"Wait 'til you meet Debbie, your new roommate," the girl next door reassures me. "You'll love her! She's president of the dorm and the racquetball club, she plays drums in a rock band, and she's the only girl on campus with a motorcycle. She's really funny, and the guys all want to date her. Plus she's from New Jersey, so her accent's as weird as yours!"

Two months later, Debbie's introduced me to several interesting guys and given me my first - and hopefully last - motorcycle ride.

She's also kept a motherly eye on me. ("Only you would really believe that a guy was taking you out to watch submarine races at midnight, Mellina!" she scolds, after her two male friends rescue me from a burly - and inebriated - college wrestler.)

And somewhere along the line, it's occurred to me that - in addition to the endless stream of guys she dates twice and then politely dismisses - she has a much more serious relationship with a blonde, beautiful - and very female - cheerleader.

So that's what a homosexual is, I realize, wondering what - if anything - it means to have a gay roommate at a time when homosexuality is rarely discussed.

Oh well, I conclude - too embarrassed to admit my ignorance to my more worldly friends - if anybody cared, she obviously wouldn't be president of an 800-student dorm. Besides, I don't think my pink curlers and plaid nightgowns are much competition for the cheerleader.

May, 1974. It's the last week of school, and a group of us are having a late-night card party, telling tales and popping popcorn. As usual, Debbie has us howling with laughter.

Well after midnight, the subject of gay rights comes up, and the girl beside me - the one who raved about Debbie - makes a retching sound.

"I'd die if I met a homosexual," she shudders. "The whole idea makes me sick!"

There's a chorus of assent and more disparaging remarks, and I freeze, unable to comprehend. Unable to look at Debbie's face.

They don't know. They never knew. And now they're unwittingly ripping apart a person they profess to love. Thirty years later, the memory still makes me sick.

August, 1974. It's a new semester, and I'm settling into a cheaper dorm across campus. (After all, I'm footing the bill.) My new roommate is a riotously funny black girl who agrees to split the cost of a mini-refrigerator and popcorn popper, and who laughs at my friend's disastrous attempts to streak our hair.

"You two look like a couple of striped awnings!" she tells us.

Then one evening, there's a knock at the door. I open it, and a group of girls are gathered there.

"Your roommate's a Negro," one of them says. "We don't approve of that. If you care about your reputation, you'll move to a new room. Now!"

Shaken, I close the door. Suddenly, I start to laugh. "You idiots," I think, "if this one upsets you, you should have seen last year's model!"

Spring, 1976. This year's roommate is a blonde and beautiful biochemistry major, with a near perfect grade point, who has always dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.

One afternoon, I find her sobbing in our room. She's been turned down for veterinary school.

"They told me they have a quota for women because I'd only get married and become a housewife, and they'd waste a spot that could go to a man."

Summer, 1976. A friend takes me home to southwest Oklahoma. The Catholic church has a large banner that reads "All Races Welcome". I'm confused.

"You mean they let people hold drag races in the parking lot?" I ask. "Isn't that dangerous?"

Later that day, my friend's brother bitterly complains, "There was a nigger in the balcony of the white Baptist church Sunday. Who let her in?"

(Asbury Park Historical Note: People say that Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church was built because Irish Catholics didn't want to admit Italians into Holy Spirit. Holy Spirit, in turn, is not located on Grand Avenue because pious Asbury Park founder James Bradley purposely excluded Catholics and Jews when he donated prime Grand Avenue lots to other churches.)

June, 1984. My parents have prepared a special dinner to celebrate my new job at AT&T Bell Labs. After struggling three years to earn a master's degree in statistics with a 4.0 grade point, I was one of 19 people hired from a pool of almost 200 candidates.

"You know you were only hired because you're a woman," an angry male cousin announces at the dinner table.

May, 2001. Dave and I renew our wedding vows at the Asbury Park Public Library surrounded by 100 loving friends. We can't imagine a happier day than this.

Asbury Park, 2003. Straight versus gay. Rich versus poor. Black versus white. Christian versus Muslim. African-American versus Haitian-American. The Jewish redevelopers want to drive you out of town. The Mexicans will take all the jobs. You don't belong on the West Side.

Them versus us. Us versus them. Will the real human beings please stand up?

Five months ago, I watched Tim - the man I loved 20 years ago and always will - die of brain and lung cancer, right before he and his wife were to adopt two children.

Two days later, we sat my mother-in-law - confused and drained by Alzheimer's disease - beside her husband of 54 years, and tried to explain that he was gone. Ten weeks later, we mingled her ashes with his.

Two months ago, we flew to Oklahoma to help our niece bury her dead baby. Her dad - Dave's only brother - died when she was 9 years old, leaving my sister-in-law to raise two children alone.

What would any of us give for one last hug? One real chance not to be alone? Who gets to be included in the party?

Last week, someone asked me whether I think gay people should be allowed to marry. You tell me how I should answer.