When I saw the events following the Boston Marathon unfolding on cable news April 15, horror, anger and sadness were soon replaced with an urge to help. But the easiest way in which I could help – donating blood – isn’t available to me. Why? Because I’m gay.
The important, easy act is not possible for me, and that means somewhere, someone who needs what flows in my veins is suffering.
When I was a sophomore in high school I donated blood for the first time. The familiar gymnasium where I played basketball games and discovered my first awkward feelings for other boys during gym class was transformed into what could only be described as a happy MASH unit. Reclining deck chairs were readily attended to by men and women in white scrubs and Red Cross volunteer T-shirts.
I admit I was apprehensive about donating. I always avoided needles when I could and the thought of willingly draining part of myself into a plastic bag disturbed me. But a few friends who had donated before convinced me it was the right thing to do, and the reward of orange juice, free sugar cookies and a free pass from part of a class made the pain of a needle in my arm for a few minutes bearable.
I soon found myself seated with a clipboard-wielding volunteer who whipped through a questionnaire at record speed. She seemed to anticipate every single answer and frantically marked down my responses to move me through the line.
Admittedly, the only question I really remember was when she asked me if I had ever had sex with another male.
I am sure my face registered the shock I felt at the question and I know I laughed when I answered with a forceful, “No.”
My answer was true – at that point in my life I hadn’t experienced sex with anyone – but the questions burned in my head as I sat in the recliner, squeezed a stress ball and watched the blood trickle down an IV tube and into a clear plastic bag. Was the question another sign that the feelings I was battling so hard were wrong? If I ever acted on the attractions I had toward my male classmates, would I immediately be shunned by the medical community?
The message I heard was loud and clear – same-sex attraction was unhealthy, both physically and mentally. As an impressionable teen, it scared me.
Ever since the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s, the FDA has banned men who have sex with men from donating blood. The precaution was necessary, and even prudent, in the early days of the disease’s discovery. But times have changed, and medical technology and research have advanced to the point that the ban is antiquated.
I continued to donate blood to the Red Cross whenever the volunteers would show up at the school – typically twice a year – and did so through my first two years of college. Besides the benefit of a sugar rush and missed class time, I realized by donating I actually helped a stranger somewhere who needed something of which I had plenty. My blood would help save a life. My blood would keep someone’s loved one on this planet for awhile longer. And I knew my body could always make more to replace what I was able to give.
During my junior year of college, I finally acted on my same-sex attraction. Like so many, it came after months of internal debate, and one of the things I knew I would lose was my ability to help others through blood donation.
When the Red Cross returned to my college campus, my regular enthusiasm was missed by my friends. Since very few people knew of my sexuality, I shared that I just didn’t have time to donate.
That was 15 years ago, and I haven’t been able to donate since.
I haven’t thought about the ban much over the years. It was just something I accepted. But the cover story in this issue of Watermark reminded me of the pride I had when I did donate, and I hope that in the near future, I’ll be able to do so again, whether or not we’re faced with a national tragedy.
