But Some are More Equal

        As a high school senior browsing college viewbooks, I often noticed that a statement of nondiscrimination is usually displayed prominently on or near the cover.  Curiously, though, these statements were sometimes followed by asterisks directing readers to a footnote which explained that, in truth, on-campus ROTC programs did indeed discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.  This contradiction occurs through no fault of the colleges themselves—ROTC programs are required by Department of Defense regulations to discriminate.

I have always been intensely interested in justice, law, and fairness.  Growing up, I was often been disturbed by situations that I have perceived as even slightly wrong or unfair, whether the setting was my home, my school, or elsewhere in life.  My displeasure when I first heard about “don’t ask, don’t tell,” however, was particularly intense.  A high school student, I had never seriously planned on a military career, but as a young boy, like many young boys, I had often fancied the idea of fighting for my country.  Perhaps marching proudly behind my flag, perhaps sailing on a battleship to an exotic land, or better yet, flying a state-of-the-art fighter jet at supersonic speeds to defend American skies—these are the aspirations that dreams are made of.  It depressed me to think that I would be deprived of even such dreams unless I refused my identity by denying a critical part of my personality: my sexuality.  More importantly, it angered me to think that other men, for whom my daydreams were serious goals, men who wanted nothing more than to honor and defend their country, could be refused their chosen careers—their chosen lives—for no reasons other than homosexuality, an aspect of their identities that was beyond their control.  I was afraid, however, to express my disapproval too vocally, lest my friends and classmates catch on that I was gay.  And so I finished high school as the angered but closeted gay youth.

When I began college, though, everything changed.  I was fortunate enough to attend a liberal-minded school, where diversity was respected and celebrated.  The homophobia I had detected in high school was gone.  Coming out, though, was still unimaginable to me—the closet was the only life I had ever known.  After a few weeks, though, I gathered up the courage to attend meetings of the campus organization Non-Straight Frosh.  I walked to these meetings furtively, under cover of darkness, for fear of being seen.  I knew that once I began attending such meetings, I would be outing myself to the queer community, but I still feared being discovered by my straight friends.

I am eternally grateful to the NSF for the impact those first few meetings had on me.  I had finally found a community of people like myself, a group in which I felt accepted and loved.  I integrated quickly into the queer community, and it was an inspiring experience.  I affirmed my sexuality, and the support I received gave me courage.  With each day, coming out seemed like a less terrifying prospect.  An important milestone came with the first major dance of the year.  I decided that I would not bring a female date, casting aside a pretense I had carefully maintained for so many years.  For the first time, I would bring a boy to a dance, and by doing so, I would finally come out of the closet.

At least, that was my plan.  I had yet to set it into action; a few doubts lingered in my head.  The decision was an irreversibility worried me.  So, before jumping head first off the cliff, out of the closet that there was no going back into, I decided to test the waters first.  I decided to come out to my roommate.  I worried that Aaron would be horrified, or that even if he pretended not to care I would detect traces of disapproval.  I hoped and prayed that he would accept me and withhold judgment.  And so I came out to Aaron.

His response was better than I could ever have dreamed.  My highest hope would be that he would neutrally withhold judgment, but he did not stop at neutrality.  “Good man!” he shouted.  He applauded me, commended my decision, and started cheering in support of me.  I almost thought I would cry—I could remember no happier moment in my life.  Coming out to Aaron was the turning point in my acceptance of my identity.  It was such a great experience, and it gave me the courage to come out to all of my friends and follow through with my dance date plan.  I was amazed as I came out to one friend after another, as every one of them welcomed the information and expressed his or her solidarity.  No one treated me any differently.

I had not forgotten my anger at the army’s policy—the army had not allowed me to forget.  For many years, Yale Law School had forbidden the armed forces’ Judge Advocate Generals’ offices from recruiting on campus because the military’s recruiting policies violated Yale’s nondiscrimination policy by excluding openly gay students.  The fall of my freshman year at Yale College, however, the military notified the University that $300 million in federal scientific research funding (funding that went not to the Law School but to other schools of the University) would be withdrawn unless the Law School immediately admitted army, navy, and air force recruiters.  With the military holding this knife at Yale’s throat, the Law School was forced to suspend its nondiscrimination policy.  The army of hate that the university had managed to keep out for so long finally marched boldly and unapologetically on Yale, and the recruiters began their work.  The students of the university were outraged, as they should have been.  Students demonstrated all over campus and covered walls with posters.

Having come out of the closet, I was finally in a position to address the issue that had been bothering me for so long.  I joined Q-PAC, the new Queer Political Action Committee and began working to distribute petitions and promote awareness.  Yale’s administration had protested the government’s decision and was in the process of negotiating with the government for the cessation of on-campus military recruiting.  The students would do everything we could to help.  The military’s threat had been intended to intimidate us, but instead it angered us and drove us to action.  Infuriated, I realized that it would not be enough to stop the military from discriminating at Yale; the military had to be stopped from discriminating altogether.  It was at that point in my life that I decided that the repeal of “don’t ask, don’t tell” would be my life’s goal.

In a nation in which “all men are created equal,” a nation which prides itself on providing “equal justice under law,” no statement of nondiscrimation should have to be suspended—or, even more ludicrously, footnoted—especially not because of government-mandated prejudice, regardless whether the issue be race, gender, or sexual orientation.  It is not enough that institutions are almost nondiscriminating or that the statement “All men are created equal” is almost true.  My reaction to this issue has convinced me that justice is my calling, and I plan to become an attorney.  I will pursue that target during my undergraduate years, and then go off to law school.  “Don’t ask, don’t tell” must not stand.  The road to justice is long—but I will never give up.

By Jacoub Jou, CT

2003 KarMel Scholarship Entry