When I first started to toe open my closet door a few years ago, one of the staples of my “coming out speech” was an earnest assurance that I wasn’t going to turn into one of those faggy, rainbow-waving, San Francisco gays. I instinctively understood that the homophobic conservative mainstream fears the emasculation they think comes with being gay, so I displayed my masculine credentials and polished them until they shone. I was the guy who went to the gym 5 times a week, who loved Sci-Fi shows, cop movies and action flicks. Hiking, old hunting stories and a penchant for Vodka rounded out the montage.
I felt like I had to make sure that my friends understood that I wouldn’t be pushing the proverbial dick in their faces. None of that has really changed over the intervening years. I’m still one of the most tightly self-censored gay people I know. I’ve only wolf-whistled a guy once in my life, my fashion sense is all Midwestern farm boy, and the only bag I carry is my laptop bag. Until lately, it would have shocked me if anyone other than my friends picked me as the gay guy in a lineup. Even after a year riding the same bus to and from work every day, my fellow mass-transit commuters wouldn’t know what to make of the quiet, 6’4” tall, corn-fed giant hiding behind his sunglasses in the back of the bus.
Wearing sunglasses gives me the sensation of sitting behind a two-way mirror. It is that comfortable anonymity that allowed me to learn so much from a young commuter I’ve come to fondly think of as “Jorge”. He and I cross paths for about 10 minutes at a time on seemingly random days. He boards the bus at some stop before mine, and exits before me, as well. The first conscious thought I had about Jorge was “my god, he’s beautiful.” He isn’t “hot” or “cute” or “pretty”: he is simply catch-your-breath-and-stare gorgeous. He has jet black hair, styled in that short, swept-across-the-face emo/scene cut that’s so popular right now. It is paired perfectly with deep blue-green eyes, almost over-full lips, and a perpetually preoccupied look. Reed-thin, but well-built, he often wears jeans that hug his hips and leave little to the imagination.
You can just leave the judgey looks at the door; he is gorgeous, and I have no problem acknowledging that I find him intensely attractive. I’m a guy, and I freely admit that my libido is wired directly to my optic nerves. That’s probably why it took me at least one full trip to start seeing the important things. Jorge is obviously a student; my bet is that you’d find him at American University. There is always a book at hand – poetry, philosophy, mathematics & history all make frequent appearances – it’s never light reading. He’s substituted a colorful messenger bag for the characteristic backpack, and can periodically be observed studying his notes.
The perfect-for-him fashion sense, flawless hair and dedication to academic achievement had started to set off my Gaydar almost immediately, but one morning a couple of months ago, a giant acrylic rainbow ring ended my speculation. When he got on the bus, he sat in a seat close to the door, and I quickly got the impression that he was nervous. I instantly knew what he was feeling. There is a heady blend of fear and freedom that comes with being completely out of the closet – something I encountered when I came out at work, and to my friends. Jorge kept twiddling the ring around his finger, almost taking it off, and then sliding it back on – not exactly conducive to avoiding attention, I thought. He was taking coming out to a level I’d shunned from day one.
Our fellow bus riders clearly had mixed opinions on Jorge’s ring. The ridership in my area is mostly Hispanic and African American. Jorge’s fellow Hispanics were nonplussed – the machismo that is so integral to that culture clearly disposed them toward a negative view of a gay Hispanic guy. The African American rider’s opinions seemed to have a gender disparity; the girls thought it was cute, and the guys sneered. For my part, I sat in my seat and tried to avoid biting my fingernails – a habit that I thought I’d kicked in college.
Nothing happened. No one molested him; no one called him a “fag.” He got off the bus at his usual stop, and I watched him disappear into the station as we pulled away. I spent the rest of the day worrying about him, and about the next time he got on my bus with that ring.
It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t as worried about Jorge as I was about myself. What would I do if someone on that bus called him a “fag?” If I stood up for him, would they know I was really standing with him? A split second after that thought passed through my brain, part of me screamed in derision. Jorge is about 5’9”. He probably weighs 140 lbs. soaking wet. If he had the guts to wear that giant acrylic rainbow ring on that bus… what did it make me, if I worried about stand up for him? It made me a freaking coward.
These days, there are two of us wearing rainbow jewelry on the 26 Bus. I don’t know if Jorge has ever noticed. I don’t really care, because I know that the other riders have noticed. If some fool ever does try to mess with Jorge, he will have two of us to deal with, rather than one. Just as I refuse to back down on gay rights issues on this blog, just as I refuse to allow people to get by with using anti-gay pejoratives, I refuse to allow the prejudice of others to turn me into a coward as I live my daily life. Jorge reminded me of who I want to be, and for that I owe him a debt of gratitude that I’ll probably never have the opportunity to pay.