We had expected a horde of people new to the scene, eager to come out of the closet in a nurturing environment. But nobody showed up. Or rather, a few people did, but they were outnumbered by the organizers and they didn't stay. The organizers are friendly, but seem depressed--not to mention mortified with embarrassment. They apologize to us for the nonevent. We tell them not to worry, it's okay. They're still embarrassed. Debbie, my companion, asks me what I want to do now. "Go and get some coffee or something," I suggest.
"There's coffee here, if you want some," one of the organizers says.
The prospect of spending a Saturday night sitting around a deserted community center decked out with balloons and a sound system doesn't enthuse either of us, so we politely decline and head for a cafe.
"So where are the gay people?" I ask her as we drive.
She shakes her head. "Probably dancing at the Biz, as usual."
Does the dismal showing mean nobody around here is in the closet, or just that nobody can be bothered making a statement? She'd like to believe it's the former, but she knows it's not true.
The Coming Out Dance should have had special resonances for Debbie, as some of her friends consider her to be in the closet. She works in a gay bookstore, Obelisk, on Camelback. She wears a rainbow bracelet. If anybody asks her, she tells them she's gay. But that's not enough for some of her gay acquaintances. "They think I should tell everybody I meet," she says. She has another job, and most of her colleagues there don't know she's a lesbian. She doesn't hide it from them; it just doesn't come up. "But sometimes I feel like I'm a coward because I don't go in there and talk about cute girls I've seen," she says.
And she admits she's not out to everybody. Her mother doesn't know. Or at least, Debbie hasn't told her. "I'm planning to tell her. But I'm pissed at her right now, so if I tell her now she'll think I'm just saying it because I'm mad at her."
Phoenix isn't San Francisco. But gay people here are far from invisible. You just have to learn to recognize the symbols. Drive across town or on the freeway when it's busy, and a half dozen or so of the cars you see will have rainbow stickers.
Is there any reason to make such an issue out of something as personal as sexual orientation? It's not gay people who've made it an issue.
While the climate is better than it was, Arizona is still in the dark ages when it comes to gay rights. As recently as the mid-'80s, Arizona State University's newspaper The State Press refused to publish meeting announcements for the Lesbian and Gay Academic Union. This year, ASU had a Coming Out Dance of its own. But, on the whole, improvements are slight. In Arizona, it's legal to fire someone for being gay. In a civilized country, rainbow stickers would be irrelevant. But, in America near the end of the 20th century, festivals and marches are necessary.
So are people like Jody Ohrazda.
Tell Jody that his business card should read "Militant Homosexual," and he'll laugh. He'd never dispute the statement, though. He's the manager of Obelisk. But he does more than peddle gay literature. His entire being is based on his identity as a gay man.
The story of how he came out may cause uneasiness in homophobes secure in their straightness. Jody was 19 before it ever occured to him that he might be anything other than straight. Then he met a man he was attracted to.
When he came out to his parents, they seemed to take it well at first, saying they didn't understand but could accept it. Then they made him promise not to tell his aunts and uncles, and banned him from having his friends in their house. But karma visits itself upon the close-minded--it's not just one of their sons who's gay. Jody's brother is, too.
I meet Jody late on Sunday morning, and we head for South Mountain Park. There's to be a barbecue for Coming Out Day. Like last night's ill-fated dance, it's aimed at those who haven't gotten as far as rainbow stickers and bracelets, a way for them to take the first step.