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Being Gay in America

I’m going to tell you a story. It’s a story about a boy. The name doesn’t matter. The place doesn’t matter. The time doesn’t matter. The age of the boy doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except for what happens and what we learn from the events in the story, and the discourse that follows.

Have you ever had a secret? What about a secret that had the power to alter how you lived your life? What happens when the secret starts to eat away at you, scaring you, until one day, you break? There is a boy. He sits alone at a barren desk, in a barren room. He has nothing to do, nowhere to be; he is alone. But he isn’t alone. His thoughts race through his mind, uncontrolled; a runaway train whose only chance of stopping in to be destroyed or to somehow be stopped by a second party. His secret jumps on the train. The boy grabs his phone. He types a long winded message. He posts it to his social media. He is free.

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And let’s be honest, that’s pretty darn gay.
 

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And let’s be honest, that’s pretty darn gay.
 

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