It usually happens within the first few minutes of meeting another gay man. After you’ve asked, or at least I ask, where you live and what you do for work, the conversation inevitably shifts to the oldest, most enduring rite-of-passage question in queer culture:“So, when did you come out?”It is a question that has stood the test of time. As long as there are barriers to being gay, so long as homophobia exists in this world, that question will remain relevant. It isn’t just small talk; it is the moment a new or casual relationship invites you into a common circle, a trade of sexuality origin stories meant to find mutual empathy.Related: The untold story behind the first National Coming Out DayThis past summer, at my apartment building’s pool, I got to know my new neighbor and his boyfriend. They are both 30, considerably younger than me. We hit it off instantly, but our friendship really started to gel that afternoon after I asked the inevitable question.I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they both answered rather nonchalantly. For them, even though each had a small story behind their response, their experiences weren’t earthquake moments. They recounted their tales with casual ease. It made me realize that all my life, I’ve asked that question, expecting dramatic responses. That didn’t happen.Then they turned the question back to me, and of course, they got a dramatic response, albeit with a bit of a history lesson.“Thirty years ago,” I said.Sure, they could understand that it was a defining moment, but I knew they couldn’t register that long-ago landscape of crushing chaos. To a 30-year-old in 2026, “the mid-90s” sounds like a time when dinosaurs roamed, and a time they couldn’t possibly relate to. As we sat there, whether they wanted it or not, I felt the need to explain what it was like to step forward, to partially come out, and the obstacles that made doing so quite difficult.At least to me, coming out 30 years ago wasn’t abou