Always an over-achiever, I can be seen here demonstrating not one but two simultaneous limp wrists. The fabulousness has clearly blinded my brother.
Even at this age, I would tell other kids that I was gay. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew it was bad and won me lots of attention. The fact that it got me negative attention didn't matter.
Around age 15, I realized, 'Oh, wait -- I really AM gay.'
And typical teen angst ensued.
For a while, I just wanted to hide from it. But that 7-year-old pride parade in my heart couldn't be stifled. And by 11th grade, I'd made a promise to myself that if anyone asked, I'd be honest.
Unfortunately, my schoolmates decided that the gym-class locker room would be the time that they'd asked me.
"Why do you wear nail polish?'" someone demanded.
"Ummmmm," I said.
"Are you gay?"
"Uh ... yes, but that's not why."
I think this particular nuance was lost in the ensuing bedlam. But I was actually pretty lucky, as there was minimal physical violence after that, and nothing bad enough to leave a mark. And my family and friends have been very supportive.
These days, I work as a journalist in San Francisco, writing for one of the country's oldest LGBT newspapers, and I document the fight for marriage equality at Stop8.org. My husband and I have been together for 10 years, and my parents, my brother, his wife, and the entire clan all welcome and love him.
And that little 7-year-old is still running around inside me, telling everyone that I'm gay with absolutely no reservations.