The sexuality of one's friends isn't something I think about often. Well, why would you? The interests and commonalities we share with our platonic companions is enough to sate any curiosity we may have about them. We share our lives with them, talk about our days, perhaps recall moments that were shared together, and maybe discuss our plans for the future. The gender of their attraction isn't necessarily of paramount importance.
I mention all of this because a friend was in my car recently, and made a rather sour commentary on my choice of music. It was some old '90s dance music I cut my teeth on in the clubs, and enjoy listening to for the nostalgia. Now, I've no idea why this particular friend doesn't care for that type of music, or felt the need to voice his displeasure, but it suddenly struck me that he was the second person to have aired a similar discontent while in my car, and that both of them were heterosexual men. The first person, years earlier, actually remarked, "Your music is very gay."
It is during these moments when I become hyper aware of a friend's sexuality. The most recent occurrence got me to thinking: How many LGBT friends do I actually have? Without giving it much thought, it felt like I knew more straight people than gay. Finally, a few weeks later, I decided to try and find a way to quantify it. Doing it from memory wouldn't work. Look at my friends list on Facebook? Eh, possibly. How about going through the contacts on my phone. Bingo! So, like any good, obsessive-minded person, that's what I did. The results surprised me, though perhaps they shouldn't have?
Out of 227 unique contacts on my phone, 33 of them are, to my knowledge, part of the LGBT community. That's roughly 15% of the people I know. Now, official census data from nearly a decade ago tells us that LGBT people make up 4.5% of the U.S. population, so the fact that I'm friends (or, really, acquaintances) with 15% of the community should seem okay, right? Better than average? Yet, as someone who is part of that community, I can't help feeling like it's lacking somehow. Maybe it's not? Perhaps using something like phone contacts isn't efficient. Maybe winnowing the number down to actual friends -- and friends who I communicate with on a consistent basis -- would be preferable.
The conservative columnist and former blogger Andrew Sullivan, who is openly gay, once remarked that gay people really don't have anything in common other than their sexuality. That's a harsh statement, though that doesn't mean it isn't true to an extent. Still, it can be argued that any group who has faced marginalization, discrimination, and serious threats to their life and livelihoods, simply because of their sexuality, has a lot in common because of their historical treatment by society. Enough in common to actually be friends? I would demure to say yes to that. I feel like more is needed to forge the bonds of friendship, though others may disagree.
Of course, all of this begs the question: Does it really matter what percentage of the people we know are straight or LGBT? To that, I pose another question, both to myself and to you, dear reader: I don't know. Does it? As mentioned earlier, for most of the time I don't go around consciously aware of my friends' sexuality. Who they love or sleep with never factors into how our friendships are formed or sustained. We're just some human beings whose paths have crossed (a feat in and of itself, in this world of over 7 billion), and we liked each other enough to decide to share our lives in some way.
Perhaps that's all that really matters in the end.
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