In her remarkable Netflix special Nanette, Hannah Gadsby speaks of watching footage of Sydney, Australia's Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras; her first introduction to "her people," noting that they "sure like to dance and party." She laments, "Where are the Quiet Gays supposed to go?"
Speaking as a Quiet Gay myself, I don't have a good answer. But I did discover that a Pride Festival is NOT the place to find kindred introverted spirits.
Maximum Effort
Since coming out earlier this year, I made a concerted effort to tiptoe further into the culture, through meetups with gay groups and volunteering in the community. So far, it's been a struggle. I'm meeting a lot of cool people, but I see so many of them are much further "out" than I ever care to be.
Not that being super-out is a bad thing, of course. Every person has every right to be whoever they want to be, and express themselves in their own way. But the pressure to be out-n'-proud weighs heavy on my shoulders.
The Coming Out process outlines six steps toward self-acceptance, the fifth being "Identity Pride." You fully embrace who you are, find comfort in it, and head into the world as an Out Gay. But what if you never complete this step? If you've got it, do you have to flaunt it? Is there an option to be gay without the need to wear rainbows or wave flags? Does that make you a "bad gay?" Does it even matter?
You've Got the Touch
In my out exploits, I've discovered that many gay men are way more touchy-feely than I'm comfortable with. Sure, I don't mind the occasional hug amongst friends, but some guys hold on just long enough to make it creepy.
Case in point - I attended trivia night at a local gay bar. A waiter brought the food I ordered, then grabbed my shoulder - tightly - and leaned super close to ask "Can I get you anything else, hon?" The room wasn't terribly loud, so the minuscule facial/spacial ratio felt disconcerting. When I said "No thank you" in a tone that clearly communicated "Don't fucking touch me," the waiter peeled his hand off and slid his fingers down my back like a judgmental mother wiping dust off the one shelf you forgot to clean.
That's not an isolated incident. It's happened several times. When I spoke of the event with a handful of gay friends, they acknowledged that it's absolutely a thing. Which, naturally, creaks my closet door a little more shut.
All these things contribute to the overwhelming feeling that I don't fit in. I haven't found my people, my place, in the gay community.
Flagging Pride
I marched in my city's Pride Parade this year with several dozen co-workers, walking the two mile route passing out goodies to the crowd. My nerves were wracked initially, but over time I started feeling comfortable. Happy, even, which is an uncommon feeling in my life.
My stroll through the Festival, however...
I weaved through security in the hope I would find my people, my place. Instead, I was greeted by a loud, glorified county fair with rainbow flags.
The street was lined with typical food trucks and corporate booths where you could win branded "prizes" (ooo, an insurance company magnet with "Happy Pride" hastily scrawled on it. Thanks.) Then there were "social areas" where people could meet up: a beer garden blasting dance music (I don't drink and have trouble filtering voices in loud environments,) stages blasting dance music into scantily-clad crowds seething and grinding on each other (don't fucking touch me,) and an 18-and-older "leather & BDSM" area featuring a sign-spinner clad in nothing but a jock strap (noooooooooooo thank you.)
Everywhere I looked. Everyone I saw.
Nothing for me.
No one for me.
After an hour circling the place, I left. Disheartened. Resigned to the fact that Pride just isn't my thing.
Maybe that's the curse of the Quiet Gay.
Maybe that's okay.
But it sure as hell doesn't feel like it.
