You see, we just wanted to do something. And so, in front of our rural town’s grocery store, we had rented an eight-foot tall high heel, stepping on an oversized pack of cigarettes. These were the Delaware County Ash Kickers, a group I had helped to found, and we were sending a message! We were going to stomp out Big Tobacco! The fact that we had ordered a sneaker, but were delivered a high heel, remained unaddressed. And so there we stood, for hour after hour, handing out pens with our logo emblazoned proudly on them, doing something.

We were young, middle schoolers. My voice hadn’t yet settled, and through the occasional pops and squeaks, I rattled on about the deception of the tobacco industry, the manipulation of teens by corporate suits, and the targeting of my peers for financial gain.  Poor Judy just wanted to get her milk and eggs, and she had made the mistake of coming in through my entrance.

The Ash Kickers helped develop in us a capacity to care, and to feel. But more than that, it created the feeling that we were able to affect change, to help.

In high school, those Ash Kickers gave way to a statewide program, called Reality Check. I was named the youth voice at then-Governor George Pataki’s tobacco advisory council, representing teens across the state. I was doing big things, and it felt great.

Tobacco was a great place to get my feet wet, so that when I got to college, I was ready to keep doing something.  I was the victim of a hate crime at Seton Hall University in October of my freshman year. I chose to call for a town hall meeting, with the mandated attendance of all resident students, and I asked to speak. There, in front of almost a thousand students, I talked about my experience, about the place where I had grown up. I was unfamiliar with locking my doors at night, or taking the keys out of the car at the store, and had been blindsided by what had happened.

And it was there that I chose to come out to my fellow classmates. Because what had happened to me was bigger than me, it had happened before to students. And if one of us was being targeted, then all of us were being targeted.  This hate crime hadn’t happened because I was a Devils fan, it had happened specifically because I was gay.

Life went on, the Devils won the Stanley Cup that year, more students suffered what I had gone through. I thought I had done something brave that would help others, but it was clear that talking wasn’t enough.  We needed to stand up together. I created an organization called T.R.U.T.H. (Trust, Respect, Unity at The Hall), a group where students could be safe, engage in dialogue about these kinds of issues.

Seton Hall, a private Catholic academic institution, rejected our proposal for club status.  They wouldn’t give us recognition.  And then I sued them.  We took Romeo v. Seton Hall University all the way to the State Supreme Court, and we lost.  But, at least I had done something.  My experience is taught as case law around the country, and although I had lost, I had refused to be quiet.  I left Seton Hall to pursue an education without the distractions of the press, students pointing fingers during lunch, and the like.

Oh, and I got this letter from Harvey Fierstein.

And so now, we can finally flash forward to present day. I’m happy, I’m married, I’m still playing hockey. The Devils aren’t winning quite as much as they used to, but they’re still better than the Rangers, so you take the small victories just as happily as the big ones.

This year has shown momentous and irreversible progress for people like me. Federal marriage benefits, however limited in scope, are a huge validation.  States winning marriage at the ballot box, defeating real-life villains like Maggie Gallagher. It’s a terribly exciting time.

And then, as a hockey fan, an even bigger reason to be excited! A full hockey season, and the Winter Olympics! Even Gary Bettman can’t put a damper on this! I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it, and couldn’t find it on the map, but suddenly I couldn’t get enough of Sochi.  Sochi this, Sochi that, could we name a pet Sochi, can I order Sochi on a menu, is Sochi a good name for a child?

Well, leave it to Russia to take all the fun out of the equation.  <Anthony makes a stoic Russian face while typing>

With the passage of Russia’s anti-gay laws (and calling them anything else is inaccurate, truly), a dark cloud now sits over the Olympic Games. I don’t need to go into what the laws say, enough has been written about the flagrant violation of civil rights, marginalization of human dignity, and degradation of spirit that these laws represent and enact.

And I feel, rising again within me, that need to do something. I have seen countless online petitions to move the Games out of Sochi. I haven’t signed them, because I recognize that Putin isn’t logging onto the internet to be swayed by petitions. (Perhaps his AOL CD is out of minutes?)

But I recognize that everyone has their own high heel. People are upset, they’re angry about Sochi, and if they need to stand outside their grocery stores for hours and hand out pens, then I respect and appreciate that. Mocking passion only discourages people from using those voices they’ve earned.

Where does that leave the rest of us? I want to help because I’m an athlete. I want to help because I’m gay. I’m an activist, I want to help. Hell, I want to help because I’m a human with two eyes and a heart.  I just don’t know how.

Flights to Sochi aren’t cheap, and the thought of being locked up in a Russian jail is more terrifying than anything I can imagine.  (Except Insidious 2, that looks scary!)

It breaks my heart that I want to help and just don’t know what I can do to affect change.  And so I’m plucking out words on my Mac, keyboard activism at its finest. Because it makes me feel like I’m at least doing something, even if I’m not doing something.

Hey Mr. Fierstein, want to go cause a scene with me in Russia? I’ve got some extra Romeo goalie jerseys you could wear. Or maybe you’d prefer a heel?

My father-in-law Carl is a tough man, chiseled by 30 years of work on the New Jersey Turnpike.  You see, he’s opinionated, a Union guy.  You’ll ask him what he thinks, and he will tell you.  And then he’ll keep telling you.

When my husband and I started dating, we found ourselves considering the conversation he’d have to have with his parents.  At that point, my husband had only dated women; this was going to be a bit surprising for the family.  I left him the unenviable task of talking with his parents on his own, it was his relationship, and he needed to define his own identity there.  Do you get the sense that I dodged a major bullet?  Well, you’re right.

His mom cried, his dad was mostly silent, and he wasn’t sure where he stood with his family.  But, he had survived his coming-out.  We all shared Christmas together a few weeks later, and I felt no tension or uneasiness from the family.  After all, they’d known me for years, even if only as “the friend”.  But I knew they were still figuring things out inside, and had started their own journey.

Among the many and varied things I do, I’m a hockey goalie, and I’ve played for quite awhile.  The perception of this sports position is not lost on people, my husband’s folks among them.  Being a goalie, well, you’ve got to be tough right?  Maybe I had an opportunity to help dispel some of the stereotypes that existed.

We continued dating, and I continued playing hockey.  And coming over to his parents’ house to watch Jets games on Sunday (We have to BOO Mark Sanchez, you know, because he sucks).  I’ve never eaten more salsa and chips in my life.  Oh, and so much Michelob Ultra.  But I felt that we were taking our own plodding steps forward together.  Carl doesn’t talk about his feelings, he wasn’t going to say “I really support you two being together,” or anything else of the sort.  Silent Football Man Time was enough for me.

A few months later, I was helping take the cover off the pool in Carl’s backyard, a real test of patience. I’ve learned that you don’t question a Union guy.  When he says that you’re taking the pool cover off in 95-degree weather, well, that’s because it’s the smartest thing to do, no questions asked.  And no, you don’t know better.

After letting the pool cover know that it was a real sonuvabitch, Carl said, very nonchalantly, “Oh when you go into the garage, I put up a shelf for you.  I thought you could hang your goalie stuff there to dry between games.”

I told Carl that it was just sweat that had gotten into my eyes, and excused myself.  I walked into the garage and saw that he had permanently affixed to the wall, a shelf for my catcher, blocker and helmet, and underneath the shelf, a rod for hanging my chest protector, along with three hangers.  It wasn’t fancy; in fact, it was a little crude looking.  Goalies fear the top shelf; I love mine.

To this day, we’ve never talked about that shelf, Carl and I.  Four years have passed, and I’ve had a place to hang my things every Sunday.  I’d been given a place at Carl’s table, right there in the garage.

My in-laws gave the toast at the rehearsal dinner they threw for us.  Carl didn’t say much, just thanked folks for coming and wished us well.   At our wedding in October, Carl was on the dance floor the entire night.  Would you believe that he knows the entire dance to “Gangnam Style”?  Those Union guys, they sure can move.

When I talked with Carl about my participation in the Garden State Equality Walk on June 22, he wanted to know more.  He could understand the strength of grouping together to fight for what you believed to be right.  I explained that the Walk was our best chance of getting the support to override Governor Christie’s marriage equality veto; I clarified and made sure to tell my Union father-in-law that Governor Christie (worse than Mark Sanchez in his house, by a long shot) was the reason that our marriage would be downgraded to a civil union everytime we left New York and returned home to New Jersey.  That really resonated with him.  He’s donating.

Carl and I are an interesting study.  We help remind each other that there is strength in numbers, that family is a strong unit, that you can sometimes learn and change your mind about things.  He’s a friend, a mentor, a football buddy, a Union guy.  In law, he’s a father, but he’s also very much one in my heart.

I’m proud to be walking for marriage with Garden State Equality.  A wise man once helped me understand that even after you’ve been fighting for 30 years for your rights, you still don’t let people trample on you.  You have to fight back, whether it’s against the Governor of the State of New Jersey, or just the Offensive Coordinator of the New York Jets.  Some guys just don’t know what they’re talking about, right Carl?

If you are in New Jersey, we would love to have you join us on June 22, in Montclair’s Erie Park.  If you are unable to make it, we’d love to have you contribute through the link below.

I would love to see and speak with you all there!

http://equalitywalk.kintera.org/makemymarriagecount

[Ed note: please welcome Anthony Romeo. Please read his brilliant words. Please feel free to get chippy in the comments. Please tweet at his face here.]

And you, and you, and you, you’re gonna love me.  And then I’m going to rip your team apart, and you’re going to hate me.  But I promise, there’s a good boy here. Well, good…ish.  Ten years ago is a long time for me, and maybe it’s not for you. But when I picked up the phone ten years ago and told a friend that I was gay, it was a big deal.  I mean, it was The Big Deal.

I was 17, I had just graduated high school, and the news spread through my small upstate farm town like wildfire; folks driving by my house yelled “faggot” at my 11 and 12 year old sister and brother, my parents had their windshield broken out. Dickens was a liar, because mostly, it was just the worst of times.

I had grown up watching hockey, identifying as a hockey player, a goalie. Proudly boasting my gym class floor hockey statistics was standard; and I believe that my freshman year stat of 9 shutouts remains unbroken in Pete Naples’ gym class.

I was closeted, but like many, knew that life after high school would provide the most appropriate safety net for me to make the big leap. I got to college feeling like I could make a new start, wear my own skin for the first time, be a full person.  Maybe kiss a boy. Or two. Or thr…I digress.

Freshman year, October. A deflating 3-2 Overtime loss left me dragging my goalie pads back to my dorm room at Seton Hall University. I hadn’t played a great game, but I knew we could rebound the following week, for my birthday game.

White walls stained red with paint and ink, the words were everywhere. “Faggot.” “Queer.”  “Homo.” Someone had branded my dorm door with their labels while I was out stopping 70 mph slapshots. If I had been a defenseman, I probably would have found someone to beat up. I’m a goalie, so instead, I just internalized everything and pouted.  The University investigated the vandalism, but not the message behind it. Human dignity isn’t a property issue, and the good folks at The Hall didn’t seem to know the difference.  Well, I did.

Ready for the longest story to be shortened?  I started a gay-straight alliance named “T.R.U.T.H.”, the University wouldn’t let us be a group.  I sued.  They didn’t like that.  “Romeo vs. Seton Hall” worked its way through lower court after lower court until winding up in the Supreme Court of New Jersey. It’s now taught as case law in dozens of universities and colleges across the country, including my brother’s own college class. From not understanding why people yelled at him in the driveway of a farm town to reading about your big brother in a textbook, in six years flat. Life is a series of funny little circles, huh?

Throughout the whole experience, I just wanted to be treated like a normal kid. The kid who strapped on his goalie pads every week and (mostly) stopped the puck was the same kid who kissed a boy. (And I liked it.) The same kid doing a press conference with CNN and ABC and NBC was also the kid who wanted to eat chicken nuggets and sing “Bring Him Home” when his roommate left for the night.

And now, maybe I’m not a normal guy. But something next to normal would be okay. I get to wear a lot of hats. I work in concert production. I’m a brother, a son, a goalie, a public speaker, an activist, a cat-owner, a husband, and a theatergoer. While ten years have come and gone, I am still shocked to see the ease with which people are able to transition from chrysalis to butterfly. That’s not to say that coming out is without its challenges.

But waking up in a world you know you’ve helped to create, one in which the nation’s top selling hip-hop artist releases a song in support of same-sex marriage, a world in which I can get married and all of our family attends the party, one in which the Captain of my New Jersey Devils affirms that if I can play, then I can play…it’s all a bit remarkable in its own right, if only for how unremarkable it is becoming for everyone else.

Maybe we’re building a world where stories like mine are commonplace, normal, boring even. Hell, I’m a Devils fan, don’t think for a second that I can’t equate boring with success.

So that’s me. Romeo. #30 to many.  Anthony, to some, even. I’ll be laying my fair share of hate on every one of your teams in the coming weeks and months.  So be sure to bookmark this article, my maiden Puck Buddys voyage. It’ll be a good reminder for each and every one of you, as you’re blotting your eyes with tissues over my latest evisceration of your team, that there’s a tiny little light under the darkness that’s coming to your doorstep.

Until next time. Your team sucks and I hate them, Romeo