Always an overachiever, I can be seen here (at right) demonstrating not one but two limp wrists. This level of fabulous has clearly blinded my brother. Even at seven years old, I was already telling other kids that I was gay. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was bad and won me lots of attention. The fact that it got me negative attention didn’t matter. Around age fifteen, I realized, “Oh, wait—I really am gay.” For a while, I just wanted to hide from it. But that seven-year-old pride parade in my heart couldn’t be stifled. By eleventh grade, I’d made a promise to myself that if anyone asked, I’d be honest. Unfortunately, my schoolmates decided that the ideal time to ask me was in the locker room during gym class. “Why do you wear nail polish?” someone demanded. “Ummmmm …” I said. “Are you gay?” they continued. “Uh … yes, but that’s not why I wear polish,” I replied. I think this particular nuance was lost in the ensuing bedlam. These days I work as a journalist in San Francisco, writing for one of the country’s oldest LGBTQ newspapers, and I document the fight for marriage equality online. My husband and I have been together for ten years, and my parents, my brother, his wife, and the entire clan all welcome and love him. That little seven-year-old inside me is still running around telling everyone that I’m gay with absolutely no reservations.