I don’t remember my exact “gay awakening.” Maybe it was watching Peeta in the “Hunger Games” movie. I was obsessed with Katniss’ confidence. Maybe it was when I played “Justice League” and “Mortal Kombat.” I always wanted to be the girl, whether it was Wonder Woman or Kitana. I found something desirable about their femininity.
The female characters allowed me to express a part of myself I didn’t fully understand yet. Looking back, I realize this was a subtle fight with myself—a battle of embracing my femininity while also trying to hide it. Every time I picked a female character, I felt a sense of joy and happiness—quickly overshadowed by guilt, embarrassment, and a growing self-loathing because of remarks from my cousins and siblings for choosing the girl.
I began to question why I was different, why I wasn’t like them. While they were busy imagining themselves as Peeta from “The Hunger Games,” I didn’t want to be the guy who ended up with the girl. I wanted to be the girl. This was about more than my sexuality; it was about being able to express my identity. I wanted the freedom to embrace the things that brought me joy.
It wasn’t my cousins’ or siblings’ intention to hurt me. As kids, we learn from our surroundings, what society shows us, and what our parents teach us. Their curiosity about why I would choose the girl characters reflected society’s stigma around boys and being feminine. What I heard was it was not OK for me to be feminine, or at the very least,
I should pick a less feminine character.
This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of many. Some are even our own Wabash brothers. They, like me, have felt uncomfortable being their true selves because of comments, jokes, and homophobic culture.
Certain traits, roles, and identities like heterosexuality are normalized so early that we don’t even question it. Think about the cartoons, video games, and books we grew up with. How often did they feature LGBTQ+ characters as the heroes, the strong figures, the ones who led the story? The lack of queer representation in media has created
a gap between what we see and the reality of our world.
Though subtle, these messages shape our understanding of ourselves and the world around us. They tell us that being straight is the default, what’s right and normal, while being gay, queer, or anything outside that norm is different, abnormal, or even wrong. For me, choosing female characters wasn’t about strength—it was about finding a way to express a part of myself that I couldn’t see reflected in the world around me. And when society only shows one type of story, one kind of identity as being “right” or “normal,” it makes the journey of self-expression and self-acceptance so much harder. For years I fought with my identity, trying to suppress parts of myself that I hadn’t yet learned to embrace.
I thought coming to Wabash would change all that. I told myself, “This is it. No one knows you. You can be whoever you want to be.” When my family dropped me off at Wabash, I felt a little spark of excitement, as if the second they left, I’d magically become comfortable with who I was. I thought I’d suddenly be free to live as myself, without fear or shame. The distance didn’t make me more confident. The hard truth was that I hadn’t accepted myself fully. I didn’t want to be kicked out; therefore, I did not come out.
In an early moment during new-student orientation, we were doing a group activity, and someone wasn’t doing well. Another person commented, “You’re soooo gay.” Everyone laughed. Using “gay” as an insult was normal and acceptable. No one questioned it. No one paused to think about the harm those words carried. It reinforced the reality that I wasn’t completely safe even in a place where I hoped I would be.
However, throughout my journey at Wabash, I’ve been able to work through those internal battles and finally express
myself openly. Even though self-expression and acceptance are a personal struggle, having people who actively fight against homophobic culture makes the journey easier, allowing people to believe it’s okay to be themselves on campus. I’ve encountered three types of support for queer individuals. I call them allies, accomplices, and assassins.
Think about someone in your own life who is part of the LGBTQ+ community, whether or not it’s someone you know
personally. Picture yourself in a room with them. Where are you in relation to them? Are you behind them? How far? Are you next to them? Are you in front of them?
My sophomore year at Wabash, I experienced one of my first real homophobic incidents after coming out. Until then, I had only heard passive joking not directed at a particular person.
My fraternity has a tradition at Christmas where we write roasts and put them on a Christmas tree. Someone wrote a
roast for one of the brothers that said, “_____ was a gay Black man.” What was supposed to be fun and lighthearted was taken too far when someone’s identity was reduced to a punch line. Most people laughed. Some just sat there awkwardly. When it was obvious to me that the leadership in the house was not going to say anything, I left.
At the next house chapter meeting, a couple of us spoke up. We received plenty of support—even some performative snaps of approval. I call this the support allies—stepping up from behind to show support when it is easy and convenient. But days later, at a brotherhood function when the f-slur was used, the room went silent. Nobody raised their voice. No one said a word.
Allies ask, “Will supporting the queer community come back on me negatively or positively?”
The risk of their own social discomfort outweighs the desire to support the queer community. They stand behind us, but to truly make a change, they need to move up. Change requires unapologetic action. We need support that isn’t just about what is comfortable, but what’s necessary.
Go back to that image of you in the room. Did you imagine yourself standing next to that person? This is what I call accomplices.
Accomplices stand beside you, supporting you even through their own potential risk. They don’t just show up when it’s easy; they show up when it’s hard as well. They are eager to listen, learn, and work toward change.
Last spring after a homophobic incident at one of the houses, ’shOUT held a peaceful protest at Lilly Library to demand action.
I was nervous leading up to it, wondering if anyone would show up, but they did. I walked into the library and saw faces that made me feel loved and supported. I saw my Wabash brothers, including the leadership from my fraternity. Seeing them there spoke volumes about their character, but also about the progress we were making as a fraternity.
They were taking a stand with us, moving from allies to accomplices. We haven’t always been a perfect place in our support of the LGBTQ+ community, but this was a moment of growth. We’re learning. We’re figuring out how to do better and how to support this community more actively.
Accomplices wait until someone else speaks first, and then they follow. While this is an important step beyond allyship and is good support that is needed, it’s not the most ideal version of support. It’s good that they show up when asked, but what we need are those who will act before we even have to speak.
That’s where assassins come in. Merriam-Webster defines assassinate as: to put to death deliberately, slay, do away with, eradicate, eliminate, shoot down, wipe out, deprive of life.
Think about that in terms of battling homophobia—doing away with, eradicating, putting to death deliberately, eliminating fear and hate—before harm has already been done.
Imagine being back in that room standing next to someone in the LGBTQ+ community. Now step in front of them.
Assassins are fearless when it comes to advocating for the LGBTQ+ community. Assassins stand. They don’t speak for the queer community, but they speak up when something’s wrong. They don’t wait for someone else to call it out—they do it themselves. They don’t do it for recognition or praise, but because it’s the right thing to do and they fundamentally believe it.
During Scarlett Honors Weekend, I was talking with some prospective students. One of the guys commented he was from “the gay part” of his state. I immediately felt the weight of his comment. I was so used to having to let comments like that slide, but before I could even react, one of my pledge brothers cut him off. He said without
hesitation, “No, nope, nope, nope. We don’t do that here.”
He didn’t wait for me to say something. He stood in front of me, speaking up because he knew it was wrong. When I thanked him later, he didn’t even realize what he had done. But to me, it meant everything.
If I had someone like my pledge brother when I was a kid playing “Mortal Kombat,” it would have made those experiences much easier. His cutting off my siblings and cousins with a simple, “And what?” would have given me some reassurance and made my journey feel less isolating. Instead of spending sleepless nights with my thoughts and tears, I could have known that someone was in my corner.
We need assassins. Imagine if all queer individuals knew they had someone in their corner. We need people who don’t just wait. People who don’t just stand behind or stand beside us, but who stand in front of us when we need them the most.
I’m not asking for sympathy. I’ve accepted who I am, and I’ve moved on from those who won’t. But if you can’t accept
and support me, then do it for our Wabash brothers who aren’t yet brave enough to embrace themselves, who drown themselves with tears at night, and who might not ever show their true selves. Be an assassin. Stand up. Speak out. Be the reason someone else feels safe to live in their truth.
David Leal ’26 is the president of ’shOUT. One of the organization’s new initiatives is to collect oral histories from queer members of the Wabash community. Leal says, “These stories are meant to honor the challenges and triumphs of our community, preserve the voices of those who came before us, and inspire those who will come
after. Everyone has a story to share, and if you are willing to share your voice for this project, we would love to hear from you. I have shared my own journey, and I hope doing so inspires others to do the same. If you’re interested in participating or want to learn more, please contact me at djleal26@wabash.edu.”