By Sam Mathers, Pride Central Coordinator

In 1980, Diana Ross released “I’m Coming Out” and made an anthem of a phrase so often associated with fear and vulnerability. The song was written by Nile Rodgers and Bernie Edwards, after Rodgers saw a group of Diana Ross impersonators in the bathroom of a popular Manhattan gay bar. Rodgers told the New York Post that Ross connected with the song’s message of empowerment and didn’t at first understand it was “a gay thing.”

The expression “coming out,” was not always associated with queerness. In fact, its origin could not be more heteronormative if it tried: the debutante ball. A centuries-old elite custom, the debutante ball is an occasion in which a young woman “comes out,” or is formally presented to high society as being of marriageable age and good breeding. During the Harlem Renaissance, the phrase took on a new meaning, in the New York City drag ball scene. Modelled after debutante culture, “coming out” at a drag ball was an opportunity for queer people to formally join a community of peers.

Somewhere along the line, likely in the 1960s, the phrase was lengthened to “coming out of the closet,” though it is not entirely clear where the metaphor came from. Historians theorize it had to do with queerness being likened to a skeleton in the closet – something best kept hidden.

When I was a kid, I remember thinking, if I’m bisexual, I’ll just marry a man and then no one will know. The thought was so brief. I promptly tucked it away, somewhat satisfied that I had solved a major problem for my future self. It was a moment I quickly forgot about, yet it completely defined the way I approached relationships in the years that followed.

In high school, I agonized over people thinking I was gay – something I would later learn is not actually a trademark of the heterosexual teen experience. My friends at the time began calling me “Ellen” after I cut my hair into a bob – a nickname I loathed, and one that stuck long after the haircut grew out. I was so fixated on making sure people knew I was straight, and I worried there was some fundamental thing about me that was making them believe otherwise.

I made a point of only telling other girls they looked “nice,” for fear they would misinterpret my intention if I used words like “cute” or “pretty.” I chose boys to have crushes on (not how crushes work – something else I would later learn), but I never let them go too far. I thought the feeling I was experiencing in the pit of my stomach was how it was supposed to be – as it turns out, it’s hard to spot the difference between butterflies and horrific anxiety.

Despite the abundance of incredibly clear signs, I didn’t come out until I was twenty-three, even to myself. The fleeting thoughts began coming more frequently, until there was one that I couldn’t tuck away: sitting in the Xi’an airport, I realized I was probably (read: definitely) in love with my best friend. It’s hard to describe exactly how it felt. Exciting. Terrifying. Most of all, I had an overwhelming sense that I could finally relax my shoulders.

That is, until I started coming out to actual people and was hit with the question, “so, are you lesbian or bisexual?” for which I had no clear answer. At first, I thought I was primarily attracted to men, and that falling in love with a woman was some sort of exception to the rule. Then I learned about compulsory heterosexuality (this is also around the time I realized you don’t choose people to have crushes on.)

I read the definitions of every sexual orientation I could find on the internet, but none of them felt right. I settled on “queer” for a while, and then “gay,” but the word “lesbian” scared me. I think it probably had a lot to do with the Ellen thing, if I’m being honest. I now identify as lesbian, proudly – but the biggest thing I’ve learned is that my label doesn’t really matter. Our brains crave organization, and that’s all a label is. What matters is that I feel like myself – for the first time maybe ever.

It almost feels like I have two selves. I look back at old pictures and I know it’s me in them, but it just seems like a different person, like a lifetime ago. I feel sad for her. I don’t want to, but I do. I feel bad about how much she worried and how hard she tried to push away the thing that made her, her – the thing that made her, me. I wish I could tell her how much better it gets for us.

According to its participants, at its core, the debutante ball signifies a transition from childhood to adulthood. Coming out, too, is a signifier of change. The person you were before is almost unrecognizable to the person you become – the one you present to the world, with the hope of being seen and understood.

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