Submission by Asad Rahim, TNG reader.

The South African author and human rights activist, Nadine Gordimer, says that writers have the burden of a sixth sense: The ability to see things that others cannot and the duty to convey their perception to the world, to describe it in a way that convinces their audience that they’re not crazy.

I, too, have a sixth sense, but I haven’t had much luck convincing anyone.
I know gay men when I see them, and not just the “Hey, girl!” gay men that anyone can spot. I know the do-rag, baggy jeans, white t-shirt wearing gay men. I know the 60-year-old businessmen with grandchildren gay men. As a student at Harvard Law School, I’ve also gotten to know the budding politicians with southern belle beards. From East Asia to the East Africa, I’ve been all over the world so my gaydar is calibrated to account for cultural differences, as well. Still, few people heed my predictions.
Last year, I came upon a friend crying in the library because the man she had a crush on for two years told her that he didn’t like her in that way. In an attempt to console her with the truth I said, “I think he doesn’t like you in that way because he likes men in that way.” She dismissed me. “Please, Asad, you think everyone is gay.”
Two months later, he changed his Facebook profile to “Interested in: Men” and he and his boyfriend Jamal are often seen frolicking around Chicago’s leather bars.
Earlier this year, I was at a friend’s party and I noticed a guy staring. I walked up to the host and asked, “Hey, who’s your gay friend?” She rolled her eyes, “Asad, you think everyone is gay. His fiancé, Sheree, is right there next to him.”
Last month I received a voice message: “Asad, I just got off the phone with Sheree. She and her fiancé had been going to couples therapy because he had lost interest in her sexually. Today, he finally broke down and admitted he was gay.”
A couple weeks ago, I was in Rwanda on a spring break service trip when a group of friends and I happened upon a nightclub. Straight clubs can be rather dull so I was happy to see a gay guy on the dance floor. Excited, I walked up to a friend and told him, “Look, there’s a gay guy in here!” “Asad,” he scoffed, “you think everyone is gay. It’s just a cultural difference.”
By the end of the night the guy backed it up on me, tried to grope me repeatedly and asked for my number so that we could “talk sex talk” sometime.
Some will dismiss these stories with trite sayings like, “Every broken clock is right twice a day.” But, tell me, when has this clock been wrong? Granted, it’s impossible to prove me wrong. If a guy that I predict is gay comes out the closet—I was right. But if the same guy gets married and has kids—I certainly wasn’t wrong. A lot of gay people stay in the closet their whole lives.
But another reason, the more important reason, that I can’t be proven wrong is because I’m right.
When I see someone who is gay, it’s immediately clear to me. It’s so clear that I assume that it’s obvious to everyone else, too. There are certain tell-tale signs that we all know: the three-second eye-contact, unnecessary touching, an affinity for the divas. But my predictions aren’t based on those or any other observable attributes.
A friend of mine once said, “I knew he was gay because my vagina felt safe around him.” While I’m not qualified to speak on vaginal security, I do think that she’s on to something. Often, these things are not empirical. Rather, they are based on a vibe or a subtle chemistry that goes unnoticed by others.
As for the criticism regarding the frequency of my predictions, that can be chalked up to location. Harvard, and every other Ivy League school, is home to a disproportionate number of gays and gayelles. Most of us are in the closet during high school. And of those who are out, few have suitable romantic prospects. So we tend not to be distracted by budding romances during our teenage years. And without sexual distractions, we focus on the only thing left—our studies.
I have no desire to turn straight men gay. Really, I don’t. I just want you to see what I see; to acknowledge my sixth sense; to assure me that I’m not crazy. If not, I’ll be forced to quiet my truth; to let you marry that closeted gay man who has been eyeing you; to look at you skeptically as you gain insight and begin to question your assumption that everyone is straight. As you start to see the truth that had always been so clear to me, I’ll have no choice but to offer  a condescending smirk, a pat on the head and a, “Girl, please. You think everyone is gay.”

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