HAPPY COMING-OUT STORIES! CAN WE DISH?
Blocked from Donating Blood: A Happy Coming-Out Story
When being a risk meant bonding with your community.
I grew up in Los Angeles in the 1980s and 1990s. Diversity — while certain circles might have looked askance at it — was unavoidable. My understanding of the world included many races and ethnicities. I was well aware of the LGBTQ community, especially between 1998 and 2002, when I was involved with artists, poets, and the Psychobilly scene.
So when I moved to Upstate New York in 2002, the sudden lack of diversity was palpable. It was there that I met John.
John was a nondescript fellow. He was not tall, but not short. He was not extremely fit, but not overly flabby. He had a predilection for brown clothing that matched his brown hair. John did not look like somebody you would go out of your way to meet.
Writing this, I am unsure why my relationship with John was so troubled.
Loquacious at lunch
An acquaintance of mine at work invited me to lunch. As he and I were walking out, we met John walking out as well, and — as civility encourages — asked John to join us.
In normal circumstances, I could easily be characterized as “that person who won’t shut the hell up.” In company with taciturn people, I could easily monopolize a conversation, especially at the time, when my mental health had not yet been addressed.
In a (short) break of my own rambling monologue, I asked John what he had done that weekend. He said he and his boyfriend had attended a concert.
I was no stranger to gay men. I’d had relationships with gay men, slept with gay men. But I hadn’t met one for at least a year in Upstate New York. In short, I was flummoxed.
I began wondering whether I found John attractive. Did John find me attractive? He had a boyfriend, I had a girlfriend… what could happen?
My speech ramped from “can’t shut the hell up” to “prattling at high speed with no brakes.” It wasn’t that I was nervous. I think I was just taken aback — knocked off balance by exposure to a community I had forgotten I belonged to.
In another (short) break in my prattling, I asked John why he was so quiet. He answered very bluntly.
If I’d known you were going to talk this much, I wouldn’t have come to lunch with you.
Ouch. Suddenly, I could shut the hell up. I was embarrassed beyond anything I had felt since I was a child. After that lunch, I avoided eye contact with John in the halls. I was laid off the following year.
Interdicted at an interview
Within a year or so, I found I needed a job. This was nothing surprising for a drunk, mentally shaky, closeted bisexual transgender woman too wrapped up in Phantasy Star Online to sleep well. My work was not important to me. As a result, I was not important to my employers.
There was one interview I hoped to nail, however. I received a callback from a company involved in electrical grid management software. They were working on a “smart grid” system that would (theoretically) improve efficiency, reduce costs, and make the world safe for penguins and baby seals — all at the same time!
I was confident walking into the interview. That is, until I turned my head and saw John was on the interview panel.
“Oh, hey…er…man…” I stammered. I had forgotten his name.
The interview started poorly, but I rallied toward the end. I found out later John had voted against me, claiming I was “annoying” and that my personality would be a detriment to the team. I can’t say he was completely wrong.
I got the job. John must have been overruled. He must also have been rankled, as I was put on the same team he was.
Rebuffed by the Red Cross
A year or two passed. I did well at this new job. My path did not cross John’s frequently, and I was careful not to get overly effusive in his presence. I hoped I could heal the wound caused by my behavior at lunch years ago, but John remained aloof.
I did not expect the sudden bonding experience that occurred when the company held a blood drive.
A blood drive — if you have never experienced one — is when a company invites the Red Cross to the office. The intent is to gather many donations at once while simultaneously providing a team-building opportunity. Presumably, employees will bond over buzzing heads, sensations of faintness, and fear of needles. After a jolly time eating a dry cookie and an orange after opening a vein, employees return to their desks and do poor work from lack of oxygen.
A good time is likely to be had by all. Well…except for me.
I happened to be walking past the blood drive when John was watching people in line. I stopped next to him.
“Giving blood?” I asked.
“Nope. You…?”
“No. I can’t.”
There was a slight pause.
“Why?” asked John.
“I’m an AIDS risk.”
There was a slightly longer pause.
“Why…?” asked John again.
“Oh,” I began, glancing at John, “I’ve slept with men in the last decade.”
There was a stillness between John and me. It felt as if the Universe held her breath. But the hold was not after a full inhalation, when the body aches to release carbon dioxide before it poisons itself. No, this was the hold after exhalation. It was the moment of peace, of clarity, of emptiness — before the body begins to inhale again and ruins the moment.
I turned my head a quarter turn as John turned his. There were no words, but as our eyes met, an understanding passed between us. I inclined my head and returned to work. I had tasks to complete, and — fortunately — would be able to complete them with a full complement of oxygen.
After the coming-out
I will not claim John and I became the best of friends after the blood drive. We did, however, have lunch again. I was able to apologize for my poor behavior at lunch; he apologized for his at the interview. I never met John’s boyfriend, but he never met my fiancée. A weight had been lifted from our relationship.
We moved from Upstate New York to Colorado for me to pursue a research assignment as a chemist. Before we left, however, the team held a dinner to commemorate my time with the company. I had enjoyed my job — the work was good, I learned many new techniques, and the team was filled with intelligent and personable software engineers.
John sat next to me during dinner. It felt right, especially as he was the only person to laugh uproariously when I performed “the banana trick” (a technique to condition the gag reflex by deep-throating a banana).
I did not keep in close contact with John after we moved. We haven’t spoken in close to 15 years. That said, I do still have John as a connection on LinkedIn. I suspect he would remember me if I reached out.
After all, John and I shared a significant experience. We shared the moment of bonding that comes from being members of the group on the outside looking in.
I hope you are well, John.
This story is a response to the Prism & Pen writing prompt, Happy Coming-Out Stories! Can We Dish?
