people, particularly women, remains
rampant in our culture. On “Friends,”
Chandler and Joey jump at the opportunity
to watch Rachel and Monica share a
minute-long kiss. In Katy Perry’s debut
single, “I Kissed a Girl,” she perpetuates
the notion that relationships between two
women are just experimental and simply a
way to entertain straight men.
Ackerman-Greenberg, now speaking
louder than before, attempting to break
through the voices of students frantically
ordering their last caffeine fix before
moving to the library for the night, begins
to highlight how these portrayals in pop
culture have manifested in her own life.
“I was at Skeeps (Scorekeepers Sports
Grill and Pub), and my girlfriend and I
kissed for the first time,” she said. “For the
first time in my life I was kissing a girl that
I cared about,” a hint of red beginning to
color her face. “It felt as if there was not
another person in the world.”
That euphoric feeling did not last
long, she notes. Soon, that world was
interrupted by the sight of half a dozen
men, staring, cheering, as more onlookers
began to gather around for “their own
entertainment.” While this brought a
“feeling of disgust,” what stuck in her
mind the most was having to weave
through the crowded bar, watching as
dozens of straight couples intensely, and
“sloppily,” made out with one another —
unnoticed and unbothered.
“I’m sure there are hundreds of bisexual
girls like me on campus, people who I
can talk to and who could relate to these
things,” she said, placing her drink back
down, the bottom of her cup now visible.
“I guess I just don’t know where to find
them.”
Her phone buzzes, interrupting a
solemn gaze. It’s her girlfriend, asking
when she will be back home. A smile
returns to her face.
“I almost feel bad for complaining. You
know, it could be much worse. My parents
are so accepting. I have a girlfriend who I
love. But sometimes — as soon as I begin
to let go just a bit, something brings me
crashing back down to reality.”
“I
came home from school, and I
knew something was wrong.”
“My parents sat me down and they said,
‘We heard you’ve been cutting yourself.’”
LSA junior Caleb Grimes met me in
the middle of the Ross School of Business
Winter Garden. He stood out amid the
chaos of networking calls and coffee
chats transpiring around him, dressed in
a sweatshirt and the only one without a
backpack or briefcase.
“Sorry I was late,” he said calmly, “I had
to come straight here from my friend’s
house”
Hailing from an all-boys Catholic
school in Kentucky, Grimes exhibits an
air that one might expect from an All-
American lacrosse player. At first glance,
his hardy demeanor supports the cool and
unaffected presence that he carries. Yet,
as his guard begins to wane, his effort to
maintain this composure becomes more
apparent.
“It was hard,” he says in a more solemn
tone. “I was just 15 years old. I wasn’t even
sure what or who I was. So, when I tried
talking to a friend to maybe get some sort
of clarity, and it suddenly spread across
the town, I fell into a dark place.”
During his sophomore year of high
school, Grimes’s parents received a phone
call from a friend about his self-harm and
the rumors of his sexuality. Hoping to
alleviate their son’s pain and confusion,
they sought out a therapist to speak with
him.
“I never got to have my ‘coming out
moment,’” he says with a more sunken
face, his hands retreating into the refuge
of his sweatshirt. “Instead, I woke up each
day wondering if I would even be alive the
next morning, all while trying to maintain
this image of the lacrosse player, of the
football player, of the student.”
Grimes’s internal conflict with his
identity is pervasive in LGBT teens across
the country. According to the Centers
for Disease Control and Prevention,
people who are gay are four times as
likely to attempt suicide when compared
to heterosexual youth. The fear of
discrimination and harassment because
of one’s sexuality also leads LGBT people
to have depression and anxiety disorder
rates three times as high as their straight
counterparts.
“My therapist helped me sort through
some of these things, but that constant
anxiety and overthinking just never went
away.” He begins to pause at the sound of
his voice becoming shakier, almost taking
this as a signal to tuck back these difficult
memories. “So I clung to anything that I
thought would make it easier.”
Grimes notes that he wore his “non-
stereotypical” background as a badge of
honor for the majority of both his high
school and college careers. “It was funny
how much I relied on that single label of
the ‘lacrosse kid’ as a way to lift myself
up.”
“Half of the reason I wanted to play
lacrosse in college was because I wanted
to maintain that safety of, ‘Yeah, I am gay,
but look at me defying the stereotypes!’”
he laughs with an almost-regretful tone.
Upon coming to campus, Caleb saw
Greek life as his next outlet to bolster this
image. He recalls hoping to not be seen
as the “gay kid,” but as the “masculine,
gay frat kid.” While he eventually found
a supportive community within this
new space, there are times he still feels
isolated because of his sexuality. To
him, Greek life is built upon, in many
ways, the expectation of going out and
finding another person to hook up with.
Reinforced by dark, cramped basement
parties, where the conversation is limited
by blaring music, people can mainly just
“dance and hook up.” While friends may
come briefly to wave hello, most of them
quickly disperse as he “obviously doesn’t
fit what they came there for.”
Even when he has brought another guy
with him to a party — something he notes
he is very lucky to be able to do — that
isolating feeling begins to reemerge.
“I never truly feel comfortable or
accepted with another guy in public. Even
the most accepting people cringe deep
down when they see two guys together.”
When I asked him why he thinks that,
he responded coldly, “Because we cringe
too.”
Before heading back to return to his
friends, Grimes notes how his years hiding
his identity have manifested throughout
almost all spheres of his life.
“I just got really good at covering up how
I feel,” he confessed. “But I go through an
internal battle every single day.”
This is a common theme for many gay
people. As discussed in a recent study
from
Georgetown
University,
LGBT
people have learned that it is often safer to
conceal their feelings than to become open
to criticism or ridicule. This instinctual
sense of protection, however, leads to
an undermining of self-esteem and self-
worth.
“I am grossly insecure with myself and
I constantly regulate how people might
view me,” Grimes admits. “And because of
that, I may have come across in the wrong
way to some people.”
Now, six years since his talk with his
parents, he notes he is becoming more
comfortable with the many facets of
his identity. His family, too, has been
celebrating this part of him as well. In
fact, he tells me, they even went to a Pride
parade without him.
A smile begins to break, and a warm
glow fills his eyes.
“Yeah, that was pretty cool.”
B
usiness senior Chandra Sahu
highlights how being a woman of
color has played in her experience
as a queer woman. While it has been easier
for her to identify other Black students on
campus, her pursuit of finding other gay
students was difficult.
“I was surprised by how little of a
community for gay people there was
here,” she said in a disappointed tone.
“Statistically, there have to be a lot more
people that are not straight, yet there’s
just no community.”
As president of both the Black Business
Society and Out for Business, Sahu
has used the tight-knit community of
the Business School to find a place for
minority groups to come together. Yet,
unlike the University’s Black community,
which she has been able to find a place
in, she finds the LGBT community
remains disjointed. Gay spaces do exist
in Ann Arbor, including the University’s
Spectrum Center. However, many queer
students on campus feel its efforts to
provide the resources needed to foster
a connected LGBT community remain
inadequate — a reality that has tangible
consequences for its students.
“I am surrounded constantly by so
many people,” Sahu confessed in a hushed
tone. “Yet I still feel so alone.”
Music, Theatre & Dance sophomore
Alix Curnow echoed this sentiment of
seclusion to me. As the flicker of the
Michigan Theatre’s sign lit the right side
of her face, she detailed the struggle she
has faced in search of a community of her
own.
“I feel very isolated,” she explained, her
entire face now drowned in the light. “I
went through many stages of depression
and most of it was rooted in trying to find
where this part of me fit in my life.”
Curnow was ready to immerse herself
in the progressive Ann Arbor community,
hoping to find refuge in a place where she
would not just be tolerated, but embraced.
However, her time spent trying to fully
discover her own self became increasingly
disheartening.
“Friends, even people that are gay, have
questioned my sexuality — telling me I’m
just confused.”
“Even though friends try to offer their
support, it’s lonely,” her shaded eyes now
fixated on the floor below. “And being
able to sit down in class and just knowing
if there were other people like me would
make things so much easier.”
M
idnight came and the empty
booths and folded chairs
signaled it was time to pack
up. Gripping my empty mug and the
hastily-scribbled notes from the day, I
began to head home. The brisk chill that
waited patiently at the door accompanied
me on the walk that night.
Passing through the places I had grown
to know during my time at Michigan, I
spotted friends and former classmates
around each mindless turn of the corner.
Maybe I wasn’t so alone, after all.
But with each step closer to home,
the sidewalks grew barer. Approaching
the stairs of my apartment building,
the outlines of two figures under the
dying street light were etched out of the
darkness. As the sound of my sneakers
dragging across the cracked pavement
below broke the silence of the night,
the lock of their lips became undone.
In unison, they jolted their heads in my
direction, as if they had been caught
doing something wrong. I could now
recognize they were both men. Almost
instinctively, they took two steps back
from one another. The air now felt colder
than before.
“How’s it going, man?” one nodded as
I passed by, as if they were testing my
reaction to what I had seen.
I approached the door, feeling the
icy touch of its frigid handle. Memories
began to flood my mind as that same,
bitter Michigan chill danced through my
fingers. My eyes watered, and whether
the single tear that managed to escape
was from the gust of wind or the influx of
memories, I do not know. Yet, as I crawled
into bed that night, my freshman self took
a hold of my mind.
The fear that I saw in the faces of
those two men outside was all too
familiar. It was the same fear I felt just
three years earlier, walking through an
unfamiliar campus with my freshman
year roommate. That fear of rejection,
how others may react. Suddenly, that
insidious, creeping isolation began to
re-emerge in my mind.
Hoping to clear my thoughts, I peered
outside my frosted window, but now,
beneath that same, dying streetlight lay
nothing but leaf-covered pavement.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018 // The Statement
6B
Wednesday, October 24, 2018// The Statement
7B
Courtesy of Sam Goldin
Nicole Ackerman-Greenberg
Courtesy of Sam Goldin
Caleb Grimes
Courtesy of Sam Goldin
Alix Curnow