A couple months ago I opened up the newspaper and was surprised to learn that it was National Coming Out Day. Letters and columns in The Diamondback and other publications featured the personal “coming out” stories of LGBTQI people from across the country. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. As a Catholic-educated, Midwestern boy fresh off a stint in the Army, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about the plight of LGBTQI people. I didn’t even know what the hell all those letters stood for, and the whole thing seemed a bit unnecessary, sort of like Donnie Darko II, or Delaware.
The stories got me thinking, though, and that’s sort of the point. I looked up the acronyms to see what they meant. I thought about the concept of National Coming Out Day, and I tried to imagine a similar experience that could help me see things from the LGBTQI perspective. I thought about … my secret. Yes, I have a secret. It’s not that big of a deal, but the more I think about my secret, the more I understand National Coming Out Day.
You see, there’s something about me that’s different from most people. My secret doesn’t necessarily define me as a person, but it’s certainly a part of who I am. Based on a few clandestine encounters, I know there are others out there, but I feel alone. They too must be ashamed of the secret. Society has made us outsiders; we’re often forced to walk alone and obliged to take out-of-the-way routes to class. I’ve even thought about trolling the Craigslist “missed connections” board, hoping a like-minded soul followed me down an empty store aisle, or into the restroom of a local Mexican restaurant.
Ever since the day I realized I’m different, I have been living a lie. I’ve been keeping it in for so long that it’s become uncomfortable, and I think the people around me can sense that restlessness, that yearning to let my secret out. And so today, after all these years, I’m ready to reveal my secret. But first, I need you to pull my finger.
My secret is that I like to fart. Truth be told, I’m proud of my farts: Sometimes they sound like I let the air out of a balloon, and sometimes they sound like I stepped on a duck. My farts almost always smell, and the more rancid the better: If I’m in a public place and someone sits too close to me, farting is the kindest way to get them to leave. Everyone farts, but no one wants to talk about farting. GFFOBFTLI (Gas, Fart, Flatulence, Odiferous Blast From The Lower Intestine) enthusiasts such as myself have probably been shunned by society since the first Neanderthal expelled her gaseous son from the cave.
If proper society judges me so harshly for something so trite, I guess I can sympathize with National Coming Out Day. By letting my secret out, the worst thing that can happen is I’ll be left alone. Many LGBTQI people can only dream of such freedom of expression, and I hope our society continues to advance toward accepting people for who they are. It takes some courage to write about farts, but it takes infinitely more courage to talk or write about one’s sexuality. So consider me an ally. And if anyone out there likes to fart, let me know; we can crop dust McKeldin Mall.
Christopher Haxel is a junior English major. He can be reached at haxel@umdbk.com.
