Navigating high school is no small feat, and hiding your identity from the world, or at least your world, can make it so much more difficult. For much of my high school experience, I didn't think I would make it. Whether it be making it to my next class, to college, or just the next day, I was so focused on suppressing my sexuality that I believed death would be better than life. I had come out as gay over the summer. I finally challenged my lifelong belief that I was less than because of who I am. That belief was far from unique, queer youth have believed we were inferior as so our society told us, only leading to queer children writing suicide letters in MLA format, triple checked to spell, and just the right heading. However, my coming out story is not one of immediate joy or bliss. Just like out of a teen coming of age movie, as soon as I got to school my first day I already heard people whispering slurs and mocking my every move. To say I was expecting the worst was an understatement, but I could not believe my first day had already started with bullying. Fortunately, Mrs. Mullen came into my life when I needed someone most. I found my role model. It was my first period class of junior year, AP English Literature. The first thing I saw, front and center in the class, was a pride flag. Somehow I knew it would be okay. Mrs. Mullen walked in, a bubbly and passionate teacher I knew I would like. Our first assignment was to write about the adversity we have faced in our lives, and I took a leap of faith and chose to write about my experience as a closeted gay teenager. The day after I turned in the assignment, Mrs. Mullen pulled me aside and hugged me. This warm embrace is the kindest experience I have ever had. From there, Mrs. Mullen became a mentor, my best friend, and a role model. I ate lunch every day in her classroom. We discussed politics, she listened to me when I cried, and I even got to hear the teacher gossip. This simple act of kindness that one person showed me quite literally saved my life. That very first day of school, ending my life was already a concept running wild in my mind, but Mrs. Mullen showed me that I could be and deserved to be loved for exactly who I am. What her kindness helped me realize as I overcame relentless bullying was that queer students did not have the resources and support we so strongly needed. Many of my peers came to me and said that they wish they were as strong as me, that they wish they could come out but they too were so fearful of the vitriol they would face. It was at that moment I knew I could make a change. I decided to start the ProgreSDA club. Our mission was to increase visibility and relationships between the school administration and minority voices. This is how I was able to pay her kindness forward. I am proud to say I played a role in securing a safety net for queer students, something I wish I was given. From our work, we achieved weekly meetings with a guidance counselor where we could share our frustrations and hardships safely. Students were allowed to sign up to visit the school social worker by themselves. And finally, two of our school bathrooms were made into gender-neutral bathrooms. Now, there is a place students like me can fall back to rather than depression, drug use, or social ostracization. Inspired by Mrs. Mullen and from my own adversity, I found a sense of duty to help other queer youth learn that they are valid, worth self-love, and that they will be loved by people no matter how they identify. I have become a proud queer activist and have been featured in magazines and articles detailing my part in the fight for queer liberation within the world of politics. Fighting to end anti-LGBT discrimination laws, designating higher sentences for hate crimes against the queer community, ensuring an accurate representation of my community in the world, and aspiring to bring a queer face to an elected office one day. I plan to go into politics for just that reason. As I help teach individual queer youth to understand their value, I also want to make an impact nationally. Ensuring that there are necessary protections for those like me, to destigmatize our identities, and support us no matter where we are.

Being a closeted gay teenager in a conservative suburb community is no easy feat. Gossip and rumors move quickly. It is the who’s who of parent affairs, which bigoted jock is dating the hottest cheerleader at the school, and whose party got the cops called on first. From this environment, I learned how to hide, to minimize myself into a shy student with decent grades, and allow my sexuality to suffocate me just to avoid being called slurs in the hallways. Of course, that was until I found myself every Friday at midnight at the small La Paloma Theatre watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show. An audience of punk rockers, rebellious anarchists, and the most accepting individuals I have ever met soon became my family. The Rocky Horror Picture Show graced the big screen with characters I could relate to in the most abstract and chaotic way possible. It was this very community that inspired me to finally tell the world, or at least my world, who I am. I finally challenged my lifelong belief that I was less than because of who I am. Queer youth have believed we were inferior as so our society told us, only leading to us writing suicide letters in MLA format, triple checked spelling, and just the right heading. I believed that to be gay was to be an abomination. Inspired by a ragtag community that lived our truth from 12:00 A.M to 3:00 A.M, I chose to challenge the notion that my queerness was somehow vile, lesser than, or unworthy of love. Now I rise when I am needed, in confrontation with those who object to my liberty. I know that I am stronger, more resilient, and hold tremendous power thanks to the bizarre work of Jim Sharman.

The first time I truly learned to love myself is when I accepted myself. June 12, 2016, eleven days after my fifteenth birthday I was made aware of an event that would challenge a conviction, a belief, that was so ingrained in me that I thought it would consume me. 2,457 miles away my siblings of a family I had yet to accept were taken by the cold touch of death. The Latin night music at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida became replaced by 200 shots fired in 20 minutes. 53 people stumbled through the club not of intoxication but due to the bullets that pierced their bodies while 49 lay dead on the dance floor. As the lifeless bodies left the gurney to lay in the morgue, phones rang to give loved ones the news that their child had been murdered. Many of the calls served as an announcement of their child’s identity, their parents now aware of their sexuality never seeing them love free. As I learned what had happened something hit me. I missed school the next day, I missed meals, I missed my comfort. Reckoning with the event that had taken place I finally challenged my lifelong belief that I was less than because of who I am. Prior to June twelfth, I found myself hidden in a closet far too small. I hid for the fear of rejection, never death. I couldn’t look at a screen without thinking how the community I had rejected was terrorized as they lived their truth. How was I not true to myself. For so long I believed that my existence was wrong, that just one aspect of my identity was an inherent flaw. I believed I would live the rest of my days in the closet, and had even begun to believe that I did not want to live much longer as I felt so ashamed. My belief was far from unique, queer youth have believed we were inferior as so our society told us, only leading to young queer children writing suicide letters in MLA format, triple checked spelling and just the right heading. I believed that to be bisexual was to be an abomination until June 12, 2016. At 15, in both fear and strength I decided to let the world know, or at least my world know, who I was - who I am. I understood the depth of the event, that in another world it could have been 50 bodies. That plus one could have been me and I refused to let that happen. At first, I was embraced, comforted, and affirmed, but later was met with slurs and bullying. As I looked eye to eye with those who lusted for my detriment, I did not care. I had finally delegitimized my belief that I was less deserving of what the world had to offer. I began to unhinge years of depressing, isolation, and anxiety. Not in one day, but as the tears streamed from my face I knew I would be okay. I made a choice to accept my identity, I endangered my life, opened up the door for more ostracization, I risked the normalcy of my life, but it was in the name of 49 souls lost. It was for me to embrace a family that I had never known, a community riddled with fear, but uplifted by strength. I found that challenging my self-deprecating belief I was in the middle of a revolution, just as much as I was in a transformative and healing revolution of my own. The outcome unfolded as I understood that I am not responsible for who I am and neither am I responsible for that hatred it brings along, for the greatest hatred I received was from myself. Now I know that my identity is not a one-way ticket to the realms of hell, but an identity that gives me strength and resilience. I accepted that as my identity is political, so must I be political. I now find myself in the heart of organizing for justice for the queer family that embraced me as a gift, not a sin. Maybe 49 deaths, relationships and breakups, and experiences of bigotry have influenced my life, made me stronger, but I cannot thank these events for at the end of the day I chose to challenge the nation that my queerness was somehow vile, lesser than, or unworthy of love. Now I rise when I am needed, in confrontation with those who object to my liberty I know that I am stronger, more resilient, and hold tremendous power. From this adversity, I found a sense of duty to help other queer youths learn that they are valid, worth self-love, and that they will be loved by people no matter how they identify. I plan to go into politics for just that reason. As I help teach individual queer youth to understand their value, I also want to make an impact nationally. Ensuring that there are necessary protections for those like me, to destigmatize our identities, and support us no matter where we are. While accepting ourselves is one step, we have to push to ensure others will accept us in the highest form.