From Jodi Bromberg's "Red Fish, Blue Fish," Fall '94 From Jodi Bromberg's "Red Fish, Blue Fish," Fall '94For the past year, for the past 12 columns, I have bit my symbolic tongue, refusing to write what was most on my mind in this most public of forums. But this column may very well be the last I ever write at Penn, and like a kid who's really got to the bathroom, I can't hold it any longer. So here goes. I don't know how else to get in touch with you. I would've called, but I don't have your phone number. I would've written, but I don't have your address. I would've called out your name, but I don't know it. I only see your unhappy face walking up and down Locust Walk every day. But you never say, "Hi." Is it because I openly and voluntarily identify myself as a bisexual? Why do you only poke your head out to dance, drink and meet a mate to take to your bed? I am treated differently, sometimes better, often times worse, because I choose to include women in my bedroom repertoire. I am asked to constantly defend my sexual orientation in debates, lectures, classes, meetings, either implicitly or explicitly. If I do not, I am treated as if I am straight. You sit beside me, but you don't say a word. You would rather people believe that you really aren't what you are. You try and take advantage of the heterosexual privilege awarded to straight people. Your sexuality is your own dirty little secret, played out only in the confines of your bedroom. My identity with the sexual minority community, on the other hand, has turned into a defining component in my life. That is, people define me as "the queer one." I am considered a "gay activist" on this campus, but I don't know what that means. I'm just fighting for my damn rights. I go around to classes, to fraternities, to sororities, to dorms and speak about my experience as a member of the queer community. I do all of that, because it is important to me. I don't see how I can honestly and respectfully live my life without being an "activist." I don't see how anyone can. I don't understand the Clarence Thomases, the Roy Cohns of this world. Tucked in my backpack, I keep a rhetorical two-by-four handy to bash back the regular onslaught of hurtful words because no one else is doing it for me. It is you, who remain in the closet, who are wounding me most of all. You could be my ally, my friend, my partner-in-crime but instead, you sit quietly, an accomplice to their crimes. I have learned to depend, instead, on the help and alliance of sympathetic straight people. I would take their company over yours any day. In the midst of this war, I have tried to pick my battles carefully. But recently, I have come to realize that the war begins, not in enemy territory, but in my own backyard. When you refuse to be counted, you are telling me that I am not valuable, that I am not worthy, because I love as you do. When you let a homophobic comment slide, or tell a homophobic joke, you're slapping me in the face. I expect that from the heterosexual masses. But you – you should know better. When you stay in the closet and refuse to be open about your sexuality, you are making me bear your burden of this struggle too. I can tell everyone that you are in their classrooms, their fraternities and sororities, their singing groups and sports teams, but only you can prove it to them. Is it really so easy to remain in the closet? To lie every day about where you are going? About your friends? Your loved ones? Is it really so easy to wake up every day and look yourself in the mirror? "Oh, but you don't understand," you cry to me. I understand perfectly. I understand that your high-maintenance life is protecting you from the bashing the rest of us have to take. I understand that your closet door is keeping ROTC on campus. I understand that your closet door allows professors to ignore gay and lesbian history. I understand that your place amongst the stuffed shirts gives you a certain respectability in this world that I can never have, that I do not want. Because I am proud of loving women, while you, you would rather be straight, would rather "act straight" (whatever that means.) I see you at bars like Woody's or Hepburn's or stores like Giovanni's Room wearing your Penn sweatshirt or fraternity letters as a coat of armor. I see you walk down Locust Walk every day. I see you brush by the Lesbian Gay Bisexual Alliance table on Locust Walk during Activities Day, afraid to look, afraid someone might see you, might somehow know. I sound angry, don't I? Bitter, even. That makes me sad. I don't want to be bitter. But when every day becomes a battle, what choice do I have? I know what it's like to be in the closet. I was there once, try as I might to forget. I know the awful sinking feeling when someone makes a comment about "the queers," and you feel like you can't speak out. I know it's hard and scary. But Christ, get over it! Oh, if only all the men who sleep with men and women who sleep with women turned purple for a day! Wouldn't that be embarrassing, as the closet cases of the administration, of the faculty, of the student body were all forced into the limelight? I understand that letting people know what you do in your bedroom – because it eventually comes down to this every time, doesn't it? – is tough. It hurts sometimes and it feels a lot like exploratory surgery. There are 20,000 people at this school. Maybe 200 of those people are out on campus – maybe. Sure those of us who are out usually yell pretty loudly. Sure, we can make up in strength and political clout what we often lose in actual numbers. But I'm tired of fighting for you. Ten percent of us on this campus are gay or lesbian. Probably more, since academia has a way of attracting queers. But yet, only one percent are out. You're pathetic. Some members of the gay community are going to say that I am doing the "community" more harm than good by writing this column. That to show in-fighting in the queer community is divisive, is hurtful, is the equivalent of airing our dirty laundry in public. But I offer you only this: if you not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem. It's your choice. I've already made mine. Jodi Bromberg is a senior History and Communications major from Springfield, New Jersey. Red Fish, Blue Fish appeared alternate Thursdays.
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