Four years ago, when I was 11 or 12, my mother received a phone call from my best friend’s mother. I had known my best friend since kindergarten, so I was incredibly eager to help her when my mom told me that my best friend and her church had invited me to their charity in the park. I didn’t know what charity it was for, because my best friend’s mom did not tell my mother.  So I went, and I was very, very confused. There were signs everywhere, all sporting a number 8. I asked my friend what it was for.  She and her little brother told me that it was to stop gay marriage.  I had always been very naive about sexual matters, though I had always exhibited bisexual behavior since kindergarten. I had never even had the talk, and I did not even know what gay meant, merely because I thought homosexuals and queers were as normal and natural as the heterosexual majority of people.  When my friend finished explaining, I told them in a shaking voice that I thought everybody should be able to love each other.  And she told me that they would all go to hell.  She had converted recently to Christianity, whereas I had read a children’s version of the Bible since I was six, and she told me that Jesus hated homosexuals and that they could be “converted”.  And that was the moment that I knew that I was bisexual.  But I didn’t tell her.  I didn’t tell her, even when she introduced me to all of these smiling, churchgoers and made them shake my hand. I didn’t say anything when her father came over and told us to be wary of a man, just a lone man, who might chance by and hold up a sign saying “No on Prop 8.” I was glad that such a person existed, but nevertheless, I handed out flyers with their crap on it when they were too shy to do so. They made me. And I was starving and I felt sick so I even bought a donut from them.  Then everybody had to hold up signs along the side of the street that told people to honk Yes for Prop 8.  All I did was count the number of cars that honked approval, and the one’s that shook their heads at us.  I remember that about 500 cars honked yes, and only 10 screamed at us. The 10 that opposed flipped us off. I was glad of it. I deserved it. My friend shouted “God Bless You” after them, because according to her, they were going to hell. I, for one, really wanted to bless them. I remember wanted to hurl myself under those speeding cars.  I had been at that “charity” for 5 hours, the sole queer among that homophobic crowd.  I still feel sick at the memory of it, but I have not told my friend, who is still my “friend” after all these years, though now I secretly hate her.  I have reformed, though. I started crying the second I left that horrible place, and I felt like a traitor to all those wonderful queers in the world. I came out to both my parents, who were supportive, though they told me I was curious, and though my beloved father initially said bisexuals were disgusting, though he liked gays. Recently, I retold my mother that I was bisexual, and this time she believed me. I haven’t told my father yet. And I never want to tell my friend.  So, was I guilty on that day where I just went along with the crowd? Or was I just a victim of gay bullying, like when people always used to call me an ugly lesbian? I hate conformity so much, but I was still silent and stupid on that day where I realized that the world hated people like me. I didn’t say anything just out of shock, and just I loved my best friend, the one that I used to cry about when I thought that she would immigrate back to Asia. I don’t even think I care if she dies now. I didn’t know anything back then, and I tried to tell myself that I was innocent, but somehow, I don’t think so. I want to make amends and I support the LGBT community quite publicly now, but I don’t feel good about myself. I’m proud to be queer, but I don’t feel like I’ve been faithful to the community.