In 1961, during my second year at Florida State University, I unknowingly picked up an undercover cop in front of the Greyhound Bus Station in Tallahassee. He directed me to a wooded area, and when I turned off my ignition a car pulled in behind us, another in front. I don't recall being concerned for my physical safety at the time, so I assume today that those cars were marked police vehicles. I was taken to the police station and questioned. I was not arrested. I was released. The next day, I was called to the Dean of Students' office. "You'll have to leave, of course," said the dean. "Would you like to inform your parents of this, or can I?" he asked.

That event changed by life more than any other. Thirty years later, in 1991, I began writing a performance piece, Queer Pier. It tells the story of a former shipping pier on the Hudson River at the foot of West 12th Street in New York City, which has become a hangout for homosexuals. Interwoven with the pier's story are stories from my life. In a section of Queer Pier, titled "Outing at FSU," I tell the story of the pickup at the bus station as well as details about the era in which it occurred.

What was interesting was that the police were not at all interested in my sexuality. They were after bigger game: Did I know the Governor's nephew? "Your car was seen at several of his parties." "Are you saying you never went to parties with the Governor's nephew?" "Well, we know your car was there, son, might as well tell us about it."

I remember these questions vividly because they made no sense to me at the time they were being asked. Remembering them 30 years later made me believe that I must have been caught up in some political warfare, an attempt to gather some dirt.

In 1961, I was a naive 18-year-old from southern New Jersey who drove by the wrong place at the wrong time.

When I finished writing "Outing at FSU" in 1991, I phoned Florida State University to inquire as to the existence of any gay organizations on campus and was put in touch with FSU's Lesbian Gay Bisexual Student Union. I forwarded them a copy of "Outing at FSU." As a result, I was invited to hold the first public reading of Queer Pier, which I did in March 1992. I returned to Tallahassee again in April 1993, when I performed Queer Pier as part of a performance festival at Waterworks.

Approximately two weeks ago, I got a call from a reporter at Florida Public Radio, followed by another from a reporter at The Orlando Sentinel. They had obtained my name from reviews of the Queer Pier performance in Tallahassee. They were doing stories about the release of the Johns Committee documents.

Until these phone conversations, I had not known anything about the Johns Committee. I learned that it was established in the Florida Legislature in the mid-1950s in order to find Communists in the government and in the university system. Later, the hunt targeted homosexuals as well. My entrapment in 1961 provided a human face to the stacks of papers about to be released.

I don't believe I was a direct target of the Johns Committee. But I do believe that I was caught in the witch hunt mentality that this committee personified. A large net was cast, I was caught in it, and, when I could not provide names, especially prominent ones, I was thrown back.

The personal scars from this event contributed significantly to the man I am today. I survived a return to dependence on my parents, years in useless and expensive psychotherapy and a failed marriage. I was drafted in 1969, during the Vietnam War. I had a deep sense that I would not survive this, and so, for the first time in my life, I chose to call myself a homosexual and checked the appropriate box at the induction center. They decided to take me anyway. "We'll make a man out of you," said the Army's psychiatrist.

I walked out of the induction center and sought legal counsel. I was investigated by the FBI, who informed the school district where I was then teaching that they had a gay teacher. The school district attempted, but failed, to have my teaching credential revoked. I was reclassified to non-draftable status.

Today, I am a queer advocate. My writings and my politics advocate homosexuality as a rational choice for anyone honest and courageous enough to explore this aspect of their psychology. Today, a large number of teenage suicides are sexual-preference related. Simply put, many of my queer brothers and sisters don't make it through their teens. I consider it my responsibility to do something about those statistics. Like Anita Bryant, I want to save our children.

Just prior to my April 1993 performances of Queer Pier in Tallahassee, a young woman approached me at the performance space. "Mr. Aqueno," she said, "You probably don't remember me. My name is Maryann. I attended the reading you did last year at Florida State for the Lesbian Gay Bisexual Student Union. I wasn't out then. I am out now, and I wanted you to know that your work had a lot to do with my coming out."

I have become the Johns Committee's worst fear.

New Orleans, 1993