Trying to feel comfortable in clothes out of the closet
By CAROLINE BODKIN
I saac, one of my best friends from college, is a guitar player from Tennessee and the most well-read person I know. He was a true companion with whom I was equally as happy going cliff jumping or mountain biking, as I was lying on his bed late at night, finding solace, talking ourselves to sleep. He was loyal — never missed a dance concert, or a teary phone call, or a ride to the airport — and above all, he listened, didn’t judge.
“Finding yourself” is a mandatory struggle, especially during the college years, but I always knew whatever I found would be safe with Isaac.
He came to visit me recently here in LA. We went to one of my favorite pizza places, and after two beers and a slice, he finally sat back, let there be a silence, and then we started to talk about life since the cliff-jumping and up-all-night days of college.
He told me about his first few months in Seattle, where he knew no one and lived in a rented room in a house of strangers. He told me about looking for work but finding none for months before finally taking a position as a waiter in a small restaurant by the university.
Then he started talking about Mike. Not the first man he’d ever been attracted to, but the first man with whom he’d shared his feelings, and the first boyfriend he’d told anyone else about.
Anyone. Which means that for the four years in school and three years since, and maybe longer, he was quiet about it — quiet about himself — and though I’d wondered if he was gay, he’d made enough reference to high school beauties and one night stands, I figured he’d tell me if and when he wanted to.
If there were more to it, I’d know when he wanted me to know.
It’s hard to say why Isaac didn’t “come out” during college — a time I’d believed was created for exploration, when people are more forgiving of other people’s differences, which makes becoming “who you are” a safe endeavor, if a sometimes clumsy one. But maybe that’s just too easy a description. Maybe our school was more closed-minded than I could have realized, never having had to test the boundaries myself.
Maybe that’s what I think because I’m run of the mill from the outside. Becoming who I am didn’t entail coming out amongst a conservative population so I have no idea how that must have felt.
Mike, Isaac’s first real-world lover, was a couple years older and had been openly gay for years. Isaac, then, was the one playing catch-up when it came to being gay in the world. He’d felt “wrong” for so long, he said, the idea of allowing himself to feel “right” about himself was foreign. I’m OK? I’m OK like this?
Mike became impatient with him, he said, and drifted away, breaking Isaac’s heart almost casually. And so Isaac was depressed, and somewhat lost. And from that place, he rebuilt himself.
Our LA reunion was six months after that. He was on a road trip, on his way home to Tennessee to see his parents and, he said, to tell them everything for the first time. He needed distance and a breath. He needed to leave the place where he’d fought to survive long enough so that he could return feeling right again.
Falling asleep that night, with Isaac on my couch, I felt heavy. I remembered the numerous times I’d found comfort in his understanding, and I regretted miserably the equal number of times he must have felt alone even with me there. I thought when he leaves tomorrow, I want to get into the car and drive with him to Tennessee or back to Seattle so that everywhere he goes there’s someone beside him who loves him no matter what, so that every doubt will have a reassurance to counter it. So that next time he meets a Mike, he’ll love freely. I thought these things until I fell asleep.
These thoughts were sobered by the morning, and I knew I couldn’t go with him, but I was still worried and he saw it in my face. He took a long look at me and said, “It’s fine. Just your having been there was enough.” And I saw that he had found for himself how to be himself by himself.
And simultaneously he knew he was no longer alone. And wouldn’t be. (Caroline Bodkin lives in LA and hopes to make it out alive. You can ).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 14, 2004. Read the original PDF.