This weekend I told a new friend about my life as a bisexual de-facto leader at my Christian university. She, like so many friends and faculty and students and coworkers, admired my bravery. I didn’t know how to respond. Now I want to try.

The little room is lit with bright fluorescents, framed by windows, filled with identical white plastic and metal tables. People gather around the donut tray, the coffee pot, the folding chairs. I sit. The woman speaking to me sits, gesturing to her children and her husband as she says their names. We’re instant friends, with so much of life in common, so many kindred stories to share right from the start.

“You’re so brave.”

Suddenly my smile is awkward. She says something else. The moment passes. We’re friends again.

But for a moment, in her eyes, I was hero. It’s a feeling I’ll never get used to.

I came out as bisexual in 2015, my freshman-to-sophomore year of college. I came out to friends and family and pastors, then to blog readers, then to people at my college, until three years later I graduated as both the most and the only out queer on campus.

My role was many-hatted. I was president of “the gender and sexuality discussion group,” the “closest thing we have to a queer group,” not (allowed to be) a club. I was the voice of a silenced piecemeal family, at least a dozen individuals out to me with plenty more I knew existed but never met. I fought to be out. Fought to date a woman. Fought to stay at school. Fought to stay myself.

The students who approached me all looked the same. Young, white, dressed in a cross between traditional Christian modesty and modern indie hipster. Sometimes close-cropped brown hair on beige chiseled heads over t-shirts or polos and flat-front or Bermuda shorts. More often long brown or blond hair, neither curly nor straight, and meek, feminine smiles over chunky sweaters and black leggings with strappy brown sandals.

Always the same tentative, almost-apologetic question.

“Are you Emily?”

Always the same answer.

“Are you in the oppressed studies class?”

Always the same meetings. Both of us draped over a standard-issue blue lobby armchair or leaning over a plate of chicken and potatoes in the crowded meal hall. Cautious, well-intentioned, thought-out queries offered in a weighted, soft voice. Casual, open replies, words marching out in a unpracticed careful order, pausing for gravitas, laughing for levity.

An hour, two. Maybe one lunch, maybe three or four. Time logged and answers recorded and grateful smiles.

“Thank you so much. I love how open you are.”

Shrugging. “I’m an open book.”

“You’re so brave.”

Brave. Adjective. Mirriam-Webster: “Ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.” “Having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty: having or showing courage.”

Courage. Noun. “Mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.”

Ready? No. Strong? Maybe. Afraid? Definitely.

In danger? Depends on who you asked.

Danger. Noun. “Exposure or liability to injury, pain, harm, or loss.” What kind of pain? What kind of loss? Who decides? Who defines?

“You’re so brave.”

I stayed in a relationship unhappy, eventually abusive, because what kind of queer fights for the freedom to love only to relinquish it?

“You’re so brave.”

I cried alone into a pillow so I wouldn’t have to explain why to the well-meaning straights all over again.

“You’re so brave.”

I told all my stories because if nobody tells their story, nothing will change, and nobody else will tell their story, so maybe I have to tell mine.

“You’re so brave.”

I held my anger in tension, never giving up on making my unwelcome home better, never getting permission to rest. Always more change needed, more stories to tell, more people to convince, more work to be done.

Walking a tightrope, further and further every day. Hiding the ring on my left hand in one class, writing papers on queer identity in others. Making bi puns in the dorm, artfully avoiding pronouns in the library. Forever holding my breath around the freshmen. Were they public schooled? Do they know what GSA means?

Are they the reporting type?

“Why did you stay at this school?”

I had an answer. I don’t remember now.

Because it seemed worth it? Because I wanted to make a difference? Because I couldn’t afford to lose the aid I would if I transferred. Because my friends were here, so I wanted to be, too.

Because I shouldn’t have to choose whether to live in secrets or leave.

“I’m the face of us. I have to be. I mean, I chose the role. If I don’t do it, who will? How will this place change if we all leave?”

It won’t. It won’t change when we leave. It won’t change when we stay. No institution survives on intentional community, flourishing relationships, fellowship or dialogue or civility. Institutions survive on money, and at the end of the day, money alone.

“You’re so brave.”

I am Emily. Writer, creative, female, messy, organized, bipolar, bisexual, passionate, cisgender, intelligent, unstable, emotional, skilled, smart, eclectic. I chose creative, passionate, maybe even powerful. I never chose brave.

Brave — ready to face danger. You acknowledge the danger by nominating me brave. You compliment my bravery against danger. What will you do to make me safe?

Brave — ready to endure pain. You see my pain and name me brave. What will you do to heal me?

You choose your words for me. Brave, leader, courageous, strong, committed, determined. Compliments from your lips. Silence from your feet, your hands.

I choose my actions. Written stories, spoken words, cancelled events, flyers posted at midnight, petitions abandoned, newspaper articles censored.

You choose your actions. Inaction is a choice.

I choose my words for me. Creative. Just. Passionate, eager, compassionate, empathetic, emotional, eclectic.

Angry.

Angry at you for letting my work go unaided. Angry at being ignored. Angry at being forgotten.

Scared.

Scared of being expelled. Scared of losing my home. Scared of people who only want me so they can change me.

Hurting.

Tired.

Maybe I am brave. Definitely I am angry.

What are you going to do about it?

With my university’s recent history and the changes coming in its immediate future, these are dark days for anyone with a heart both for the queer community and for Taylor University. This post is dedicated to the LGBTQ family still at Taylor, whatever their reasons and whatever their fights; and to the faculty who helped me and will soon face the choice between supporting the marginalized, hurting students they love or keeping their jobs and providing for their families. I pray for you all.