By Edward C. Price, Published: September 23, 2011, Washington Post
Like countless drivers before me, last month I faced the embarrassment of being pulled over by the park police for speeding on Northern Virginia’s congested George Washington Memorial Parkway — during the evening rush hour, no less. As passing traffic slowed, the ire of onlooking motorists became the least of my concerns. The officer informed me that I was being placed under arrest for driving with a suspended license, the result, I later learned, of an administrative error at the D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles. He handcuffed me, placed me in the back of his cruiser and took me to the nearest police station. It was there that I became a victim of another sort.
During the routine questioning — name, phone number, place of employment and, finally, address — I told the officer something that he considered to be grounds for another possible offense. I said that I lived on T Street NW, which he recognized as the Dupont Circle neighborhood of the District. His follow-up question was disdainful and, perhaps worse, asked without hesitation, as if it were entirely customary and even appropriate.
“You’re not gay, are you?”
It was a question that had been posed to me many times in the past. Until a few years ago, my answer had been singular and unequivocal. “No.” But as I began coming out to friends and family, I grew comfortable with who I was, even if I never felt the need to advertise it. But never before had the question been put to me under such circumstances. I was handcuffed, sitting on a police bench and discussing with the officer in an otherwise empty station what citations he might issue. I had a sneaking suspicion that affirming my sexuality was not going to improve my situation.
I hesitated briefly before committing another offense: I lied to a policeman, telling him, no, I was not gay. “Good,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He then warned me to stay away from the “public bathrooms” near the District’s Meridian Hill Park. He laughed heartily. I sat there, humiliated.
The officer must have noticed my discomfort. He reassured me that he would be lenient regarding the citations. I considered explaining to him the real reason for my reddening eyes, my quickened breathing and fidgeting. I thought about taking a righteous stand, allowing the injustice to go no further. This was the sort of “teachable moment” that one rarely encounters in the nation’s capital, a relative bastion of acceptance.
For several minutes, however, I could not bring myself to do it. I spent years accepting and growing comfortable with my identity, but somehow I had permitted myself to deny it in that split second. I was a coward when it mattered, allowing the officer to deprive me of the autonomy and confidence I struggled for most of my adult life to achieve.
It was only after the ink on the citations was dry that I spoke up. I verified that I had been respectful throughout the proceedings and further explained that I had similarly been nothing but truthful, except on one matter. I told him I was, in fact, gay. His reaction was nonchalant — “I don’t care if you’re gay” — as if the issue was solely one of me coming clean to him. I explained that the question and, especially, his follow-up comments were inappropriate and deeply hurtful. He apologized. I omitted, though, that equally painful was my decision to deny the accusation initially. That was not his concern but mine alone.
I left the station that evening indignant about the ordeal, not knowing whether to chalk it up to mere thoughtless remarks or something closer to a violation of my civil rights. It was only later that I realized what was really eating at me. It had less to do with what the officer asked and more with how I responded. I would have been satisfied with myself, had I unflinchingly admitted who I was in response to the officer’s question. But I waited; I waited for a more comfortable, opportune moment.
More often than not, however, the moment is inopportune. What matters most is being able to speak the truth regardless. In addition to a couple of traffic tickets, that’s what I took away from that police station.
Edward C. Price , Washington
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