ABSTRACT
It was an early March evening in 1975 in Oakland, California. I was in a meeting listening to my ex-fiancée Arlene and other women point out how the men were guilty of sexist attitudes towards women in our organization. I had just broken up with Arlene; I thought everyone knew why I left her—but no one asked me directly, and I offered no explanation. I felt trapped in the discussion. On the one hand, I wanted to escape from the degrading experience, yet I felt that perhaps they’re right and that I had to correct my behavior. But I knew instinctively that wasn’t the issue. I was disoriented; the only thing that I knew was that I could no longer endure the pressure of maintaining a straight male facade.
