By Kiki Arochas, Opinions Editor
In my first ever class at Yeshiva University, I was paired with another student for a group project. We got along well as he was into a lot of the niche interests that I was. As we were talking, he casually mentioned that he was a member of the LGBTQ community. I was flabbergasted; I had never met an openly gay person before. While I didn’t say anything about it or act any different outwardly, my inner thoughts were in another universe entirely. For the next few days, every time we spoke, the same word went off in my mind like clockwork: Gay. Gay. Gay. I was deeply uncomfortable and unaccustomed to this new development. To be clear, I didn’t think negatively of him; but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t separate my new friend from his sexuality.
But then a few days passed, and something strange happened. I got used to it.
Suddenly, as we hung out more, his sexuality went from a cardinal trait to a secondary one, a mere side point to who he was as a person. I was amazed at how something so huge in my perception of him initially was now hardly an afterthought. But this would only be the beginning.
While I was getting used to the idea of having gay friends, my thoughts on a pride club were still mixed. I was certainly sympathetic to the plight of queer students, but I felt that a lawsuit seemed ridiculous. If you really wanted a gay club, why not just go to any other university in America? But those thoughts would soon evolve too.
A semester later, I became good friends with another queer student as we shared many classes together. One day, during the club fair, I was representing a film club that never got off the ground. My friend approached and joined the group chat for my club. After he left, I got up to check out the clubs for myself. I joined the group chats for the Nerf Club, Magic Club, virtually any club that I had a non-zero probability of joining an event for. But then I saw my friend, heading his own table. It was the stand for the Pride Alliance.
I started walking over but hesitated. I wasn’t entirely sure at that moment how I felt about the club in general. But the lawsuit wasn’t really the issue; the true fear I felt was the stigma that would be associated with the club. After some mental back and forths, I decided to at least approach the table, and say hello to my friend.
“Hey man.” I paused, extremely uncomfortable. “So,” I said awkwardly, “What’s this?”
I knew damn well what it was. My friend smirked, knowing exactly what was going on in my head. “The Pride Alliance,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of us.”
I forced a smile in deep discomfort. Once I’d waved bye, I stood with my phone hovering over the QR code, motionless. My friend wasn’t looking over anymore, and I battled with myself as to whether I should join the chat. They did make it clear that it was for both “allies” and queer students, but I was conflicted. I didn’t want any of the backlash; it wasn’t my fight. So I walked away and went back to my stand.
But something didn’t feel right – I was guilt ridden. I couldn’t help but feel that, in a way, I had let my friend down, that I had stumbled on some sort of test. My failure to join the chat felt like a failure to be his friend. I stood by my stand for the duration of the fair, but I wasn’t really there. I was thinking. Once it wrapped up, I decided I wasn’t going to leave without at least trying to resolve the two sides waging war in my subconscious. I approached my friend as we were leaving the fair.
I told him that I wanted to join the chat, but I was conflicted. I felt like I let him down, but I wasn’t sure what to do. Though he owed me no explanation, I asked him if we could talk about it, if he might help me gain perspective. He was positively giddy at the thought. “Sure!” he said with the widest of grins.
Later that week, we stayed behind after our writing class was finished. We talked for over an hour. I honestly don’t remember the specifics of what we discussed but I know how amazed I was. Far from being judgemental, he was open and extremely understanding, simply glad that I was even willing to have the conversation with him.
He gave me perspective on the frequent homophobia that he and others faced on campus, all of which happened without me even realizing. He gave me reasons why a queer student would choose to come to YU instead of any other university. But most importantly, he gave me validation for being confused, and encouraged me for my willingness to engage with a new perspective.
Over the next 2 years, I continued thinking over this issue, listening to and considering many people’s experiences and opinions. I read articles which gave me even more insight into the LGBTQ experience on campus, and still others which argued what the Pride Alliance truly stood for. These articles and discussions pushed me, dispelling my previous assumptions and disagreements.
I understood why that kind of support was so important to my LGBTQ peers – because, for many, it was too often missing.
Fast forward to today and I have a frankly absurd number of queer friends. Many of them reading this may be shocked by how different my perspective and feelings were only two years ago. But that’s exactly why I wanted to publish this now, as I write for the YU Observer one last time.
Anyone can change. People on two far sides of a river can reach each other – but they both must be ready to build a bridge. One needs to have a willingness to ask. One needs to be ready to listen. But, the path to understanding is possible. All it takes is a conversation.