It’s Not Me, It’s You: Why Should I Have to Come Out?

Words by Kiran Patel (he/they)

When I came out of the closet, I thought my life would turn into a rainbow-washed dance sequence to Whitney Houston’s iconic hit ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’. 

Okay, so I might have stolen that from Love, Simon. 

But being the attention-seeking little gremlin that I was, I knew from a young age that my inevitable coming out would have to be nothing short of a momentous occasion for society, our culture, and the social fabric of the world at large. 

I had it all mapped out. First, I would quietly switch off the TV and turn to face my family (dim lighting, neutral clothing, sombre expression). I would confess to them I was gay (cue shaky voice), that I’ve always known I was gay (cue tear-glazed eyes), but that I was still the same Kiran they know and love (cue single tear rolling down my cheek). They would (tearfully) tell me that they accept me for who I am, and that after all, love is love (tears, hugs, more tears). After that, I’d be whisked down to Ivy by the unknowable gay force for my first dance to ‘Born This Way’, crop top and glitter eyes galore. The rainbow flag would wave proudly above my head as I boogied the night away and finally became one with my people (applause, thunderous applause!).

Unsurprisingly, none of that happened. 

In retrospect, it was probably for the best that my coming out happened gradually rather than in a singular, isolated event, even if most of the time it wasn’t out of choice. And sure, maybe I was a tad delusional in thinking that my coming out moment would cure cancer, water crops, and bring world peace. But the more that I thought about it, the more I realised how unfair it was that I even had to plan a ‘coming out’ in the first place. Where exactly did that expectation and pressure come from? 

At the height of early-2010s progressivism, when YouTuber ‘coming out’ videos, fake Tumblr stories, and Ellen were my key references for how to be queer, I really did believe that my life would reach its coming-of-age happy ending only once I came out. Sure, a sprinkling of homophobia was to be expected. But as long as we had Hilary Duff to call the public out on using ‘gay’ derogatively, the future of queerness looked pretty promising. 

After all, coming out was inescapable. The western media I consumed had me convinced that it was the final puzzle piece I needed to complete my transformation from a shy, self-conscious caterpillar into the confident, girlypop butterfly I was always meant to be. It meant that I could finally alleviate my gay panic everytime someone asked about my sexuality. Even more so, it meant I would finally gain society’s acceptance by confessing to it. 

So when my coming out didn’t pan out the way I thought it would, I felt like I had been cheated of the grand metamorphosis I was promised. All around me I saw the gays living their best lives once they were out. Spontaneous hook ups, drag culture, and a built-in community seemed part and parcel with the coming out experience. And yet, as I continued to get the filthiest looks each time I stepped into a queer space, I couldn’t qwhite figure out what I was doing wrong. 

Given the ungodly amount of pressure I put on myself to be out, I suddenly felt disillusioned. I thought that exposing my sexuality to the world would be my magic bullet to cure a lifetime of self-loathing, and I’d finally get to enjoy the fruits of my trauma with people just like me. But on top of that, wasn’t the whole point of coming out so that I would finally receive that gold star of validation from society for exposing my ‘hidden’ identity and be welcomed back into its good graces?

Don’t get me wrong, the act of coming out can be extremely empowering. For many queer people, it's usually the first real opportunity we have to outwardly express our truth to the world. Not to mention that positive visibility of queerness is essential. It might seem cringey now, but I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to embrace my authentic identity had it not been for people like Tyler Oakley and Connor Franta paving the path for me at a young age.    

                                                                                                                                 
But the idea that coming out should be a right of passage for all queer people seems somewhat problematic. 

Vinod Bal, the co-founder of the ethnic queer organisation Adhikaar Aotearoa, explained the ways that Pākehā-dominant practices, like coming out, can often shape unrealistic expectations of queerness for ethnic people. “Globally speaking, queer people of colour, as a sub-group, outnumber white queer people. But the media we consume about queerness is predominantly told from a white queer perspective. So when our experiences of queerness as ethnic people don’t meet those expectations, it can be incredibly damaging to our self-image.”

Similarly, as Professor Camille Nakhid observed in her research on ethnic queer agency in disclosing queerness, the importance placed on coming out in Pākehā culture often invalidates the lived realities of those outside of it. “Coming out as the standard for queerness often makes ethnic queer people feel like they’re doing something wrong. The Pākehā world is so dominant that it only recognises the strength of vocal queer expression, rather than the secret strength that ethnic queer people carry in their silence.”

For ethnic queer people in particular, safe spaces to express their queerness aren’t always guaranteed. Culturally sensitive issues like familial shame and intergenerational dogma not only ostracise queerness from its zeitgeist, but can even be used to incite violence and abuse towards openly queer people. 

While ethnic queer people may choose not to come out primarily to protect themselves, it’s also done to protect their family. Non-nuclear family structures in ethnic cultures makes coming out less of a personal choice and more so a communal consideration. Being open about your queerness could isolate your parents, your grandparents, and your entire family tree from the safety and protection of their cultural community.

So if coming out is a no-go, how exactly can ethnic queer people express their queerness without compromising their own wellbeing and that of their whānau? The answer, as Professor Nakhid identified, is through ‘letting in’. 

‘Letting in’ describes the gradual process of revealing your queer identity, explicitly or tacitly, to those you feel safe in doing so. Rather than being obligated to have a singular ‘coming out’ moment that will likely be traumatic or authenticating, letting in emphasises your personal agency in choosing who you let in to your queerness. Professor Nakhid finds that for ethnic queer people, “letting in is about seeing your own agency as a strength, especially for those that choose not to publicly come out from a point of safety or in protecting those close to them.” 

Beyond just a safety lens, what letting in really highlights is a fundamental shift in perspective from coming out. The idea that queer people have to come out of a closet has always felt a bit obscure. What ‘closet’ are we coming out of exactly, and is that closet in the room with us now? 

Coming out seems to suggest that it's somehow queer people’s responsibility to declare their ‘deviant’ sexuality to the normal world and patiently wait for their acceptance or rejection. We know that the ‘norm’ is inherently skewed to serve a favoured few. The last time I checked, our society was still dominated by heterosexual, cis, patriarchal, and white structures that have historically invisibilised non-conforming identities to suit their own ideological agenda.

With letting in, we’re finally putting queer identity at the centre. Why should it be our responsibility to continually barter our queerness for a shred of empathy from society? Why should we have to continually educate, appeal to, and compromise with their heteronormativity and cisnormativity? It’s about time that the onus is put on the rest of the world to self-explore their own reductive beliefs on what constitutes normalcy.

Is it a little idealistic to think that we shouldn’t have to declare our queerness anymore? Of course. In fact, expressing queerness outwardly, making it politically visible through labels, and normalising what is still seen as an abnormality is important now more than ever. But at the end of the day, as Professor Nakhid expressed, it all comes down to your own personal agency. To those that hold space in courageously expressing queerness in an increasingly repressive world, God bless! To those who consciously protect their families, support in silence, and choose to let people in, absolute legends! As long as you’re putting your own needs first, it shouldn’t be anyone else's business how exactly you choose to express your authentic identity.

Perhaps the drama queen in me still feels a little bit jaded that I never got to have the grand closet exodus and superficial lifestyle I dreamed of. But in hindsight, I’m so much more grateful knowing that I got to let those that truly matter into the closet with me.