I didn’t know I was going on my first date until I was already on it. It was my freshman year of college and I spent the day doing homework in the lounge of my dorm when my RA Christine came up to me and told me I should to get ready to go out. Confused, I asked her why. She just smiled, reassured me I wasn’t in trouble, and suggested I put on something nice. Bleary eyed from having stared at a screen all day and unsure of what shenanigans she had planned, I threw my work in my bag and headed to my room. Like a scene out of an ’80s romcom I tried on a multitude of colorful outfits for whatever had Christine so clearly excited. While I didn’t know it at the time, she was helping me prepare for my first date, an experience I’d spent most of my life thinking I would never have.
I first started to question my sexuality in middle school; realizing I wasn’t straight and coming to terms with my sexuality was a difficult process. Even though I lived in New York, one of the most accepting cities in the world, I came from a tight-knight neighborhood in Queens of openly conservative people. Everyone knew one another and gossip spread quickly through the pews of our church. This all made high school, an already stressful period, even harder. I made a few close friends my senior year but mostly kept to myself. I already had a hard time connecting with others and the self-imposed isolation I was putting myself through made me feel even more alone.
Though I spent those four years in the closet I eventually began accepting who I was and even came out to two of my closest friends. The most difficult thing was knowing how my parents would react if I were to tell them. I spent many sleepless nights worrying over what I would do if they were to reject me. Advice columns emphasized the importance of having a support system or a chosen family I could turn to, but given how I struggled making friends this didn’t feel like a possibility. I ended my senior year knowing I was gay but unsure if I would ever be able to live that life, for fear of losing my family.
When it was time to move into college dorms my friends and I went our separate ways, promising to stay in touch and meet up whenever we went on break. Living alone was a foreign concept to me, and suddenly, two weeks before I began college, I was living in a dorm, in Manhattan, with no friends or family nearby.
I spent my first night in my room staring into the mirror hanging on my door, the fluorescent lighting reflecting off my terrified face as I tried to process all that lay ahead of me. On the other side of my door I could hear excited residents introducing themselves to one another; in a split second I decided to join them, a move uncharacteristic of high school me. Polite introductions were made and my nervousness gradually melted away. Soon we were laughing in my neighbor Kaitlyn’s room and relating our anxieties over the first day of classes. With the three of us stuffed into the cramped singlet, there was no room for awkwardness and the more we joked around the more I could feel my shoulders relaxing, the only tension remaining from the smile that wouldn’t leave my face. We stayed up till 3am that first night, and while the exact details of our conversation escape me now, what remains is the feeling of joy I felt as I realized I wasn’t as alone as I had thought. The night ended with hugs and words of encouragement. I returned to my room with a lightness in my heart I had never felt before and three new friends.
I became particularly close with Kaitlyn and Liz, two residents I met that first night outside of my room. When we passed each other in the halls of Hunter West, we’d shout words of encouragement over the chatter all around us. There was always a seat saved for me in the lounge on weekdays after class, a fresh baked cookie from Liz marking my spot. On the weekends we’d wrap ourselves in blankets and spend the evenings watching movies, curled up on the scratchy green couches in our lounge.
We navigated college together, seeking each other out on Hunter’s skybridges, and seemingly spending all of our free time talking over shared jars of cookie butter. I don’t know how I got any of my work done freshman year because all I seem to remember are the bouts of laughter that left us gasping for breath on the cool tile of our room’s floor and the smell of the cookies Liz would bake any time one of us had a stressful day.
With each floor meeting I got to know the other residents as well. Emily, who lived across from me, was an artist that had a secret talent for swing dancing. Amanda, whose room was diagonal from mine, hid a wicked sense of humor behind her bright smile and kind eyes. The floor became its own community and I slowly became friends with all of the residents. Christine was the RA on my side of the floor and had a knack for knowing whenever one of us was going through something, always the supportive ear who could offer advice, hugs, and a bit of chocolate. I confided in Christine about my sexuality and my fears of losing my family. She guided me to resources and assured me I could always come to her. For the first time in my life I no longer felt alone.
The more time I spent away from home, the more I realized I didn’t want to live my life in the closet. I came out to Kaitlyn and Liz one night when I was feeling particularly vulnerable, after a tense phone call with my father. I could feel the anxiety lift as I explained my situation, and saw nothing but understanding in their eyes. They offered me their unconditional support, sealed with a tight hug.
After that, Liz and I became particularly close, sharing similar experiences growing up in a religious family. We’d walk home from the train together Monday and Thursday evenings, and I spent those days looking forward to 6:30pm, when I knew she’d be outside Hunter, waiting for me on a bench in her jeans jacket. We became even closer on those walks home, sharing intimate details of our high school selves and joking as we walked. As time went on we became inseparable, working together in the library between classes and exchanging carefully curated playlists of our favorite songs to share with each other. We’d take detours on ours walks just to make them a bit longer each time, and cast shy smiles at each other whenever we noticed the other looking. I realized that what I was feeling for Liz was more than friendship, and I suspected she was feeling the same for me. But how could I know for sure? We never talked about it.
Once I was ready, in my most elegant blouse and slacks, I sat with Christine on my bed. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She leapt off the bed and bounded over to the door. She opened it, and there was Liz, dressed in a suit, a smile on her face, and white roses in her hand. My heart fluttered when she asked me if I would go on a date with her. Of course, I said yes.
We walked to the 6 train like we had all those evenings after class, only this time the shy glances were out in the open, no uncertainty left. We rode the subway to Lower East Side, fumbling to make conversation as our nervous energy got the better of us. Before long we were just giggling.
The restaurant Liz chose was rustic and candlelit. The maître d’ led us to the back with a smile, offering us a table just far enough removed from the main room that we could have a little privacy. The other customers were loud and boisterous but I was completely tuned in to Liz, her smile, her floral perfume, and her soft voice as we reflected on how long we had wanted to go out on a proper date, but were too scared. We ordered small plates of salads and flatbreads, all we could afford on a college budget but perfect for us. A haze permeates my memory of that night, like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The warm glow of candles lit Liz’s face, and every time she laughed my heart raced. Walking back to the dorms, my hand in hers, I felt like I finally didn’t have to hide this part of myself anymore.
Liz and I tried in vain to stretch that walk back to our dorms out for as long as we could, aimlessly wandering the city streets, seemingly the only people out. Liz pulled me close whenever the wind blew and I could feel my blush warming me as I curled into her.
Back at the dorms Liz walked me to my door, where we shared a sweet kiss, a tight hug, and a whispered goodnight. I went into my room and I sat on my floor, smiling into the mirror hanging on my door, the fluorescent overhead light illuminating my face and traces of Liz’s red lipstick on my lips. I must have spent an hour retracing the stain, trying to convince myself that the night had, in fact, really happened.
Though I’m still not out to my family in Queens, I feel freer than ever before in my life. I have my support system, my chosen family. I can finally see a future where I can be me.
