Smashing Closets, Opening Doors

How hard is it coming out of the closet?



Smashing Closets, Opening Doors
By Jonas Bagas



I WAS a little brash when I came out. It happened in 1998, on my last year in UP Diliman, when I was madly in love with another gay man. It was unrequited, but love made it easier to smash the closet: I simply dropped the news to my college friends, then attended my first Pride March, and even managed to blurt out “Oh by the way, I am gay” during my talk for freshman orientation.

Coming out, I was euphoric and had complete disregard for what others would think. That year, I brought my first lover to a family reunion. We were discreet, and thought that nobody noticed. Nobody did, actually, except for one lola who, months later, showed the reunion pictures to my parents and said, “Yan ang boyfriend ng anak n’yo! (That’s your son’s boyfriend!)”
One morning, while I was preparing to leave for school, my father approached me. He was probably feeling tense because he asked me if I wanted some beer. I declined, of course, but that was my clue that he would raise the issue. My heart was in my throat, doing cartwheels. He finally asked if it was true that I had a boyfriend. I said yes. He asked why. I said because I felt like having one. To my surprise, he nonchalantly advised that I should be careful.

And that was it. I was still nervous after the brief exchange ended, but elated.

It was nothing like that with my mom – with her it was a confrontation. I was again on my way to UP, incidentally to attend a meeting of lesbian and gay activists. What instigated the confrontation escapes me now, but big, angry words were hurled, words that injure and injure for life. Smash the closet, but never assume that you won’t be scarred. The air was thick with misunderstanding, and when it settled down, the message was clear: I am unacceptable, and must immediately leave.

It was only when I had walked out of the house that I really broke down. My brother, who had witnessed the incident, embraced me and said he understands. I was sobbing really hard in the bus from Fairview to Philcoa – the longest ride I have ever taken.

I went straight to a friend’s apartment, which became my foster home for several months. Jobless and penniless, I survived with the help of friends. There were days when I’d wake up with money mysteriously appearing in my pocket.


I didn’t talk to my mother and didn’t see my parents for a year and a half after. I dared to attend another family reunion – alone this time – though I meant only to drop by. I was already out publicly, and while I thought TV appearances on gay issues made coming out to my relatives unnecessary, it was still unnerving to see them again.


And then I saw my mother, who seemed to have aged since I last saw her. She greeted me, and everything just melted away. We didn’t talk about the incident—we never did, but it doesn’t matter.


That day I discovered that every time I come out, I also force others, gay or not, including my own family, to come out of the closet of comfort, of hatred, of stereotypes, that have blinded all of us, and to finally confront their own demons.


Blessed are those whose loved ones find it easy to accept something we’ve all been taught to hate or deny. To those who are not as lucky, this shall be our collective struggle and our collective coming out. May we be guided by love, which for me always triumphs in the end? •


Jonas Bagas is with Project Equality, a network of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender groups and activists. You may contact him at jonasbagas@gmail.com.

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