“Y
ou’re really cool, man, but
I’m looking for a straight
roommate.”
I wasn’t too surprised. The search for
the perfect freshman year roommate was
now nearing its fifth month, and this had
been the third person I had connected
with that had changed their mind about
living with me after learning that I was
gay.
But this one felt different. I thought I
had checked off all the boxes. We had
maintained a 20-day Snapchat streak,
exchanging daily pictures that displayed
how much fun our senior years were. We
had talked about rushing a fraternity,
what we wanted to major in. We both
even agreed that we would — of course —
attend every game at the Big House, but
that our studies were “for sure” equally as
important.
So when John (whose name is changed
for privacy reasons) from California told
me the day before the roommate request
deadline that he could no longer live with
me, I felt defective, as if I were a toy with
compromised packaging. I still worked,
but my torn label, nonetheless, meant I
had to be returned.
“I think my roommate just broke up
with me??” I half-jokingly texted a friend.
I did laugh at first. The process one
had to go through to find the person you
will be crammed into a room with for the
next eight months was pretty strange.
Yet, with no one prepared to make the
“brave” sacrifice of willingly living with
a gay person, the fate of my first dorm
experience was left in the hands of the
University of Michigan Office for Student
Life.
Despite this uncertain start, my
excitement about moving to campus and
experiencing the “best four years of my
life” remained undeterred. It was Ann
Arbor, after all, and the reality of being
known as my high school’s “funny gay
kid” would soon transform to a place
where I could simply become just one
among many. And to me, that casual
existence also meant the ease of finally
being in a community I could fully call
my own.
Soon, I thought, I could unreservedly
be me.
“D
id you hear about
how Matt has a gay
roommate?”
“I heard. He needs to switch out ASAP,”
a look of revulsion hardening his face.
“I’m not kidding. It’s disgusting. If my son
became gay, I would legit kill him.”
It was the start of Welcome Week,
and the naive hope of belonging was
replaced with a familiar, aching feeling
of loneliness. With my parents gone, and
the temperature of my 12x11, un-air-
conditioned
room
rising
with
the
arrival of each eager freshman, I found
myself sinking back into the hole I spent
years digging myself out of. I came
to Ann Arbor ready to embrace sides
of myself that I never truly had the
opportunity to explore. Now, I could
finally take advantage of the resources,
the community and the freedom that I
had longed for. I had already come out in
high school, so one of the top ten “Best
Colleges for LGBTQ Students” was sure
to only strengthen my confidence with
my identity.
Yet, as the process of fraternity rush
evolved and the pressure to find new
friends mounted, I found myself falling
back into the same patterns I had
exhibited most of my life: Talk to girls,
be as masculine as possible, but most
importantly, do not let people know that
you are gay.
“I’m not lying to anyone,” I tried
convincing myself. “I just am keeping it
to myself.”
For a while, this worked. Almost too
well. While I had a few friends from home
that were aware of my sexuality, in every
other part of my college life, I simply
“kept it to myself.” Maybe I thought it
was a prize, an achievement when people
came to believe I was straight. The more I
could do this, I thought, the more friends
I would have — and the rest I would figure
out afterward.
But finally, this act began to become
undone. Walking with five friends I
had met from my dorm, the subject of
roommates became the focus of our
conversation. Recalling the struggle I
had in finding my own, I remained silent.
Soon, however, their words brought back
the dreaded feeling of loneliness that I
worked so hard to escape. I listened as
they began to describe their disgust of
gay people: How they shouldn’t be placed
in “straight rooms,” how they would
disown their children if they were to
“make this choice.” I was then reminded
of why I came out in the first place and
the importance of finding my own
community at the University.
As my time at Michigan unfolded ––
while speaking with friends, volunteers
and even strangers –– I became engrossed
by the distinct sense of commonality
embedded in the experiences of LGBT
students. I listened to familiar stories
of fear, of dejection, of sadness. Stories
uniquely their own but still bearing
patterns
similar
enough
to
thread
together into one tattered quilt. Even in
a post-Obergefell v. Hodges world where
same-sex couples have been guaranteed
equal standing before the law in America,
beyond the closet, even on a campus as
accepting as the University of Michigan,
gay students suffer an inescapable sense
of otherness.
“I
think I was the last guy
you were with before your
girlfriend, so like, did I turn
you gay?”
It’s 8:30 p.m. at Espresso Royale, and
Information senior Nicole Ackerman-
Greenberg is winding down after what
she describes as a “pretty light day.” After
two classes, an hour-long call with her
peer advisor and a weekly meeting for
her tech fraternity, she returns to her seat
across the aging wooden table, gripping
her drink tightly with both hands.
“Then he proceeded to do us ‘a favor’ by
offering his ‘assistance if we ever needed
a third.’”
“It was ridiculous,” she continues. “I
felt like some foreign object — in need
of his pity.” Steam from her freshly-
poured coffee obscures her face as the
fluorescent overhead light illuminates
her now-focused green eyes. This was
not the first time people she considered
herself close with had made comments in
a similar vein.
“I think that’s what gets me the
most,” she says, tracing her fingers in
the indecipherable carvings of the table
in front of her. “I’m surrounded by all
these people who say they accept me, yet
I constantly feel as if I’m not fully there.”
Born and raised in Oakland, Calif.,
Ackerman-Greenberg
never
dwelled
too much on her sexuality. In fact, she
had found no need to ever “come out.”
Rather, when she first began dating her
now girlfriend, she simply broke the news
to her parents by letting them know she
would be coming to visit the next week.
So, when she found herself for the first
time becoming truly mindful of her
identity at age 20, the weight she had been
able to avoid for most of her life began to
gradually bog her down.
“I felt like I was an object.”
The societal objectification of gay
A
urora is an invoker. By its
definition, its implications and
its pronunciation it invokes
a sense of grandeur unlike any other
word in the English language. It is my
salvation, the conviction of all other
convictions. It is that word that hangs
over me during the starry night while I
lay atop my vehicle in the middle of the
field with a lover. It is a sweet song that
plays, creating an ambiance of pure love
that emanates into a halo around such a
youthful and romantic desire. It is the
sweet song playing now, as I write these
words, driving my pen ever forward
toward the love of it, whatever it might
be.
The Aurora is completely pure, and
is thus the greatest beacon of hope that
exists. The only thing more pure is that
which does not exist. It is a cold night.
Snow is on the ground casting away
and purifying the unique color palate
of warmer times. It is cold to the touch
of a naked body walking onward forever
in the direction of his or her prophecy.
There are dark trees in this snowy
midnight. It is so dark that all that
can be seen are the straight, defiantly
vertical trunks.
We must walk toward the Aurora, for
there is nothing else that can be done.
Ages pass and misery and happiness
are merely transferred to new souls,
the illusion of growth persists always.
And the notion of freedom is a poisoned
and lost concept. If true freedom is to
exist, then we must find the Aurora,
and we will cry, for its beauty is unlike
anything we have ever known. So much
beauty to behold everywhere, if only
our eyes were free to see it all.
The cold northern gale is a caress
of the Aurora, it is a reminder to heed
its call, the call of the wild, the call of
the north and the call of life. Life as
never before experienced. Life that
has but one goal, one central desire,
and whatever that might be, for it is
irrelevant and different between each
individual, it is more important to
embark upon the journey of awareness
and enlightenment; that one central
desire is, for me, represented through
Aurora. The journey itself very well
might be the achievement of that, the
panacea of ignorance, and the endeavor
that changes forever a life. Getting lost
to be found is never the goal. The process
of truly getting lost is an arduous
undertaking, and the reward of it is not
getting lost, but being lost. Persisting in
a state of perpetual lostness, with only
the Aurora to guide me. That is what I
principally desire.
A
simple
three
syllable
word.
Au-ror-a, and yet I am ruthlessly
deconstructed
immediately
upon
hearing and experiencing it. It is an aura
of raw power to be tapped into and used
to build the newly aware’s confidence.
The word rolls of the tongue elegantly,
the syllables are all vowel rich and are a
pleasure to pronounce, and all three in
a row creates a sort of light, airy word
easy to speak. Aurora. Aurora. Aurora.
The Aurora borealis can be seen in
the northern realms. I have never seen
them before, and yet I worship them.
Perhaps I have associated Aurora with
something more. . . evidently, this must
be true. A fleeing into the northern
kingdoms, away from all of the misery
and lack of love and romance perhaps?
A pilgrimage, a great northern odyssey
that we all want to take, though
the reasons and direction might be
different. Flee. Flee. Flee as fast as the
naked body can through the darkness,
moonlight unveiling the bare tree
trunks and light snow falling. Falling
slowly and gracefully like the breath of
one in the midst of it. It as something
undefinable,
an
inconceivable
and
inexplicable answer to an inconceivable
and inexplicable question.
There is a power that drives life. A
meaning that must be found. Aurora is
my meaning, it is both a driving force and
an end goal that is both attainable and
unattainable. It is the wind that sways
the trees and the sunlight that helps
us wade through the darkness. It is the
sweet music that is heard, immersive it
is, and loved while in the region of one’s
dreams. It is even perhaps the love that
is so essential to us all. We all must love;
whether another individual, a place, a
song, whether it is that journey through
the midnight snow. Aurora is my it. And
the midnight snow and bare tree trunks
are my where; it is, in my soul, that
particular region that we all have that
begs for us to explore.
I would walk amongst those lonely
trees forever in perhaps a vain attempt
to find that other individual whom
I can, and would completely, love
and cherish. And we would love and
cherish that particular region, and it
would become the realest of realities.
I put hope into such a romance, and I
shall walk through the snow until that
happens, forever in that sad, northern
midnight.
And at the brink of eternity, I must
relinquish the siphon of pure wisdom
that has been feeding me, and while
it was personally useful and enjoyed,
it must unselfishly be shared to those
who have reached the edge of that life-
altering conviction of all convictions.
Aurora.
Infinity.
Aurora.
Eternity.
Aurora. Awareness. Can you feel the
passion building? Go on in a state of
ecstatic excitement and anticipation . .
. it is calling.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018 // The Statement
4B
Wednesday, October 24,, 2018 // The Statement
5B
Courtesy of Sam Goldin
Alex Kubie
“I just got really good at covering up how I
feel”: Profiles of gay loneliness
BY ALEX KUBIE, CONTRIBUTOR
Aurora
BY CODY LADD, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY ELIZABETH STUBBS