National Coming Out Day was Friday, Oct. 11, but in Kapaau where I live, it might be unsafe to do that. Kapaau’s version of homophobia for men, in this case, who deviate from traditional norms of masculinity creates an impressive feeling of scrutiny. Enough to make a lot of queer men take great care to hide their sexuality from friends and family.

Of course, men hiding their queerness isn’t new or unique to Hawaii County’s Kapaau, but going “down low” (DL) anywhere we live, undermines our ability to operate as we fully are.

Just like “the closet” always did, a “discreet” DL life in Kapaau for many men, is treated as if it were some new exercises in personal freedom. But it avoids, like the closet always did, being publicly identified as gay and protects from any potential antigay animus. It’s quite reasonable for a man to hide his queerness — especially if he can pass as straight — considering it helps avoid potential condemnation.

But hiding has always made quiet concessions to omnipresent societal-level homophobia, whereas being “out” publicly wherever you are, is a different posture entirely. It was and is a self-sacrificing move insofar as it has traditionally risked personal safety and social alienation. But being openly queer has also been the only way to show the world you are not ashamed. It has been our way to resist prejudice, where violence directed toward LGBTQ+ has recently been declared a national emergency.

Kapaau Town homophobia, with its structural power of punishment, culminates into an impressive, community-held stigma for being queer. Wherever homophobia is high, research shows queer men go down low. As a concealable stigma unlike, say, race, a gay or bisexual man is made discreditable by the choice to be open about it. In other words, he possesses the stigma of “abnormal” only when it is known by others.

But a man in Kapaau Town choosing a DL existence inadvertently becomes part of this stigmatizing machinery. His actions further drive inequality. Fear of estrangement producing the impulse to go DL in the first place, both real and imagined, serves to undercut the ability of other queer men to be accepted.

Succinctly, a DL status isn’t forcing the straight world to accept our very real existence. Forcing integration, being openly queer in your community, has always risked violence but is a general collective action that produces solidarity, because of its visibility. Queer visibility commands a level of social equality, where civil rights have always involved being out or coming out to the community. Nationally, these actions have led to the formation of laws protecting LGBTQ+ over the last 55 years. Laws that improve the mental and physical health of queer people.

But the work of coming out goes on. A 51-year-old Kapaau business owner I interviewed has been (mostly) DL his whole life. He avoids being a target of discrimination despite Hawaii’s pioneering pro-LGBTQ+ status. His constant stress of hiding mirrors other sexual and gender minority experiences in Hawaii who face stark health inequities in comparison to their straight counterparts. The work associated with a DL status drives internalizing and corrosive mental health states because these individuals anticipate upon disclosure, they will be rejected by their peers.

But if homophobia seeks to erase queer, queer visibility is the countermeasure. The business owner described this best. Seeing more openly gay couples in Kapaau, he said, “For some reason, I feel no one cared about their sexuality.” Then he said, “If I did meet the right person, I think I might just live my life with that person and not care about people.”

James Brooks, who has an M.A. in communications, has authored articles on the politics of queer identity; he resides on the Big Island with his husband and dog, Ranger.