And They Were Right

I've seen my college roommate's name in the newspaper dozens of times. After all, he is a journalist. I'm proud to be able to say that I know him, but I'm most proud that our names will appear together in the paper later this year; that is, assuming he accepts my offer to be my best man.

He and I had become quick friends. One day he asked if he could give me a survey interview for a class project; I agreed. The first few questions were softballs, and then he turned to me and said, “Were you ever bullied during high school?”

Without thinking, I responded, “A lot of kids thought I was gay and they called me a fag.” He stared up from his computer with a look that read as sympathetic. I’d been debating if I should tell him I was gay, and now was as good a time as any.

“And they were right.”

As he probed into my story, I found myself telling him everything about those days of being harassed. He was a consummate professional about the whole thing, and my fear soon subsided into relief as he guaranteed me that our friendship would never change. After the interview, he headed off to the library to submit his assignment while I sat on my bed and cried tears of joy.

He came into our room later that week beaming. A story he had written was just chosen for the next day’s edition of our campus newspaper, so we celebrated with a dinner on the town. When the papers were delivered to the rack in the lounge the next morning, we both raced over and grabbed a copy. As I read his article, I started to realize that parts of it sounded familiar. And then I saw my name. My first name, right there in the paper, and my story of being bullied for being gay.

At first, I was fuming mad at my roommate for his lack of integrity. All of my other new friends at the university knew that we lived together, so when they saw the article, I started getting a slew of texts from them; all were positive, thank goodness. One of those friends had a connection to the campus LGBT center and hooked me up with a part-time staff position. This made me feel better, and though my anger toned down, my relationship with my roommate was still rocky.

That is until he, unbeknownst to him, helped me come out to my family. Worried that I couldn’t face them directly, I brought home letters over the holidays, and in each one, I included a copy of the article that I had saved. They were moved by his beautiful words and told me as much. I really had no choice but to tell him that I fully forgave him after that. When I get married, I want him there. Not as a reporter, but as my best friend.