Homocus-pocus

Magicians and closeted homosexuals.\nBoth tricksters, both con artists – determined to dupe audiences into believing a grand illusion. Whether it’s white doves or gay love, shiny coins or man loins, each performer’s hidden secret is kept firmly concealed under the giant top hat of social deception.\nEvery act is based on creating a seemingly magical disappearance, making either people – or personas – vanish into thin air. Though some magicians are better than others, the audience usually knows the truth resides in their sleeves: a rainbow handkerchief just waiting to be pulled out. \nTherefore, it’s ironic that, the first time I came out to anyone, I was handcuffed.\nMy friend Teri had found an orphaned pair lying in her dorm hall, and we had taken turns getting locked up, pretending to be Paula Abdul’s liquor cabinet. The cuffs were tight, constricting – a feeling that I, as well as most freshman queers, had become quite accustomed to. Finally, I decided it was time to escape. \nNot counting Jesus – or Yahoo – Teri was the first person who knew I was gay. As I suspected, she wasn’t all that surprised. We had just spent the previous day using a paraffin wax machine I had borrowed from my mother, watching episodes of “The Golden Girls” as we rested our hands in purple conditioning gloves. \nThe following weekend, she held my freshly exfoliated hand as I drove home to tell my family. In the car, we played on loop the Diana Ross song “I’m Coming Out” (from the Levi’s commercial with the singing belly buttons), as I nibbled nervously from a Miss Piggy Pez dispenser. \nI wasn’t scared – just anxious, ready to escape from the uncomfortably tight “straight jacket.” Looking back on the event now, exactly two years later, I’m almost nostalgic.\nTelling them was remarkably fulfilling, like visiting my own funeral – an almost transcendentally surreal moment when emotion is completely raw and uncensored. Unlike many gay adolescents, I was fortunate enough to have very accepting parents – as cool as Pop Tarts are delicious. \nThe only people I feared telling were my grandparents, since they’re Catholic and wrinkly, assuming that prejudice was hidden somewhere between the flaps of aged skin.\nSo, I sent them an e-mail.\nThe next day, I had received a message back. The subject line simply read: “Gay.” On the page was a link to an e-card. When I clicked on it, a video clip began to play, showing a tiny, animated baseball player hitting a ball deep into the stadium stands. \nBelow the animation, a caption read: “Grandson: We Think You’re a Grandslam ... PS, We love you.”\nI laughed until I cried, speckled tears of relief falling onto the home row keys. After years of lying and countless performances, the magic had finally stopped. The show was over.\nAt least I thought. \nAlthough the handcuffs are now off, I’m still not completely free. None of us are. The chains of prejudice, bigotry and intolerance still exist, shackling us to the reality of American hatred. \nGetting those to disappear is the real trick.