When someone asks Wenxian Tan if he chose to be gay, the first thing he does is laugh.

"You have to laugh first, because it's like, 'Did you choose to be straight?' " said Tan, a College of Arts & Sciences senior. "You just wake up one morning and go 'I like girls,' after you've spent the last 12 years of your life throwing spitballs at them?"

And when College of Communication senior Karen Molnar came out a year ago, she shrugged off her mother's fears that she would adopt a mullet or head to the Harley dealership to pick up a motorcycle.

"The stereotypes for lesbians are absolutely ridiculous," she said. "I always tell my friends, 'I'm the same person as I was when you thought I was straight.' "

But for Molnar, Tan and other gay and lesbian students on campus, Election Day will not be about stereotypes to which they do not conform or choices they say they never made. With an amendment on the ballot that would put existing laws barring same-sex marriage in the state constitution and foreclose the possibility of civil unions, it will be about whether Wisconsin reinforces the barriers to a choice that is not currently theirs to make.

An issue of humanity

Over the years, Tan has come to laugh at a number of things — the notion that all gay men are Cher fans, the idea that homosexuals must "recruit" straight people to fill their ranks, the roommate who called him "Queer Eye" and asked him to pick his outfits.

But for Jacob Perkins, a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee sophomore and Tan's boyfriend of a year and a half, it is sometimes not a matter of laughing at what he encounters, but choosing to ignore it.

Perkins said he has learned to ignore the coworkers who use words like "gay" and "fag" as insults in casual conversation. He has learned to ignore the strangers who can't take their eyes off the sight of two men holding hands on the sidewalk or on the bus.

"It seems like they're just so blown away by it," he said of the people who stare. "It's like there's this 10-foot elephant or something wandering through."

He has a harder time, however, ignoring the alienation he feels in a society in which the outcome of the next election could take him a step further away from the ability to have his most committed relationship legally recognized.

"This amendment is basically saying that 'I'm human, and these other people are human, but these people over here are not human, because if they were human, they should have the same rights as me, but since they're not human, they can't have those rights,' " he said.

'The same rights as you'

For Molnar, the battle is not against careless remarks or looks on the street, but indifference.

While most of her friends have sided with her in opposition to the amendment, she said, she also hears people tell her they may not have time to vote or aren't sure if they want to make the trip to the polls. And she can't help but take it personally.

"I just want to be like, 'You know what, great, I hope you don't have time to get married when you're older, because some people may never have the chance to,' " she said.

She emphasized that voting down the amendment would not legalize same-sex marriage — Wisconsin law has limited marriage to heterosexual relationships since the state joined the union — or grant her any new rights. It would simply stop the erosion already at hand, she said, and leave a sliver of hope for the future.

She also said while most people she knows say they have no problem with homosexuality, the inclusion of the ban on the ballot tells a different story.

"You say it's ok to be gay," she said. "But your actions show it's not."

To Molnar, the inclusion of language in the amendment to explicitly bar civil unions along with gay marriage takes the injury — and the insult — one step further.

"It's just us wanting the same rights as you," she said. "Why can't we have that?"

A long list

Jess Cushion, another College of Communication senior, grew up admiring the strength of her parents' relationship. In her eyes, the dedication that has carried them through 24 years of marriage embodies the ultimate expression of love and devotion two people can make to one another.

For Cushion, the notion that same-sex couples are a threat to those values is a source of no small frustration.

"I would like to know how people getting drunk in Las Vegas and being married for 50 hours is somehow more sacred and more special and more socially acceptable than two women who love each other and are committed to each other and want to raise a family together, getting married," she said.

Cushion, who is a member of the Students for a Fair Wisconsin group and president of Marquette's Gay/Straight Alliance, and Molnar, who also belongs to the Fair Wisconsin group, both said their comments reflected only their personal views and not the views of their organizations.

When searching for post-graduation jobs, Cushion starts by ruling out the 20 states that have already passed constitutional bans on same-sex marriage, and may have to add another five to the list this fall.

"I'm supposed to be going into the world bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to start my adult life," she said. "Instead, I'm saying, 'Ok, well, 50 percent of this country doesn't think I'm a person, so let's see what I'm left with.' "

She isn't worried about finding someone with whom she can spend the rest of her life, she said, but she is worried about doing so in a society that may never acknowledge her commitment.

"It's really hard knowing that the city, the state, the country that I live in will never see the legitimacy of that, and the only thing that changes their view of the legitimacy of my relationship is what's in each off our pants.

"What do we do then?" she said. "Who are we?"