(Photograph by Daniel R. Doherty)

One columnist shares the early root of her never-ending affection for all things gay.

By Brittany Moseley

I have Carol Weston to thank for my love of gay men. As a kid, I was a devout reader of Girl’s Life magazine, and Carol was the magazine’s advice columnist. I read her “Dear Carol” section religiously each month, but I never thought I would write her. I was not one for sharing. However, when my parents sat me down at age 11 and told me my oldest brother, Sean, was gay, I suddenly was in need of advice.

Although I’m ashamed to say it now, when I learned my brother was gay, I wasn’t thrilled. In fact, I was pissed. I had no problem with gay people, but I was a kid who lived a sheltered life in a sheltered town, and I wasn’t ready to share my brother’s sexuality with my friends. Hell, I wasn’t even ready to share it with myself. So I wrote to Carol. Weeks later, when my parents told me there was a letter in the mail from some woman named Carol, I grabbed it and ran upstairs.

With each sentence I read, I felt better. Turns out, I didn’t need my parents to tell me it was OK Sean was gay. I didn’t need my best friend Heidi to make me feel better by laughing and saying, “Well of course he’s gay! He wore a pink sweater!” (This was 2000, after all, before pink was acceptable on men.) All I needed was a slip of paper from Carol Weston to make me realize it didn’t really matter who my brother dated. Her words still resonate with me today: “He is who he is. He didn’t choose to be gay. He is gay!”

Sometime between my “Dear Carol” experience and now, I became a fag hag. I blame Facebook. Suddenly, I could find guys who strictly liked guys. The week before I started college, I went a bit crazy with my friending of gay boys. Each was a potential BFF. I was looking for the Will to my Grace, the Stanford to my Carrie. Then I found Adam. He still makes fun of me for the friend request I sent him. He had no idea who I was, but I was ready to be his new best friend. We bonded over everything at our first college party. I recall drunkenly asking him to be my gay best friend. (To all you other gay boys I randomly friended, I apologize for being a first-class creeper.) After I met Adam, I was hooked. I found it so much easier to relate to gay guys, and I still do.

Sometimes I hate when people call me a fag hag. I worry everyone thinks I like gay men simply because they’re gay. I would hate to think I’m that narrow-minded, but in all honesty, once I became friends with Adam, the rest just sort of popped up. Next came Patrick, Eytan, Sean, Asa and Jon, followed by a new freshman class including Jared, Aaron, Paul, Dan and Chase. And then another group with Anthony, Wesley, Dominick and Tom. I suddenly had more gay boys’ numbers in my cell phone than straight boys. I went to parties with gay boys. I ate dinner with gay boys. I even got my own Facebook group, “B.Mo’s my hag.” I did everything with gay boys — well, except the obvious.

At one point even I thought, “Wow, Brittany, maybe you need to find some straight friends.” But it’s difficult to leave your comfort zone. I mean, when you have that many guys saying you’re fabulous, who would want to give all that up? I did, however, stop seeking out gay guys on Facebook. Ironically, some of them seek me out now, which I find amusing and slightly creepy. I’ve made some straight guy friends, and by some, I mean two.

I’ve learned to accept my fag-hag status. I’ve gotten used to being the token straight girl in the room, and I know when I get married, I’ll have at least one male bridesmaid. I’ve become one of the guys. My guys just happen to care about boys, Britney Spears’ latest scandal and the latest episode of “Grey’s Anatomy.”

Carol Weston’s advice did more than help me accept my brother’s sexuality. Whenever I stand up for gay marriage or cringe when someone says “faggot,” Weston’s letter is always in the back of my mind. Now, when I think of the letter, I laugh and wonder if the poor woman had any idea what she started when she wrote me back. It may sound cheesy to give so much credit to one letter, but it was all I needed when I was 11 years old, and it’s all I need now. I feel immense gratitude that Weston took the time to scribble a reply. She was just doing her job, but for me, she did so much more.

Brittany Moseley is a senior magazine journalism major.

(This article originally appeared in the Winter 2009-10 print edition.)

Alfreda Brown, Kent State vice president of diversity, equity and inclusion (Photograph by Abra Williams-Witzky)

By Dr. Alfreda Brown

We had been working together at another university for several years. He cared deeply about so many of the same things I cared about. We had a mutual understanding that was easy flowing as only two great friends could have.

One day, without any warning, and in a matter-of-fact kind of way, my long-time friend simply said it: “I’m gay.” He said it while talking about a lot of other things; it was sort of mixed in some other statements. I almost missed it. He didn’t seem to want to give me the chance to respond, but I knew how much he wanted me to know. He needed me to hear him say it.

I was stuck for a moment. I looked away from him, and when I looked back, I knew he was searching — searching for our friendship, our relationship that was so easy-flowing, so good, so kind, so wonderful. He needed me to understand. Even though it was a subtle need, it had been a weight on him. He needed to tell me. I needed to reaffirm our friendship. It wasn’t time for me to flake out, and I didn’t. But I wasn’t sure I really heard what I heard.

You may be sitting here reading this and wondering to yourself, “What’s the big deal?” In retrospect, in some ways, I think the same thing but not in the obvious way. My friend’s two simple words — a frank, personal admission of part of who he is, has ruined lives and separated friends and families forever, it seems. Living life in the closet is a safe place for many. If someone hasn’t come out yet, they may not be ready to accept the reality that they may be treated differently by some just because of who they are.

Yet there is an undeniable freedom in the release of those two words. Breaking the silence is the beginning of unlocking the personal prison in which someone who’s different from the majority places him or herself. It is not in how the world treats us that determines our destiny; it is the internal struggle with accepting the change we need to make within ourselves. We have the power within us to change the world by first changing how we will deal with the world.

What would you have done in my place? What would change about one of your best friends if he or she came out to you today? We’ve all kept things from someone we’re close with, but imagine the burden of keeping something as personal as sexual preference from someone who’s so important in your life. How would you do it? Could you do it?

No one should have to carry such a burden.

As Kent State’s highest-ranking diversity advocate, I’m working to make Kent State a university where no one should fear standing up and being out about who he or she is. I am a firm believer that we can put excellence in action only when we foster appreciation of all differences, however subtle or obvious they may be. It is the right of all people to be treated with respect and dignity.

But recognizing differences and promoting their value in the majority is just the start. Difference is a norm in America; we are a country full of difference, which has been our capitalizing strength — and at the same time, our destructive downfall. We struggle with it as a nation because we have not, as a society, placed value in educating current and future generations that what seems to separate us actually binds us together as a strong nation.

Mahatma Gandhi tells us to “be the change you want to see in the world.” And that’s the challenge I make to you, Kent State, and the challenge that motivates me every day I come to work to make this university a better place for all of us.

I encourage you to ask lots of questions about things you don’t understand. Share information about those things that you do understand, and keep an open mind and a willing heart for change. If you are in class and someone makes a hurtful, uninformed remark, challenge it. Ask, “Why?” We need more advocates who will stand up for those who find themselves at a disadvantage because of differences in the way we think, live and simply are.

And I’m here for you, for all students, staff and faculty at Kent State. In spite of what it feels like at times, things do have a way of working out. As it reads in our university’s official code, “Kent State University is … committed to maintaining an educational, residential and employment environment free from hostility, intimidation, or harassment based on such personal attributes as race, color, religion, national origin, age, disability, identity as a veteran with a disability, veteran of the Vietnam era, gender, sexual orientation, or on any other basis.” That’s a lot of people to stand up for, and whether you can check any of those boxes yourself, I am wholeheartedly an advocate for your success at Kent State.

I was speechless when my friend came out to me 15 years ago. I really had no idea this was who he was, and did it really matter? For a split second, I wasn’t sure I was talking to the same person. I was caught between two opposing opinions. I never had to choose to be close friends with someone gay. But the choice was made for me. I was already his friend. I knew he was still the same person and one of my very close friends. Being gay could not change that.

And it didn’t. Being gay made no difference whatsoever.

Dr. Alfreda Brown is Kent State’s vice president of diversity, equity and inclusion.

(This article originally appeared in the Winter 2009-10 print edition.)

Of course there are the marked opposites. Those in Massachusetts seek peace, “but peace only under liberty.” While “the people rule” in Arkansas, our fellow Americans in Florida simply trust in God.

When it’s evident through mere comparison of trivial expressions we live in a nation quite divided, it’s not so hard to acknowledge the differences that divide Americans. It’s our inherited history to want to be divided. But taking legal strides to ensure equal rights along the lines of gender and race has been socially acceptable for decades.

The blurring of those lines — making it harder for those who want to regulate the divides — is what this issue of Fusion is all about. In Akron, the Gay Community Endowment Fund is expanding awareness. In Cleveland, a domestic partner registry is set to open in May.

Here at Kent State, staff and faculty enjoy domestic partner benefits. And, I know, we even put a straight frat guy on the cover — because an ally with a story is an ally with a story no matter the movement.

If we only follow along the lines we’re born onto, we make no progress. We are united through our division, and whether it is in the depths of the South or along the border at our north, it’s impossible to stand united without being true to yourself and true to those in your life.

Change is still coming to America. Legislature by legislature. Ballot by ballot. If you give up and accept less than your rights, you’re just as un-American as those who want to deny them to you.

What a novel idea. “Eureka!” — as they would say in California.

Enjoy,

Adam Griffiths
Fusion editor

By Sara Scanes

Sara Scanes

When I finally decided I was coming to Kent State, the first thing I did was join the university’s network on Facebook.

The second thing I did was find myself a gay boyfriend on campus.

With the decision to come to college came the unfortunate truth: I would be leaving Tony, my gay boyfriend, behind (or, rather, in Cincinnati, since that’s where Tony was headed for school).

For those uneducated in the matter of gay boyfriends, a gay boyfriend is any sexy, savvy straight girl’s secret weapon. For the gay boyfriend is not only your best friend and the go-to gay for any sort of hair, make up or fashion emergency, but he’s also the best damn date when you’re without a straight boy to doll up and parade around with.

A gay boyfriend’s services include — but are not limited to — first-date planning, gossip and man-bashing, late-night calorie binges during “Sex and the City” rerun marathons on TBS and accompanying his hag to dances, formal events, office parties and couple’s holidays.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to properly function without a gay boyfriend, so it was absolutely crucial that I find myself one closer to my new home.

I logged onto Facebook and searched “interested in men” in the Kent State network.

The first boy that came up in the search looked young, but cute, and he liked the same shows and bands I did. Clicking “Add to friends,” I gave up my search. After all, you can’t have two gay boyfriends, so why try to court more than one? But a blond-haired boy was moderately receptive to my friendship. We exchanged instant messages, but we didn’t hit it off online.

I gave up my search. Rejection felt tough.

But when I came to Kent, I contacted my lukewarm Facebook friend to see if he wanted to get lunch. He agreed, and when I saw him walking toward me outside the Student Center in his “Where’s Waldo”-style polo, sparks flew.

I found him.

As time passed, he realized he had found his hag, and the boy I’d Facebook-stalked in March was now my gay boyfriend.

Now since I was a freshman in high school, I’ve had more boyfriends than I can count on two hands, but I’ve only had two gay boyfriends. Of the 15 dances I went to while I was in high school, I went to 10 of them with my gay boyfriend. For about half of those 10 dances, I had an actual boyfriend I could have taken.

Why didn’t I take my actual boyfriend? Well, like many modern advances in areas such as medicine and technology, the powers that be built a better date to weddings, dances, banquets, clubs and holiday parties when they discovered the gay boyfriend.

He dances, and unlike the straight boys you could have dragged along after wrestling them into semi-formalwear, the gay boyfriend will dance without you begging and pleading and promising to put out. On top of that, he’s usually good at it.

He won’t argue about matching. If you’re wearing a teal dress, you can bet he’s going to find a tie the same color, much unlike my straight boyfriend sophomore year, who wouldn’t wear a pink tie to my homecoming. I tried and tried to get him in a pink tie, but he wouldn’t budge. He showed up in a purple tie and a pink shirt two sizes too big.

Your friends like him. While your actual boyfriend is a douche bag who treats you like crap — I mean, you did take a gay boy to prom over him for a reason — your gay boyfriend is on great terms with your friends. He’s so cute and fun that your friends might have forgotten you were there if your hand wasn’t linked with his.

There’s no gossip. I don’t mean that he won’t gossip, because that is hard to say. No, rather, no one will gossip about you and your date like they would have if you’d brought the mediocre-looking guy from work. There’s none of that “Are they dating?” “Are they sleeping together?” “Isn’t she mad that he’s dancing with other girls?” They all know he’s batting — more like pitching or catching — for the other team.

Even if you’re not taking your gay boyfriend to a formal event as your date, he’s got one up on most boyfriends in that he’ll remember your birthday and get you a gorgeous pair of silver sequined flats. He’ll bring you things when you’re sick, or really hungover. He’ll listen to you bitch without complaining, as long as you let him vent, too.

He’ll cuddle with you any time. He’ll tell you when you look fabulous, and he’ll tell you when you look horrific.

If I failed a test or a class, lost something important, got turned down for a role in a play, got dumped, got rejected by a college, got turned down for a job or made a big mistake, my gay boyfriend was always there for me.

Whether it was Tony, the dancing queen who preferred to play video games with my brother rather than accompany me on a shopping spree, or Nick, my newfound fag, who is relatively fluent in five or so languages and has blood that’s probably 90 percent Diet Coke, I have always been able to count on my gay boyfriend.

This March, Tony and I celebrated our fifth anniversary; Nick and I celebrated our one-year. So far, they are the longest relationships I’ve ever had.

And that doesn’t bother me one bit.

I distinctly remember being profoundly saddened by the idea that John would be denied the things I took for granted about my future — getting married, having kids, being accepted by family and peers, living safely — simply because of the people he loved. When November 2004 rolled around, I cursed the fact that I wouldn’t be 18 and watched as ignorance and hate won out over what I knew to be right: Our government was based on the idea of granting freedom, not taking it away.

I desperately, desperately wanted to be a part of something that could right that wrong. So I became involved in politics, the Daily Kent Stater and eventually this magazine.

Adam and I drove to Cleveland to see “Milk” in December, and I left the theater with an intense, unyielding desire to work like never before for equality. And it hit me. Harvey Milk was known for saying: “If they know us, they don’t vote against us.”

In Fusion’s short history, it has lived up to that challenge. It serves not only as an outlet for the LGBT community and its allies but tells the stories of the people within it — the people who, whether by waving banners or quietly living their lives out of the closet, take Harvey Milk’s legacy and run with it.

In this issue, we learn about a fraternity that focuses on inclusion and acceptance, films that feature the experiences of those who are LGBT, and last but not least, the undying lessons Milk taught us. In my mind, this issue is dedicated to him, and to the countless others who came before and after him to work tirelessly so that love and equality know no boundaries.

Here’s to another five years (and more and more) of trying to be a voice so that someday everyone will know the story of someone who’s LGBT.

Theresa Bruskin
Fusion managing editor

By Simon Husted

Simon Husted

Virtually everyone has had insecure thoughts about body image. For many, it’s realizing pants worn months ago aren’t fitting as comfortably as before. For me, last year, it was looking at a photo my parents had taken of me while visiting Kent State. At the time, I was 5-foot-6 and edging on 250 pounds Regardless of how much I hated admitting it, I’ve always known I was fat, and never could I remember a time when I wasn’t. Seeing myself in any picture made me upset, but it was in this photo I realized my nightmare of staying obese forever was on the verge of becoming reality.

According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, 35 percent of adult females and 33 percent of adult males are classified as obese. On top of serious health risks such as heart disease or Type 2 diabetes, people who perceive themselves as unattractively overweight are vulnerable to lower self-esteem and self-image.

It wasn’t very long ago I would go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, tear up and ask myself questions such as, “Is this how I’m going to look for the rest of my life?” At the end of each of my ranting spells, I’d always make up some half-full promise to change my lifestyle and become healthily slimmer. “I’ll cut a meal out of each of my days,” or “I’ll do more chores around the house to burn calories.” The most depressing part of it all was realizing that these “promises” were just part of many ill-faith cycles where I’d fail in the end.

My biggest priority concerning a social life during those years was blending into the crowd or more so hiding in it. I’d go as far as to argue obesity was the number one reason I stayed in the closet for my entire high school life. Unlike most of the LGBT peers I’ve met in high school and college, my life had no actual religious or family barriers. Both my church and family welcome diversity. What kept me so reluctant about the openness of my sexuality was the “distinctive” attention I’d direct toward my obese figure and me. I was so sure if any attention were directed at me, it’d eventually find its way to my repulsive gut, man boobs and sheer width. It may sound silly now, but it plagued my mind throughout high school and prevented the openness of my homosexuality only up until recently.

So obviously there must’ve been a happy ending, otherwise I’d be 85 pounds heavier and still in the closet. As it turns out, success does come by taking one solid leap and progressively moving forward.

In relation to becoming fit, solid leaps more than often take on the form of routine exercising. Mine was committing my weeks to more than eight hours of jogging and weightlifting, first at the gym in my hometown, then at the rec center here on campus.

I took further steps in losing weight by setting both small and moderately effective rules for me to follow. One dramatic change I made was forcing myself not to consume calories after 8 p.m. Although the cause is highly debatable among health practitioners, most studies have shown a correlation between weight loss and cutting late-night eating and snacking. Another less direct habit I adopted was keeping records — first on my weight, then on my workout performances. Recording weights and workout performances helped me keep focus on my goals, whether it was to lose five more pounds by the end of the month or strive to chest press three sets of 190 pounds at my next gym visit.

What’s amazing is it all worked. Between April 20, 2008, the day I began working out, and Aug. 20, the day I moved onto campus, I had already lost 40 pounds. I hadn’t weighed so little since seventh grade. I was so proud of my accomplishment, but I knew there was more work to be done, and as crazy as it sounds, campus life made my weight-loss adventure even easier to achieve. Walking the campus from destination to destination burned extra calories my gym visits had missed, and my independent eating schedule held less hunger temptation than at home, where my mom would sometimes cook spaghetti at 9:30 at night. Instead of losing 10 pounds each month, I was losing more than 15 pounds By early November, I reached my weight loss goal of 80 pounds, and since then I’ve been building muscle and shedding the rest of my extra skin through exercise.

I’d be lying if I said losing 85 or more pounds is easy. In fact, there’s no way of measuring the difficulty of losing weight because it’s a different experience for everyone, considering all sorts of varying obstacles. For some, it’s convenient time management. For others, it’s living in an environment, caving in to unhealthy temptations. And for the rest, it’s either some emotional, biological, medical or chemical issue preventing someone from reaching his or her ideal weight and figure. Whatever the issue, the basic key in solving it is taking one solid leap in front, and then gradually moving further on from there.