I'm a gay man and haven't been able to donate blood due to the FDA ban. I was part of the Red Cross study that will help overturn that.

• In high school, I couldn't donate blood like the rest of my peers because I'm gay.
• For years, I wanted to donate, but the FDA's ban on gay men donating blood stood in my way.

One February morning last year, I woke up and drank six glasses of water.

This proved excessive, but the email from the American Red Cross donation center instructed me to "please hydrate ahead of time." I was preparing to give blood for the first time and assumed I'd be donating a pint. But the study I signed up for required only six vials.

The Red Cross-sponsored Advance study collected blood from 1,600 gay and bisexual men across the US. Its goal is to overturn the Food and Drug Administration's blood ban on men who have sex with men, or MSM.

The ban was established in 1985 during the peak of the AIDS epidemic. Since then, it has been called "neither medically nor scientifically warranted" by the American Red Cross and "discriminatory and not based on sound science" by the American Medical Association; all donated blood is screened for HIV, regardless of the donor's gender or sexual orientation.

As a gay man, I was barred from donating blood all my life until I signed up for the Advance study. Finally, at 27 years old, I was able to give blood — even though it was for a study and not being donated to another person.

I was first barred from donating blood in high school

Growing up in a Los Angeles school, I was comfortably, proudly, and illustriously gay — in my teenage mind, at least. I brought my humorless boyfriend to prom, I forced all of my friends to read "The Hours," and I gave a midterm presentation in full drag. I approached queerness with the distinct and privileged zealotry of someone who had read about discrimination but never faced it.

But in 2013, on the day of the Baskin-Robbins "give a pint, get a pint" blood drive in the school gym, I hid out in the library, determined to avoid friends who might ask whether I was donating after school.

I didn't want to explain that gay blood was deemed unworthy of donation. I felt sad more than anything. This was the first time I had felt excluded because of my sexual orientation. I also really wanted to donate blood. Since the only cash I had was from my retail and fast-food jobs, I couldn't help people using money, so donating blood seemed like one of the few nonmonetary ways I could make an impact.

My classmates choked rubbery stress balls and competed to "bleed the fastest" after school, while I went to Baskin-Robbins alone, ordered a double scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge, and ate it silently as I drove home.

I spent years ruminating on the blood ban, and in college, I questioned the ethics of lying

As I got older, the sadness I experienced in high school morphed into frustration. I wasn't angry that I was being discriminated against; I was angry because I had blood to give — blood that I wanted to give — and wasn't able to because of an illegitimate policy rooted in Reagan-era homophobia. I was angry because bigotry was limiting the availability of a lifesaving resource that millions of Americans rely upon every year.

In college, I followed news updates about the ban, perfecting talking points for when it came up in conversations. "Unwarranted," I would quote. "Discriminatory and not based on sound science."

In my college introductory social-ethics class, my professor asked, "Is it ever ethical to lie?" Several students offered answers. One response stood out: "It is ethical to lie if the lie helps some but harms none."

This line of thinking introduced a question for me: Is it ethical to lie when filling out the blood-donor-eligibility form? Wouldn't that lie help some but harm none?

But no, I decided, it would be unethical to lie. Perhaps this conclusion sprang from my always-follow-the-rules mentality. Perhaps it was because this was the moral of all the stories I had ever been told. Or perhaps it was because I would — for the first time in almost a decade — have to hide being gay.

No, I determined, it would not be ethical for me to lie about my sexuality to donate blood, so I never did.

Then an opportunity presented itself

In February 2022, my sister texted me: "I don't know if this would be something that interests you, but it's exciting!" She included a link to the Advance Study. This was my chance to play a part in overturning the ban.

The MSM ban has undergone two major shifts since its inception in 1985. In 2015, the policy was updated so that only men who'd had sex with men in the past year were barred. In 2020, the yearlong ban was shortened to three months to accommodate for the blood shortage thanks to COVID-19. This year, the FDA proposed a plan that would eliminate the time limits and allow monogamous gay men to donate. Instead, the new plan would have prospective donors answer a list of questions to screen for HIV risk. The plan has not been formally approved yet.

While this may seem like progress, it isn't enough.

Enrolling in the Advance study was the first time I felt hopeful that the ban might be repealed, so I immediately signed up.

Finally, I got to give blood as a proud gay man

At the Pasadena Red Cross Blood, Platelet and Plasma Donation Center, I was led to a private room in the back. I sat down at a long table and was given an iPad to fill out a "more in-depth" survey: How many anal-sex partners have you had in the past three weeks? Three months? Six months? Year? Has the sex been receptive (bottoming)? Insertive (topping)? While I knew these questions were being asked to provide robust data for the study, I couldn't help thinking about how straight people would never be subjected to this line of questioning.

The blood was drawn, swiftly and unceremoniously — six vials. I waited for the gravity of the moment to hit me, but it didn't. I had expected to cry, but instead, I smiled at the nurse, scheduled a follow-up appointment, and walked out. This, after all, was not a blood donation. It was only a study. I tried not to dwell on it — to sink into disappointment.

As I sat down in my car, which I had parked optimistically in a "donor parking only" spot, I reminded myself of the next steps: a second blood draw, a period of waiting, and then — perhaps — change. I thought about what that moment would feel like, reading the "breaking news" notification on my phone.

But I just took a long breath, turned up the volume, and played Janet Jackson's "Together Again" as I drove myself to Baskin-Robbins.