While it might sound cliche, there really is something so satisfying about being unabashadly yourself. Having been out of the closet since I was 17, this was a concept with which I’d been well acquainted.
In spite of this I’ve still had moments where, feeling uncomfortable in my skin, I’ve opted to sink into the background in fear of sticking out. As I reflect on this, I realize most of these moments happened when I was at work for different jobs. This might seem surprising, since northern New Jersey is generally tolerant, but if you speak with any LGBTQ+ friend, I suspect they will have at least one similar experience.
At a different point in my life, I was working as a content writer for a marketing startup. While the position itself was fulfilling and I enjoyed writing the copy for our different clients, I couldn’t help but feel, if not intimiated, at the very least hyper aware of the overt masculinity on display throughout the office, which I came to refer to “frat boy energy.”
Now, I am in no way demeaning Greek life or anyone who takes part in it; I simply mean that the conversations between employees throughout the office often had an almost tangible “ick” to them. Whether it was talking about all the things they wanted to do to so-and-so model, or detailing their weekend’s bedroom escapades, it felt uncomfortable, but as the new guy, what could I do but sit at my desk and stay quiet?
This escalated to the point where a certain coworker would often appear at my desk with his cell phone in his hand. With a mischevious grin, he would show me intimate pictures various women had sent him. The first time it happened, I was thrown totally off guard and just nodded and said something along the lines of “Oh, nice,” and redirected my attention back to my computer. From that moment on, I realized that I had effectively gone back into the closet.
This was all in the early months of 2020, so while none of us knew it at the time, we were about to experience a world of change together. When we, like the rest of the world, transitioned to working remotely with constant Zoom calls, I began to worry that some aspect of my home life would give away my sexuality. With the novel fear of COVID-19 permiating each moment, I found myself spending an evening “straightifying” my bedroom. Or so I thought.
Despite months of subconsciously creating this alter ego as a straight man, logging into our morning Zoom meeting, I realized too late that a giant poster of Meryl Streep that adorned my door was probably more of a giveaway than anything I’d hastily removed from my dressers. In that moment, I figured the best thing I could do was position my head so it blocked the webcam’s view of the poster, and try to play it off. I couldn’t tell you the contents of that morning meeting, but I can remember that overwhelming embarassment mixed with defeat that I’d been discovered.
I believe I spent about another six weeks working from home with them, my role and responsibilities shifting with each new day of the pandemic. When it was decided that my position was to be eliminated due to the everchanging landscape of 2020, after the initial shock and financial worry wore off, I realized I was relieved. No longer would I have to pretend to be someone I was not.
As the years have elapsed since my time pretending to be a heterosexual marketing writer, I find myself looking back at that experience wondering why, as someone who was out and proud for years at that point, I would skulk back into the closet for relative strangers. I think it has a lot to do with that role being my first official careeradjacent job after graduating college. Aside from customer service and part time jobs throughout college, that was my first real exposure to the “modern working world.” Perhaps this was simply the way it was, the notion of pure acceptance and inclusion being a facet made up for television.
Over the next few years, I found work within other fields and gained more evidence that a truly inclusive working environment is hard to find. When I began assistant managing a sports club, I was surprised to find myself often referred to using feminine pronouns by my boss. She promised she meant no ill will by it, and would often laugh and apologize when she caught herself doing it. I would try to brush it off as not to seem too sensitive, but still, as it happened with increasing frequency, I couldn’t help but find it a little rude. Sure, my voice might be a slightly higher decibel than that of some men, and my interests lean towards pop culture instead of sports, but I’ve come to realize those things truly have no correlation to masculinity. Between being misgendered and the incessantly detailed questions about my personal life, I quickly learned that the working environment was not as accepting and inclusive as I initially thought.
Currently, as I find myself writing for the Tribune, I can breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve found a truly inclusive, accepting working environment. I do believe this came from a combination of increased confidence in myself and genuine good luck. No longer do I need to worry about putting on appearances as some lesser version of myself.
I challenge every employer reading this column to really do their part in making sure their LGBTQ+ employees are feeling accepted. Many may assume that since homophobic slurs aren’t flying through the office, they are an accepting workplace. But there’s more to it than that. We have collectively passed the days where mere tolerance is enough. Consider interpersonal and systematic biases of which you may not be consciously aware. Try to do more to make your employees, members of the LGBTQ+ community or otherwise, feel accepted, safe, and free to be their authentic selves.
