I can remember the day I decided to stop being a homophobe. It was the same day I realized I was one. I was in the 10th grade; it was 1986. The day before, in my high school locker room, I had sat in silence as classmates gossiped about another girl being a lesbian. That night, at the dinner table at home, my father was reading a newspaper story about something called the AIDS Memorial Quilt, which had started that year. He put the paper down, looked at my brother and me and said, "If either of you ever come home and tell me you're gay, you will no longer be my children." Then he reached for the casserole.