At age five, I crept out to my front yard in just my Scooby Doo Underoos and did a dance for our insanely good-looking garbage man. When I came back inside I proudly announced to my dad that the garbage man called me a “queer.” My father immediately jumped up, ready to confront the man who had spit such an offensive word at his little boy. Before my dad could turn the doorknob, I stopped him and explained that I didn’t mind being a queer. Of course, I had no idea what queer meant in that context. I thought it merely meant I was strange and unusual, something I thought I wanted to be back then. I soon learned that being a queer wasn’t something you should wish for, after the taunting and tormenting I suffered at the hands of my classmates. I was pushed down a flight of stairs as a freshman in high school. Luckily, I had an amazing family to escape to after a day of terror in school. But I realize that not everyone is as fortunate. Today, when I hear about kids coming out at the ages of fourteen or twelve or nine, I’m shocked and amazed. I salute those kids, marvel at their bravery, wish them only good things, and hope that the trend continues until it’s no longer a trend and we finally realize that queer kids really are just born this way.