Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I remember when a friend of mine, someone I loved very much, came out to me. It was a bit of a surprise -- I hadn't really wondered about his sexuality, because of the eight thousand, one hundred and seventy-seven things I loved about him, who he was or was not attracted to was not on the list. Didn't care. Not concerned.


To make this story more interesting, we'll give him a name. Not his own, because he's not out to everyone he knows, I don't think. We'll call him: Albert.


But when he came out -- which he did in a very funny, very typical, very Albert-y way, at the wedding of a mutual friend, I DO remember thinking, "Why is he looking at me like that?" And when he called me the next day, which he rarely did (talking on the phone wasn't something we did often, as we saw each other every day), he suddenly asked, "Are we cool?"


What? I thought. "What?" I said.


"I was just worried ..." his voice trailed off. There was a moment of silence on the phone. I remember that his breath sounded a little ragged, and then he said, "I wasn't sure how you'd react." Silence. "To me being gay."


"Oh honey, " I said, "I don't care, unless someone is being horrible to you and I have to beat them up and ruin my manicure. Then I'll be pissed."


He laughed and we were fine. Just like that. Two weird kids on the same side of the playground, like nothing had changed.


But to be honest, something had changed... and that something was me. Not because I didn't still love Albert and want to have dumb, wonderful adventures with him ("Wanna go to the park, jump onto the stage, and sing songs?" "Isn't there a chance we'll get arrested for tresspassing?" "Well ... yeah." "What time?") because I did. I always would. Nothing would ever change that.


The problem was that he was afraid that there would BE a problem. That he was afraid my love was conditional. That I would look at him and not see Albert anymore ... that instead, I would look at him and see something else, something that might be bigger than all of the Albert-ness that I loved, instead of just being a component of the puzzle that made up Albert.


It broke my heart a little.

That's what I think about when I think about Don't Ask, Don't Tell, or laws banning gay marriage, or any sort of act of discrimination, really. It's Albert, and the fact that he knew that people -- even the people who loved him -- would stop seeing all of who he was and just see ONE thing about him, as though that one thing defined the totality of him, and would base their treatment of who he is, and what he deserves as a human being, based on that one thing.

I don't think anyone deserves that. I know Albert didn't. The thought that he thought that might be what I DID think, or how I would react, made me worry that I was a bad friend, as though I seemed unaccepting or judgemental. It still bothers me.


Albert and I have long since lost touch with each other, which makes me sad. I know that life is like that -- that some of our travelling companions are not meant to be by our sides forever, but only get to share a little bit of the journey before seeking alternate routes. I do know this: he taught me to make sure that my heart, and my mind, and my arms are always open to my friends, and not to fail them or let them down. Through watching Albert negotiate through other friendships and relationships as he came out to more people, I learned when to fight and when to shut up... and I learned that someone who will not stand up for a friend is no friend at all. I learned strength and grace, and they were incredibly valuable lessons.


The repeal of don't ask, don't tell was long overdue. The fact that we still have so far to go in this country when it comes to equality and compassion is, frankly, shameful. But tonight, I'll take this victory... and I hope that, wherever Albert is, whatever he's doing, he sees it too, and is hopeful for change. I hope he knows that I'm still his friend... and I hope that he knows that I'm still rooting for him.

Rock on, Albert. I miss you.