Coming Out By Andrés F. Roa
Date Posted: November 27, 2018
Categories:
AUGUST 6, 2018
Let me start at the beginning. I was born in Bogota, Colombia in March 13th, 1994. In the evening, according to reputable sources. I was a very hearty crier, apparently, according to the same un-named sources. It’s my parents…my parents are the sources. Anyways.
I had an awesome childhood, I think. I went to a preschool in Bogota called “Chispitas,” and I remember our burgundy-red school van, the red tile of the driveway, and a certain smell. Don’t ask me to describe it. Somewhere in there, my little brother was born. We shared a room for the majority of our lives, I think. Which was cool, because our apartment had a window that opened to a big (covered, child-proof) terrace where we had most of our toys. We used help each other “escape.” My brother’s cool, and he’s much smarter than me, which I’m very glad for. Ok back to it.
I think I had friends and stuff then…in preschool, I mean. I don’t really remember. I wish I did remember. But what I do remember is my family. My huge, amazing, family on both sides. My dad is one of 8, my mom is one of 4; so I consider myself incredibly lucky to a ton of aunts and uncles, and the best cousins anyone could ask for. I forget, sometimes, how much I love them all, even though we don’t get to see each other much. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me tell about Sundays. Sundays were great days. We’d leave our apartment in our little green Mazda early in the morning. I would have riding lessons—as in horses—followed by tennis lessons. This all happened at the club our family used to go to a lot, called “El Club Militar de Golf.” My Grandfather was a General in the Colombian Army, and that’s why I think we were able to go there. But back to Sundays. I remember the smell of grass, the feeling of the red clay from the tennis courts, and the delicious mix of empanadas and gatorade. Also sneezing. I’m allergic to horses. Here’s the best thing about Sundays: we would drive from the club to Mami’s house for Sunday lunch. This was a whole-family event, every week. The food, the family, the games my cousins and I would play. Sometimes I remember individual moments like they happened yesterday, but more recently it feels like that childhood belonged to someone else.
So let’s press on. I went to the “big kid” school-“El Gimnasio Campestre.” My uncle went there too. Boy, was I proud of going to that school? We had uniforms, marching band, I was in choir (a very vivid memory I have is “missing” math class to go to choir. Oops). And then, we left. My family moved to Washington DC in September of 2001. It was supposed to be a “short-term” move, I think. I don’t really remember…everything is a little muddled. But we’ve been here since.
There’s an image that I’ll never forget. It was at the airport, in McDonalds, in Bogota. The day we left. Everyone was there. I remember feeling really, really sad. It felt like we were never coming back. My heart still feels heavy whenever I think of that moment. I can’t remember if I cried, though I sure wouldn’t have been surprised if I had.
Then we were in America, and a few days later the world turned upside down. September 11th, the DC Sniper attacks, anthrax…to a kid it was little scary, but I didn’t really grasp how scary it was until much later. I had other things to worry about. Namely, starting at a brand new school, in a new country, with a newish language. I think I already knew a little English, but definitely nowhere near fluent. THAT was scary to me. I remember waiting inside our portable classroom in my elementary school in Chevy Chase, MD, and I remember my parents talking to my 1st grade teacher, Ms. Janiello. She introduced herself to me, my parents left, and the rest of the kids came in. Surprisingly, I survived. I made some good friends, too. My best friend at the time introduced me to Playmobil, Harry Potter, Runescape, playing “war,” and goldfish. The snack. I spent many afternoons at his house, him at mine, sleepovers, pool play-dates, etc. Classic kid stuff. I was even in a book club for a while! I loved that neighborhood and that school, and all my friends. So when we moved again right as I was going into 5th grade, I thought everything was going to be terrible. We moved about ten miles away, though, so it really wasn’t that bad.
But it was a new school system, which meant that—even though we tried for a little while—my old, first friends became memories. The best memories—thank you.
But as for my new school, I think I got really lucky again. First of all, I was a SAFETY PATROL. I had seen the safety patrols doing their duty every year since 1st grade, and I WANTED TO BE ONE SO BAD. AND THEN I WAS. AN OFFICER OF THE LAW! I got to help parents and kids cross the road, which was freaking cool. The best part was wearing the belt. Actually, the best part was meeting my new best friends. We shared a patrol post in fifth grade, him on one side, me on the other. I mean, that’s a good ice-breaker, if you ask me. We became great friends—him and his brother—and we did a lot of stuff together. Kid stuff, but a little more “grown up.” I don’t know how many baddies killed in Ghost Recon or Call of Duty, but we spent a lot of hours playing. Also Nerf. Cap guns. Baseball. Tennis (though that was mostly one-sided…they both have wicked serves). Their family became like my family, and the Halloweens we spent together will always be amazing memories for me. We were very close up through middle school, and maybe at the beginning of high school. Then, as it happens, we grew apart as we grew up. I think they’re doing very well, and that makes me very happy.
So, this feels like chapter three of my story, so far. High School. Actually, no need for much drama there. I kinda liked high school—except for math. I was awful at math. Funnily enough, I met some of my closest friends in the class I was worst at. I’m still friends with them and I love them very much, though I don’t get to see them nearly as much as I’d like.
Ah, but it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. You see, by my Junior year in high school, I had a secret. A pretty big secret. One that I didn’t understand, one that I was a little afraid of. And this is the part that might surprise some of you. You see, I knew by then that I was gay. And that was terrifying. I think that was the low point for me…my grades suffered (not terribly, but enough to cause severe strain with me and my parents). I didn’t tell anybody. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell myself, really. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it. Sure, kids tossed the word “gay” around all the time, they even called me that a bunch. Though those kids tended to call everybody that…teenagers are strange. I didn’t tell anybody until I finally gathered up the courage to tell a friend of a friend—almost a stranger to me—because I knew he could help me. And he did. He was the first “beacon,” is what I think it was for me. He helped me accept myself, and gave me the inspiration and the courage to find more beacons. I told a few more of my closest friends, one at a time, and this weight that I didn’t even know I was carrying flew off. I felt so light. I felt like the world was mine, and I could do anything. I don’t know where I’d be without them, all of them. Then I had to say goodbye. College.
4 years. New place. New friends. New community. I got lucky again. I found a community in theatre that loved me and I loved them, and those four years were some of the best of my life. But the rush of energy I had felt in my last year of high school when I came out to for the first time, it felt like someone else had done that. I went back into the “closet.” And that’s when I felt the weight again. The old weight re-settled in my core and soured the happiest moments. I finally know how to describe it, thanks to a movie I watched a couple of days ago. “Love, Simon.” A character describes it as being in a ferris wheel—one moment you’re up, then you’re down, then up, but always being brought back down. That’s how I’ve felt for so many years. Three times, the weight got to be too much and I told three people. Three new beacons. But the weight is back, and I’m done carrying it. So I’m broadcasting to everyone, because 24 years is too many. I don’t want to hide anymore. So, now everyone knows, and regardless of the consequences, I’m glad.
I’ve told a little, tiny bit of my story in hopes that maybe you can remember that I’m more than who I love. If you can’t, well…thank you for sharing your life with me, and I hope you’ll be back someday. I’ll be here. I’ve got goldfish.
To my friends—past, present, future—and to my family. I owe you all everything. Who I am, who I’ve been, and who I’m going to be. And from now on, I’m going to be me. All of me. Gracias, los quiero mucho.
