MITCHEL BROUSSARD, 25, WRITER, LOUISIANA, USA
There’s a specific memory I have of my childhood that makes so much more sense after coming out than it did in the years beforehand. I was probably eight or nine years of age at the time, and I was describing a new kid in my school to my sister with a little too much enthusiasm. I still remember him, too: he had a Devon Sawa circa Little Giants bowl cut, parted down the middle, and an open flannel button down. She – four years older than me, mother of twins now, worldview since widened – asked with the blunt off handedness only someone on the verge of being a teenager could muster, “What, are you gay?”