Everyone seems to be talking about us nowadays.

WeÂ’re embraced by the urbane, latte-drinking bleeding-hearts who covet our impeccable sense of style, our theatrical showmanship, our Judy Garland look-alike contests. On the other side of the aisle, weÂ’re despised by the bigoted, Bible thumping Civil War losers who vilify our wicked sexual desires, our Godlessness, our covert agenda to destroy decent society.

We’ve been spat on, exalted, killed and beatified, and we’re in the public eye more now than at any time in history. But are we any closer to our goal? Speaking of which, what is our goal? Who are “we,” anyway?

Well, that is an easy one. We are the gays, the homos, the queers, the fags, the fairies. But wait ... what about the classical Greeks, who regularly engaged in pedophilic behavior between men and boys? Were they actually gay? What about the ancient Egyptians, whose famous Gods engaged in homosexual behavior as part of creation mythology? No easy answer in these cases.

Forget about all that for a second. WeÂ’re in America now, the pinnacle of human civilization. More specifically, youÂ’re in Palo Alto, California, a wealthy suburb in one of the most progressive, free, liberal regions in the world.

I lived there once, and when I come home from college every few months, I come home to the same room IÂ’ve slept in for 21 years.

When I think about being gay, I don’t think about that room, where I first confronted my romantic feelings toward my own gender, where I came out to my best friends in high school, where I lost my virginity four years ago — yes, to another boy.

I don’t think about that room, mostly because I don’t really think about being gay. I’m a lot of things — a writer, a tree-hugger, a Jew, a Democrat, a Palo Altan, a Yalie. I’m also 5’8”, shoe size 10.5. Where does gay fit on that list? As you can probably tell, I’ve got more than just a few reasons to feel like a minority in this country.

But I don’t stick out. I look just like you. I love The Beatles and “Desperate Housewives” and just ate pizza and drank beer while watching the Steelers clobber the Seahawks. Why should you think I’m any different because of who I share my bed with?

The fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t be asking this question of my own volition. When I was asked to write this column, I was afraid it’d be pretty dry — my experience as a gay student at Paly? What experience? You mean how I told my dad over lunch at the Creamery when I was sixteen, and how he subsequently offered to buy me condoms? And then how I told my mom in the car a month later, and she told me she’d love and support me no matter what happened?

DonÂ’t even get me started about telling my best friends, most of whom had suspected for years, or my casual acquaintances, who thought it was, you know, whatever. Heck, my best guy friend was gay also. How boring.

So when I read in the Palo Alto Weekly about the horrible experiences of some gay teens at Paly, I was struck, not by revulsion, or sorrow, or even much empathy, but rather by pure numbness. That world — of hate, of fear, of pain — is so foreign to me, and I thank God for that every day of my life. That image of Paly I hold in my mind — of kind and loving friends, of live-and-let-live tranquility, of sitting in a circle at Camp Anytown and realizing how lucky I am — is one that can’t be shattered by a few unfortunate incidents, no matter how close to home they strike.

This is because I know the image of Paly I hold is the real one, and that these events are abhorrences, perversions of the natural order; theyÂ’re just not us. IÂ’m not trying to moralize, IÂ’m just telling it like it is. After four years there, after God knows how many classes, extra-curricular activities and experiences, few of which my sexuality played any part in, I know your school pretty well.

You donÂ’t see lots of us, but when you do, you tend to accept us. Three cheers from the gay world to you, Paly. WeÂ’ll be sure to recognize you at our next annual conference to take over the world.