Madison B.

Harvard College, Class of 2009
Government and Literature
New York

Written for Coming Out Day

On a day like this in May of 2006, I stood among the crowd as one of the many who gathered that day in support of the immigrant communities around Boston and the entire nation. At that time I was a freshman, and not unlike many of you – I was proud to don the requisite red lanyard around my neck and blend into the crowds of students holding banners. That day I was extremely proud of you, Harvard students and supporters, for turning up in great numbers for a cause that affected me so personally. My friends were standing by me, without a clue that I was, in fact, not like them at all. At the time, feared coursed through my veins and adrenaline from years of hiding, all threatened to end in tears. But tears would have given me away, so I was silent then, too.

And I have been silent for the past 15 years. I sat in the front row of my chemistry class in high school, and despite having answered nearly all the questions written on the board, I was silent. And silence means that I do not exist. I walked for four years in and out of classrooms; I do not exist. I finished my expository writing papers; I do not exist. I received my Harvard diploma this past June; I do not exist. I went to Church every Sunday; I do not exist.

I was eight years old when I came to this country. My family was fleeing political turmoil and poverty that has since overtaken the small Latin American nation that was my home. I never expected I would make it so far in my academic career, but worked tirelessly. Like many who wash dishes, serve at restaurants and pick vegetables under an unforgiving sun, I work in silence. We hope in silence. And we do not exist.

I face struggles that few of my peers will face – with an excellent education and honest work ethic, I cannot work to give back to this country that has given me so much.

I am happy that today we do exist. On this coming out day, we’ve had the courage to claim our human right to be. I encourage you to keep an open mind, and next time you sit at Widener Library, or the T, know that someone sits next to you, perhaps suffering silently. And if one of your friends comes out to you in need, lend a supportive hand. We have nowhere to turn, but to you, our peers and friends. We hope that politicians as well as citizens decide to end our silent suffering: we hope that you may in the words of the Psalm, “harden not your hearts.”

May we never live in fear again, may we all belong, and contribute someday to the wealth of knowledge that is woven in this great Institution. May we leave a humble mark upon the annals of history, that in a time of crisis we were not afraid. March forward then, since, in the heat of battle we have no choice but to fight.