done some time in prison.”

I start to feel uncomfortable … again.

“The anesthesia started making the patient disoriented just as the male surgeon entered the room,” she continues. “And, in front of his girlfriend, the patient begins talking about his attraction for men and is flirting with the oral surgeon.”

I have a few ideas about where this story may go. Susan may describe the surgeon's response to the patient's flirting, the girlfriend's response to her boyfriend's flirting, or her own reaction. But regardless of the story's direction, I sense Susan may evaluate same-sex desire, either implicitly with the tone of her voice or explicitly with direct commentary.

I know I must act, but do I step in and say “I am attracted to men” to protect her from saying something offensive? Do I let her say something offensive, and then tell her that I am gay? Do I let her say something offensive, and hope that I can keep my same-sex desire hidden for the remainder of the hike?

“Apparently the patient had a few boyfriends in prison,” Susan continues.

Nervously, I decide to protect Susan and myself by steering the conversation in another direction. “Did the girlfriend know of his attraction to men?”

“I don't think so,” she responds. “But in prison he …”

“I bet his flirting made the girlfriend uncomfortable,” I interrupt.

“I guess it may have,” she says, sounding somewhat confused.

The tone of her voice indicates that the story has ended, the subject changed. I sense that I do not have to worry about being offended by an antigay remark or having to come out … yet (Adams, 2011).