So, I had my semi-weekly phone call home today. We talked about school, of course. Now, I just don't talk about my writing with my family. It's enough that they know I'm taking writing classes; I don't discuss the pieces I'm working on, because they're usually important to me, and would shatter the illusion of perfection that I work to maintain in their minds.

Tonight, I disobeyed my rule and mentioned that I was workshopped. When asked, I said it was a piece about Chris, and left it at that. She asked how a workshop...works, and I told her. Somewhere in the conversation, I mentioned that the class has 12 girls and 2 boys. She said, "Well, that's nice for you, then." I replied, "..."

My anger tonight really isn't directed at my mother, or even at the larger world and society. Not to say that those aren't valid emotions, but It goes deeper. I'm angry that I didn't confront my mother. I'm angry with myself for not saying "Hey, you know when four years ago I told you I was gay and you replied, 'give it time?' I was serious. I'm still gay, and I'm not going to change back. If you're hoping I will, I'm sorry, but that's crap."

My freshman year of college, I woke up one morning and opened my door to see a piece of paper attached to the wall across from my room. It read, "Burn in Hell You Fucking Faggot!" I got scared. I got scared because I felt a secret betrayed--no one on my floor knew that I was gay. I closed my door and locked it. I went back to bed. I skipped my morning classes, I skipped my afternoon classes, and I pretended not to hear my roommate talk about what had happened. It wasn't until later that night, when we had an emergency floor meeting, that I learned that the papering wasn't directed at me. The boy living next door was openly gay, and whoever had done it was targeting him. They glued the papers to his door, so that when someone tried to tear them down, the edges just ripped, making them impossible to remove by hand. It wasn't until that night that we had maintenance workers on the floor to scrape the papers from his door, leaving a large gap in the paint to remind us all of what had happened. I usually consider myself a sympathetic person. When I learned that I wasn't the target, that I was safe, and that the boy living next door to me had received a death threat, all I felt was relief.

I'm angry that I'm not standing where people can see me--I'm angry that there is not a single openly-gay person in my extended family because I'm too afraid to be the example that makes it easier for other people to comprehend what they're going through. I'm angry that I claim to be honest and truthful with people, when really all I'm doing is avoiding the subject. I tell the truth in that I don't lie, but I very rarely am honest. I'm angry that I never take a stand. Something needs to be done.

I'll begin by starting a blog. Friends have been bugging me to anyway. This will be my first post. To anyone who reads this: Hi. I'm Pete, a 20-year old white student at the University of Iowa from Wheeling, Illinois (suburban Chicago), and I'm gay. Though that isn't all that I am, it's an important part of my life, and impacts just about every other part. You'll be hearing about it a lot.

I don't expect that I'll update this blog often or with any semblance of regularity, but when I do, I promise it will be honest.