Pride.

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As I looked out the window of the car after spending the day at a Filipino Community Center in San Francisco, I was greeted with a sea of rainbow flags, a sight I had never actually seen before. To be fair, there is probably no other city in the United States as LGBT-friendly as San Francisco—although I hear Portland and Austin are close behind—but regardless it was almost shocking to see a city that so openly supported LGBT pride.

What a weird dichotomy it was to be there for a day during LGBT Pride Month and then to return to Texas just weeks later. What a weird, uncomfortable change I felt when I went from being open about who I am to going back to a life where I haven’t been open.

For some of you, especially those of you who I haven’t seen or heard from in a while, it might come as a shock to hear that I am in fact gay and always have been. For others, you may have always assumed or guessed but never actually heard with certainty from me. And then for those of you who I’ve only come to know through Stanford, it may also be surprising that I even have to write this post at all, especially since I’ve been so open and honest about my sexuality (in all that word entails) from day one of New Student Orientation.

This is more than just a coming out post. This post is an acknowledgment of where I began and a celebration of where I am today. This is a post about pride in myself and everything that I am and have come to be.

A painful past

As early as preschool, I remember having “crushes” on boys. At the time, I didn’t understand what that meant—I thought everyone felt the same way. In middle school, questions started to arise about whether or not I was gay—something to this day I still find genuinely ridiculous because I was literally twelve years old. At that point, my parents had already begun to tell me to act certain ways, to break down any hint of flamboyance I carried out of fear that other children would bully me. I ended up internalizing all of these comments, and it didn’t help that years of conservative Catholic schooling taught me to hate myself—one of my teachers was very clear in saying that homosexuality was a choice and that being gay would lead you to hell. I was fervently anti-marriage equality (who knew internalized homophobia could lead to a thirteen-year-old having such strong opinions on the subject!), and I found myself actually trying to “pray the gay away” a countless number of times. But middle school wasn’t the real problem; it was high school that was.

In high school, my sexual orientation was something I carried with me in secret. In my freshman year, I held my head low and tried to attract as little attention as possible, mostly out of fear that people would treat me differently because of what they (correctly) perceived my sexual orientation was. I was afraid of being associated with anything even remotely related to homosexuality, but the most I was willing to do was to change my profile picture to a red equal sign when the Supreme Court was hearing arguments about Proposition 8, the ballot initiative that made same-sex marriage illegal in California. The most unfortunate thing about it all was that all the fear I had of other people finding out was justified.

A rough high school experience

By my junior year of high school, I was already a very political person, having spent the summer before doing a policy debate camp in Austin and campaign work for the Wendy Davis campaign. I reached my apex of peak notoriety that October when I published an editorial in the school newspaper writing in support of her candidacy for governor, and while the comment section on that article blew up entirely over the issue of abortion, the repercussions I faced were not because of my political opinions but because of who I was.

For months, I felt fear walking down the halls of my school. I was targeted on Twitter for weeks, facing the brunt of it on Election Day 2014 but still getting messages into January. During our homecoming football game, I was even yelled at from the stands, completely unable to see who the group of people were that were harassing me. The friend I went with had to immediately bring me off campus, and I spent an hour that night crying on the phone to my debate coach.

As far as I had seen, no one was targeted and sought out in the way that I was, even though there were other students who openly supported that campaign. The only thing that made different from those other students was that I was brown and gay.

My senior year was the first time I heard someone refer to me as a “fag.” The person who said it didn’t realize I was behind him—or at least, I hope he didn’t realize he was behind me—but he said it with the same group of people who had been harassing me since my junior year. The most ironic part of it was that it was said on the way to a school Mass. After immediately reporting the incident to the assistant principal of student affairs, I spent the day away from classes, horrified, hurt, and afraid. It’s important to remember too that much of this coincided with me dealing with the fact that my brother was a cancer patient, so as I was juggling one form of trauma, another one was being created.

My senior year counselor and freshman year English teacher had tried to help me not feel so helpless and hurt that day, but he mentioned that he was concerned that he wouldn’t be able to do anything if some of those same people came for me online after graduation. I didn’t think that was an issue, but lo and behold, right after the election of Donald Trump, I was targeted yet again. A slew of anti-gay slurs were used against me by someone I went on a medical mission trip to Guatemala with, someone I had viewed as my friend, and others told me “good luck” in the Trump era, because I’d “need it.”

It was something I had never expected, that people would actually implicitly and explicitly wish for harm against me. On the night of the 2016 election itself, I was denied the opportunity to come out to my parents on my own terms when my mom had called me, expressing fears for my physical safety now that Donald Trump had been elected. I thought she was just being overly worried, but considering that there were people who truly hated me so much just for being gay, she had turned out to be right. It’s for that reason that I’m truly thankful to be at Stanford and in the Bay Area, places where I’m more likely to be safe from anti-gay hate crimes.

Being open at Stanford, but still struggling

Coming to Stanford, I chose to do the only thing that felt natural to me: not hiding my sexual orientation in the prison-like closet that I kept it in high school. It was a new experience to make friends who, for the most part, wouldn’t treat you differently because you liked boys and not girls, to be around people who weren’t (at least openly) weirded out by the idea of me going on a date with a boy.

The only thing was that there seemed to be an inverse correlation between people’s initial tolerance levels and their actual understanding of the struggles I had gone through to get to the point where I was. Some friends were shocked that I hadn’t come out to my parents before I left, especially since I knew they’d be loving and accepting, but no one really understood how difficult it was to actually do that. Others questioned how I could hold on to any of my religious beliefs (of which I still consider myself nominally and culturally Catholic, even though I staunchly disagree with many of the Catholic Church’s moral positions), never really understanding—and sometimes even invalidating—the solace that I found within the social justice aspects of Catholicism, as well as more liberal interpretations of Catholic theology I had been exposed to through my high school’s theology department. Not many understood the pain of not being able to come out to your family on your own terms and instead having an election take that away from you, and few really knew the pain I carried each and every day from having slurs hurled at me by people I knew in high school.

To this day, I still struggle when people—often friends and classmates who I like and care deeply about—make innocent-seeming but still problematic comments implicitly associating homosexuality with physical and emotional weakness, even though—after all I have been through throughout my entire life—I am the furthest thing from weakness. Other times it’ll be comments that make being gay sound like a choice when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Rarely do I have the mental energy to call them out, for fear of being seen as overly aggressive or that I’m just trying to be “politically correct.”

I know and have seen firsthand that implicit bias factors into the way people treat me. I’ve felt the emotional barriers placed between me and others solely due to my sexual orientation, and I’ve seen noticed how some people would be uncomfortable with physical touch around me. And likewise, I’ve noticed how my own internalized homophobia—self-hatred stemming from the involuntary belief that all the homophobic lies, myths, and stereotypes that society says about me are true—has led me to keep people physically and emotionally distant, out of fear that I’d be seen as “coming on” to them even when all I had wanted was a deeper emotional connection in our friendship.

Pride.

Even though being gay can often feel like it makes dating and building deeper friendships more difficult at Stanford (partly because it does), I’ve never felt this much pride in who I am than now.

I’m proud of how I had the courage to begin coming out by the end of my senior year of high school, even if that was only to two or three people.

I’m proud of how I wasn’t too afraid to be myself the second I came to college.

I’m proud of how I’ve stayed resilient even in the face of personal anti-gay attacks and others—whether those were teachers, classmates, churches, or society—telling me there’s something wrong with me.

And I’m proud of how I’ve finally written this blog post, having put it off for over a year now knowing full well that the second I post this, some people will choose to view me negatively, even though nothing about me has changed.

Today, I’m happy to be spending my very first LGBT Pride Month feeling what I should’ve always felt about myself: pride.

Notes from Stanford: Looking back on my freshman fall quarter

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Well, I did it. I managed to survive my very first quarter as a college student at Stanford—and I really do mean survive. I always knew freshman fall was going to be a struggle because I’d be trying to adjust to living on my own, meeting new people and making new friends, taking my first college-level classes, and generally trying to make the most of my Stanford experience. But I really didn’t expect the sheer amount of “struggles” I ended up facing over these ten weeks!

In a nutshell, the whole quarter can be summed up in one sentence: this quarter, I learned a lot about myself. Yes, I learned a lot in my classes, and I learned a lot from the many new people I met, but at the end of the day, the most valuable thing I took from this quarter was all that I learned about me.

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Outside the Caltrain station in San Francisco

Coming into my own skin

I walked into my first day at Stanford pretty sure of who I was, what my values are, and what I wanted from my college experience. But it was only a matter of days before all of that broke down, and I found myself spending much of the quarter just trying to pick up the pieces and rebuild.

It’s actually a little shocking to look back and see how much I’ve changed since high school, but at the end of the day the thing I wanted the most from my Stanford experience was personal growth, so in another sense it’s comforting to see how much I’ve grown in just the past quarter.

In high school, I considered myself a pretty strong introvert. I was definitely able to speak to people and to make friends, but I wasn’t particularly social—if anything, the thought of long periods of social interaction just sounded completely and utterly draining, which sometimes comes as a shock to people who know me (because I really do love to talk). But just this past summer while I was doing an internship at a Dallas children’s hospital, my boss (who’s known me for the past six years) said that I’d probably stop considering myself an introvert once I went to college. I didn’t believe her, but she ended up being completely right.

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Dorm trip to San Francisco

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Notes from Stanford: Surviving the first three weeks

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Picture this: a student bikes furiously through Main Quad, messenger bag straddling his hip, his wrinkly lab coat still on. In his right hand, he’s clutching a small paper to-go container filled with the tabbouleh that he’d just made earlier that day. And then, as he comes up to the turn to exit the main quad, he squeezes his left break, but then—the front wheel of the bike stops—the back wheel keeps spinning—BAM. Bulgur and chopped vegetables scatter across the floor, and passersby slow down and stop to make sure the student is okay.

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Pre-accident

In case you haven’t guessed, that was me on only the second day of classes. The worst part of my first bike accident (other than it being completely self-caused and not even a collision of some sort)? The reason I didn’t have any injuries was because I’m an embarrassing pre-med who was biking all the way across campus still wearing my lab coat from the chemistry lab I was coming back from.

My first three weeks at Stanford—New Student Orientation for the first week and two full weeks of classes right after—have been a roller-coaster that’s half “best thing ever” and half trainwreck. I actually won the dorm’s unofficial “Person Who Had the Worst First Week of Classes” award because I had to shuffle nearly my entire class schedule in the first couple days—and then of course there was the biking accident! Even though my preliminary study list had 17 units of classes, a fairly heavy load for first-quarter Stanford freshmen, I reached a low of 6 units—full-time students take at least 12—by Tuesday evening after my Tagalog class got moved to a time that conflicts with my chemistry lab, my Human Biology class ended up being only juniors and seniors (turns out it was an upper-division class!), and my class on Economic Policies of the Presidential Candidates turned out to be not right for me.

Ultimately I ended up at a resonable 14 units: chemistry, a class in writing & rhetoric that looks at the rhetoric of “success,” an introductory seminar on race and politics (a class I got off the waitlist for), a weekly lecture series in the medical school about physicians and social responsibility, and a once-a-week seminar offered only to residents of my dorm that explores gender, sexuality, and identity in American culture. Luckily, what started as an awful first couple days of class, mostly because I didn’t actually know which classes I was even taking, quickly became a first-quarter class schedule that I really love—even chemistry, whose workload continues to be the bane of my Stanford existence, has one of the most engaging and interesting professors I’ve met so far.

Of course, Stanford isn’t all academics, and if it was I would probably go completely insane because, at least for me, the classes are extremely challenging. In the past three weeks, I went to my first service event to help combat world hunger. I went to my first football watch party (Stanford vs. UCLA) at Stanford Stadium and sprinted across the field to get a free Snuggie. I went on my first boba tea run with friends. I rode on a hover-board for the first time. I made my first meal all on my own, did my laundry by myself for the first time, and learned how to quickly wash the glasses that I drink out of every day. I went to my first frat party (would not recommend), as well as a less gross party that had free samosas (would definitely recommend, even if the samosas went fast). I got to watch as friends had In-n-Out for the first time, and I got to eat greasy food at one of Stanford’s late night eateries. I went to my first Stanford home football game and sprayed my hair red for the first time. I got to go to San Francisco with my dorm and explore the city by foot. And most excitingly of all, I’ve gotten to know some really great people from all over the country and from all different backgrounds.

Stanford, and even just being in college, is by no stretch of the imagination easy. But already, nearly one month since I first moved in, it already feels like home.

I’m now a Stanford student.

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Tomorrow morning, I move in to Stanford.

When I try to say the words in my head, they don’t seem real. “I’m a Stanford student” doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. One year ago, I would’ve never guessed that Stanford would be the place I’d be calling my home—I was convinced that I’d be seeing autumn-colored trees, not palm trees, on the East Coast, not the West. And statistically, the odds were pretty good, since a majority of the schools I applied to were on the East Coast… Stanford being the sole West Coast school I considered.

But now, after what felt like an eternal summer that had enough time to do a two-month hospital internship and binge-watch all six seasons of Game of Thrones, I’m officially becoming a college student. It’s both nerve-wracking and exciting, and as much as I’m sad about not being able to see my brother, my parents, and my dog for months at a time, I’m ready for a modicum of independence and the chance to forge my own path at one of the best—if not the best!—universities in the country, maybe even the world.

I have a pretty bad track record of posting on this blog, even when I promise myself I’ll do it. Regardless, I’m still making a promise to myself to post on here and my food blog Bok Choy and Broccoli at least every two weeks. The Stanford campus is vast and beautiful, so hopefully it’ll provide me inspiration for blog posts. And of course, I’ll continue updating everyone through social media.

I also like handwritten letters and gifts (I’ll always write back!), so if you’d like to send me anything through the U.S. Postal Service, my address is:

Joshua Cobler
531 Lasuen Mall
P.O. Box 17296
Stanford, CA 94309

If you’d like to send me a non-USPS shipment, or if you don’t know what mail carrier will be used (an Amazon package, for instance, which I would greatly appreciate), my address is as follows:

Joshua Cobler – jcobler
459 Lagunita Drive
FedEx Office Tresidder – P.O. Box #17296
Stanford, CA 94305

You’ll be hearing from me soon!

Stanford: A New Chapter

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These past few weeks have been more grueling and difficult than I ever could’ve imagined. For many high school seniors, the months of March and April are a fairly exciting and nerve-wracking time since most college decisions come out in the second half of March, giving everyone about a month between acceptances and matriculation deadlines (usually May 1). But for me, the whole month of April came down to deciding between two colleges I had completely fallen in love with, a most difficult choice.

Over the past few years, I’ve written about some of the colleges I had been dreaming about—Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, and the University of Texas at Austin, to name the major ones. I was guaranteed acceptance into UT Austin since Texas law requires them to provide automatic admission for Texas students in the top 8% of their high school class, but in February I was accepted into two honors programs I really wanted to be a part of: Plan II honors, an interdisciplinary liberal arts program, and Health Science Scholars, a departmental honors program in the College of Natural Sciences.

For about a solid month or so, I really thought I was going to UT. I was excited about the thought of living in Austin, getting to do research in my freshman year as part of Health Science Scholars, and having the opportunity to intern at the Texas Capitol (they only accept Plan II students) and do actual policy work (as my state representative explained). But then things changed in mid-March, when I got a letter from Brown University saying I can expect to be admitted on March 31, the day that all Ivy League acceptances come out.

Needless to say, I got incredibly excited about the thought of going to Brown. Brown had an Open Curriculum, which meant that I wouldn’t have any general education requirements and would thus have way more space to explore different fields of study. It was in Providence, Rhode Island, which fit my dream of being at an East Coast (read, Ivy League) school, and Providence itself is charming, friendly, and beautiful. And unlike the rest of the Ivy League, it’s quite laid-back and it doesn’t have the same pretentious quality around it, despite being one of the best schools in the entire country. But then, over Easter break, I got the most shocking and unexpected news.

I got into Stanford. Continue reading

Dreaming of the Future

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I’ve always been a dreamer, fantasizing about the future. And never have I done that more than now, with most of the college application process behind me—I just have to wait for decisions this spring before I can decide where I’m spending the next four years of my life.

Maybe this is the product of watching too much Scandal, the TV show about Olivia Pope and her crisis-management firm in Washington, D.C., but I’ve been dreaming a lot about living the White House. (Yes, the one the president of the United States lives in.) I love to imagine what it’d be like to be president, what kind of policies I’d push in my first term, and how I’d shape the future of the country. But as much as I like to joke about being president someday because of my love for politics and finding solutions to world issues, I know that a lot has to go right in my life for that to happen—the whole “political experience” thing is kind of a prerequisite to actually be taken seriously, so I’d probably have to work my way up to a governor or U.S. senator first.

Beyond just the White House, I’ve been dreaming a lot about Washington, D.C. I visited D.C. in 2014 and it’s definitely one of my favorite cities in the world so far—it has delicious food, it’s incredibly diverse, it has an abundance of resources (like the Library of Congress), and it has tons of things going on. That, and its subways are way cleaner than New York City’s. I’ve been picturing myself living there more and more, and since my dream career has always been something along the lines of international healthcare, being in the U.S. capital close to a myriad of international embassies can’t hurt.

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The U.S. Capitol from afar.

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Goodbye, 2015: A Year in Photos

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I’m just gonna come right out and say it: 2015 pretty much sucked. Very little went the way I hoped it would, and I definitely got thrown some major and awful curveballs. Luckily, 2015 is almost over and a new year is around the corner, and with a new year comes new opportunities and new chances.

However, I don’t want to end the year on a negative note, so I thought I’d look back through the better times of 2015… through pictures.

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My brother and I climbed 53 flights of stairs as part of the Big D Climb to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Continue reading