Coming Out of the Closet (Well...A closet)

Coming out of the closet.

We all know the fear. That familiar insecurity that comes from feeling like an outcast, feeling out of step with your peers, your culture, your surroundings. The anxiety that creeps up your back when you sense becoming the pariah. The room expands, and everyone around you grows into giants, as you shrink in their presence. Their eyes grow red and become downward crescents. Their teeth sharpen. Evil grins creep across their faces.

They will relish tearing you apart. They will cackle with glee as they spread the entrails of your now dismembered husk, examining the intricacies of your innards to find out just what makes you such an absurd clown.

Yeah, you know that feeling. It comes when we fear, or can plainly tell, that there is something different about us. Whether it’s a way we think, act, or immutably are, this difference (if found out) risks alienating us, maybe even from our close friends and family: it’s the fear of coming out of the closet. The consequences of coming out are too detrimental, so it’s okay to stay hidden right? People just don’t understand that you’re different. You can sympathize with them, even if it is close-minded.

Having circulating in DIY music scenes for 15+ years I know this experience all too well. I was at a house show last night, and though it was a friendly space I started seeing the same familiar signs indicating I should keep my mouth shut. One performer complained about over-priced lemonade at a concert, somehow relating it to national identity/location (“I paid $8 for lemonade. What’s up with America?”). She hailed the glories of Canadian prime minister Justin Trudeau, as the room full of 20-year-olds dispensed their wizened opinions on how to better construct a national healthcare system. All I could think was “why should healthcare even be thought of as a ‘system’ in that sense?” But I kept my mouth shut. I had to.

Could I ever be accepted for who I am?

Later I was conversing with the resident and show proprietor. She was a very welcoming person, and expressed genuine concern when I told her that I didn’t have health insurance. She explained that her work was related to the insurance business, specifically fighting insurance companies that are denying claims. With hands in the air she sounded a rallying cry for the empowerment of the proletariat. Maybe it’s how I bristle at the “p-word,” or maybe it’s that the show matron had succeeded in cultivating an atmosphere that felt truly tolerant and accepting, but whatever the reason, in that moment I felt safe coming out of the closet. I found myself just blurting it out: I’m a free market capitalist.