“ '■■.r-:-.- Nick
WILTGEN
Homophobia: Get it off your chest
“SILLY FAGGOT. DICfcS
ARE FOR CHICKS.”
Those stark words in big, bold
print marred my field of vision as I
climbed the stairs from the Avery
Hall basement
last Thursday.
For a few tense
moments the
words, blaring
from the back of
a male student’s
T-shirt, were
inescapable; 1
could only re
read them to
make sure I was seeing straight.
My blood pressure doubled and I
shook with anger as my friend Rick
and I climbed the stairs. “I don’t like
that shirt, ” I told Rick, half-hoping
the guy, who was less than 10 feet in
front of us, would hear me. “I don‘t
either, ’’ Rick said.
As we walked out the door into
the cool air, I cast a sideways glare
through the shield of my sunglasses
at the offender. He was looking in my
> general direction, but I couldn’t tell
if he was looking at me or if he had
I wanted to go back and say it to
him again, to his face. “1 don’t like
that shirt." I also wanted to call him
a bigot, an idiot and a few other
things, but that would have only
brought me down to his level.
Instead, I walked away and headed
for the Union.
As much as that incident bothered
me, a year ago it would have
probably messed me up much more.
You see, it’s only been nine monUjtfiv
since I finally decided to accept my
own sexual orientation.
A year ago I was still trying to be
straight, and failing miserably. It was
a facade I had been trying to keep up,
to varying degrees, since I was 14.
I figured that if I would just give
women one more chance, I could
succeed at being straight. But it
didn’t work.
“Maybe I’m just not the romantic
type,” I thought. Before I’d even
finished high school, I thought that
since I had never had a real girlfriend
(“real” as in going out on at least one
date) that I was incapable of loving
anyone at all.
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I figured that if I would just give women
one more chance, I could succeed at being
straight. But it didn’t work. ”
I became more and more desper
ate to find a woman, so I could prove
to myself that I could be normal.
Senior year, I tried to find a date to
homecoming, but I just couldn’t find
a woman I was attracted to. I cried in
frustration: Why? I began going to
drinking parties—something I once
vowed I’d never do. A friend of mine
promised he’d get me “drunk and
laid,” and I believed him. (Of course
I didn’t think about how that was
going to work; I just wanted to
believe it would happen.)
As graduation approached I had
still only seen half his promise come
true — the drunk part. I’d done
plenty of that. But the rest never fell
into place. I went to more parties,
drank more often; but I usually ended
up unconsciously forgetting about the
girls, or else “I couldn’t really get
unu u, os r wiuic m my journal aucr
one night out looking for women.
Worse, there was open bigotry at a
few of the parties. At one party,
several people got into a conversa
tion about how horrible gays were,
and one gill described her negative
opinion of homosexuals a bit more
vividly than I cared to hear. But 1
couldn’t say anything I could only
quake in fear and find an excuse to
leave.
At another party, people told me
that since I and only one other person
in the whole room supported gay
rights that maybe I should leave the
party and go sleep with him.
All the while I wondered why all
my friendships with guys felt more
than platonic to me. That’s as far as I
would allow my thoughts to go,
though; I feh that if I admitted
anything to myself, everyone else
would read my mind, and I’d be
trapped in misery until college.
When I finally got to college a
little more than two years ago, I was
free to start over. I sobered up. I even
mustered enough courage to tell a
few people that I was confused about
my sexuality, but I still wasn’t ready
to settle on anything.
Human nature is human nature,
though, and eventually I had to
confront the issue again, for I still
lacked a significant other. I tried
talking to women whenever possible,
but nothing ever really clicked. I
really wanted to be straight. I
actually told people I had decided to
be straight because it was “socially
convenient.”
Maybe so, but it wasn’t personally
convenient. I was 19 years old and I
had myself pretty much figured out
except for this one thing. Trying to
hf» ctrnioht u/ne a nirp thruioht Rut in
reality, I knew I couldn’t keep trying
much longer. I was heading fa- my
20s, and I was missing out on part of
life because I refused to be honest
with myself. I had refused to con
front my fear, my confusion.
So in January 1996,1 finally
decided to put an end to my denial. I
went to a support group for gay men.
I’d never knowingly met a gay man
in my entire life. I thought they’d all
be effeminate, they’d all have a high
pitched lisp, they’d all be wearing
weird clothes and makeup and who
knows what else. I figured they’d all
have no self-esteem, they’d all be
terminally unhappy. I feared I
wouldn’t fit in at all.
But that’s not what I found. I
found that some were young, some
were older; some were effeminate but
others were masculine; there were
high voices, low voices, medium
voices; and nobody was dressed in
drag (which was a shocker to me
then!) And they were not glum,
miserable people; they had highs and
lows and everyday concerns like
everyone else, i was ecstatic to find
out that being gay did not condemn
me to a life of depression and
isolation!
Slowly I became accustomed to
living with my orientation. Of course
I eventually had to tell my parents,
and although they weren’t thrilled at
first, they’re very supportive now.
Over time, I became comfortable
enough to tell a friend or two, and
then a few more, and then even my
co-workers at my summer job. To my
surprise, nobody’s had a problem
with it so far.
I’ve been “out” for nine months
now, and I’m finally comfortable
with who I am. And I’ve learned a lot
about people’s attitudes toward
homosexuality.
I’ve seen preachers on campus
attempting to condemn homosexual
ity on moral grounds. I’ve seen the
Rev. Fred Phelps from Tbpeka, Kan.,
and his troupe of anti-gay protesters
demonstrating on TV. I’ve read
letters to the editor in various
newspapers arguing that gays want to
destroy the American family. Hell,
I’ve even listened to my own brother
tell me that homosexuals are worse
than murderers. (Thankfully, he later
apologized and rescinded.)
Those people had to put some
effort into expressing their views.
They were, I presume, attempting to
generate at least semi-intelligent
debate on the issue of homosexuality.
But the guy wearing the “SILLY”
T-shirt took a whole new approach.
All he had to do was throw on the
shirt and go. He didn’t have to think
about it. He didn’t go around offering
reasons for his views. Judging by the
words on the shirt, I doubt he was
looking for any sort of intellectual
discussion.
As I walked away from Avery
Hall that day, I looked back at him
one last time. I saw those same six
words again on the front of his shirt.
Now that I’ve gotten this off my
chest, I hope he’ll get those words off
his.
Wiltgen is a senior broadcasting
and meteorology major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist.
