We
were walking to lunch; class had just ended. Spring was making its first real
appearance, and all was calm. L was excited that I had asked her out to
prom. She wasn't even going to go that year, but since I asked, then of course she would go. She, like most of the girls
in my class, was head-over-heels in love with me. It was only a few weeks
before prom, and I had never heard my fun-sized girlfriend talk so fast. As
usual, I had other things on my mind, so I wasn't really hearing what she had
to say… which would be why she smacked my arm.
“Are
you even listening to me?”
I
nodded my head, and suggested a nice restaurant that wasn't so nice that our
wallets would be ravaged. There were plenty of cheap places in our small country
area, but of course the prom itself would be held out of the area. This meant,
to me, an annoying amount of planning: finding somewhere to eat, making
reservations, finding directions on how to actually get there. She continued
talking after that, but I still had other things on my mind.
For as long as I could remember,
it had been like that. Overly excited girl, plus a sweet, loving, nicer-than-he-should-be
me, equals one of the cutest couples ever. I had been nominated for homecoming
king for two years now, and was on the ballot for prom, as well. People liked
me well enough. As long as I kept playing their game, their way, I would be
fine.
The
major downside to this equation, however, is that I have never actually been interested
in that way. I've known for quite
some time that I’m not like most guys. I’m simply not that interested in girls.
I mean, most of my best friends are girls. I often found myself liking a girl a
lot, and being really great best friends with her, and then she would want to
start dating. Of course, I would date her.
There
I would be, time and time again, romantically involved with this girl that I
only had feelings of friendship toward, rather than feelings of love.
Inevitably, the girl would get upset because I didn't want to make-out, or feel
her breasts, or have sex with her.
It just wasn't in me.
It
was at an early age that I discovered how hateful people could really be. I didn't grow up in a bad part of town,
just a part where people all shared the same opinions. The community would
always get along well, as long as no one challenged their ideas. A peaceful,
conservative, white Christian community. That’s what I grew up with.
I
remember times when people would cause trouble. A black person might try to
join our church, or a scandal might arise where so-and-so slept with the wife
of a different so-and-so. The harshness of my community would deal with these
people. One time specifically, the father of one of my friends tried to buy out
a bunch of land to build some sort of complex. The community caused such an uproar,
that it turned out I couldn’t see my friend any longer.
Times
like those made me realize that my community would rather base their judgments
on ideas that others have. No individual person ever had an idea unless they
asked their neighbors what they thought first. I couldn’t take that. I knew
inside that I was different from these people. I knew that I couldn't just
stand by and let hate and bigotry control me like it did those people. I hated
the way they thought and acted. Because of their actions, I formed very strong
opinions on justice and fairness. It also gave me a sense of fear: a fear that
I would be shunned for being different. And no one was more different or less
tolerated than gays….
“Move
it, faggot!” Someone gave me a shove, in a hurry to get to lunch. I glared at
him running ahead of us.
“You
know he wasn't saying anything about you,
right?” L asked me, looking up at me. I just shrugged. Yeah, I know. It’s just one of those terms
people use without thinking.
Gays,
Faggots, Homos, Pansies, and Queers.
It left a sour taste on the tongue. Being called any one of those names would
be cause for a fight. And why wouldn't it? Everyone in the area knew what those people were like.
Faggots
were monstrosities on Earth. They wore girls’ clothing and talked with lisps. They
were rapists and pedophiles, sexual predators stalking any guy they laid their
eyes on. The term described people with limp wrists and condemned them to hell.
No one ever wanted to be one of them.
In my mind, however, none of those things were true. They were simply
stereotypes people had invented to shun a group of people they didn’t like or
agree with. I knew, however, that people wouldn't think about that. Back home,
in the small country area I lived, there were plenty of hillbilly rednecks who
knew exactly how to deal with these freaks of nature…
She
hit me again. “There’s something on your mind—I can tell!”
“What
do you mean?”
“You
just agreed to wear a neon-orange tuxedo to prom! I was testing to see if you
were paying attention.” She was good. I had to admit. She knew I would never
wear something that bright to a dance.
“It’s
nothing. I’m just thinking about an assignment for English I have to finish.” That’s right Walt. Blame it on school work
again. One day you will have to tell her the truth, you know. “I’ll see you
later, okay?”
I
really did care about L. I cared about her more than she could know. I cared
about her so much that I was actually hiding my true self from her for even
longer just so she could be happy. At least, that was what I told myself. The
truth was that I was afraid—afraid to let people know how I really felt. I
would never be treated the same if they knew.
I
couldn’t be gay, after all. I didn’t wear tight fitting clothing, or dress like
a girl. I bought all my clothes at Goodwill, so I obviously didn’t dress that
fashionably (unless you are ninety years old). I didn’t have the earrings or
the lisp. I was still a virgin too! I couldn’t be one of those creepy guys who
look around for sex like those homos do. I didn’t go out and rave to dance
music at clubs while hyped up on drugs either. I was just a good student—a nice
guy who followed the rules.
“Why
don’t you ever do your work on time? I mean, I know EVERYONE turns Mr. T’s
work in late, but you never really struck me as the type.” She never would let
go. We turned the corner, walking toward the cafeteria. At least there I might
be able to drown my thoughts with the voices of all the students talking over
everyone else.
I
often tried to drown out those thoughts, to find distractions. That’s part of
why I had a girlfriend. She distracted me, made me feel normal. I hated what I felt
inside. I hated who I was—every morsel of my being, I felt, was an abomination.
I needed the distraction. It only
worked on rare occasions, though, and that day was not one of them. All around me, I saw those I wanted. People I
knew I could never have, not if I wanted to keep my identity. Not if I wanted
to stay safe....
“Oh
my god!” L cried. French fries, chicken nuggets, and chocolate milk flew
as a guy at a table near us accidentally tripped, flipping his tray into the
face of the guy across from him. I pulled L aside so she wouldn’t get in
the way of the lunch-covered student who was, at that moment, climbing over the
table toward the student who had just tossed his food. Teachers, quickly
swarmed to the area, but not before the dairy covered teen landed a punch in
face of the other.
“You
dirty faggot!” cried Milk-Stain. Blood dripped down from the nose of the other
boy, the one on the ground, the one that everyone at my school knew was gay,
even if he wasn’t ‘out’. They were both headed for the principal’s office. They
would both be punished, regardless of the fact that only one of them did any
fighting.
There
were other reasons that I couldn’t say anything, and one of them had just
punched that kid in the face. I knew that the gay community was discriminated
against. If people knew I wasn’t interested in girls, then they would, of
course, think I was gay. I was mortified of being treated like that. I had
already experienced some of that before, and didn’t want to go back.
Two years before, I found myself
getting hit by and picked on by a group of guys calling me gay. (There’s no way
they could’ve known though, because even I
wasn’t sure at that point.) Why were they doing this? Turns out, my best friend
had come out of the closet, and everyone assumed that I was his boyfriend. The
rumor spread like wildfire and caused immediate repercussion. My current
girlfriend, one I had actually had since middle school, dumped me because she
didn’t want to be a “fag hag.” I had people kick in my locker, steal stuff from
my backpack, and vandalize my belongings. I was even being confronted by my
parents and church elders! It all eventually cooled off when J had to
transfer to a different school.
J and I were extremely close
friends. We did everything together. Thinking back on it now, I believe we
connected so well because we both knew we were different. We opened up to each
other all the time, and never kept things from each other. Being friends with J made me think about things though. I knew even then that I was different.
Seeing all that he had to deal with, just to affirm his identity made me proud.
I could see that he had finally come to terms with who he was, and even though
he faced hate and torment because of it, he was stronger willed now—stronger
now that he was sure of who he was.
“Did
you know that J’s parents divorced because he was gay?” I asked L.
“What?
That’s stupid. I hate people sometimes. It was his dad, wasn’t it?” I nodded.
“I never did like him. His dad, I mean.”
It
was when she would say things like that I felt that she loved me enough to be
okay with me, no matter who I was. My parents, however, I knew would react
differently.
My
mother, paragon of acceptance, would be okay with it, given time. I know she
loves me for who I am, no matter who that may be. My father, however, was an
entirely different story. I loved him like a son should love his father, but I
never could get along with him. He had so many expectations of me. I was
supposed to be the perfect son for him—I was the one that he tried for, after
all—but I could never be that son he always wanted. I couldn’t be the football
star with the girlfriend that would make everyone jealous. I was always sure
that, as much as he and my mom fought already, if he were to ever find out about
me, the fighting would get so bad that they would divorce.
Growing
up I can see how I must’ve disappointed my father time-and-time again. I was
never the sport-oriented son he wanted. I played soccer for two seasons, but I
ended up giving that up. He pushed me to be a hard worker then—to be a man. He
had me perform tasks well outside my comfort area, such as chopping wood for
fire, or working construction with him. I was never the outdoors type, and I
often turned out to be pretty lazy as well.
Perhaps
it was because of my father’s desires that I developed a sense of manhood that
was almost completely contrary to his own beliefs. For my father, Man was
supposed to be big, strong, and powerful. Man chooses a wife and has children.
Man provides for his family by having a job, and it is the family’s job to
support Man’s home. Man’s son would learn directly from Man in order to become
Man himself. Man was above all and therefore could treat all as such.
My version of Man, however, was based on
different morals. I believed that Man is defined by how one treats those around
him. Man strives to be the best he can, but would never treat anyone as if they
were any less than he. Man can be Man, without needing a wife. All he needs is
caring.
When
I told my dad about my version of Man, he called me a pussy. I was a pansy
little child, and it was his responsibility to wear that idea out of me. I made
many trips to the woods to grab a switch, and would of course have to go back again
because I never got one good enough. I fully understood that I was a
disappointment to him.
I
did however, excel in one area: academics. I was the smart child, and for that
I was praised, but I could always tell that my father wished I had been more of
a man than I was turning out to be…
She
was giving me that look again. “You know I love you, no matter what, right?”
She could see straight through me. She knew I had something serious on my mind,
and that it was about me and her.
“As
I love you with all my heart, darling.” Every time I uttered those words, I
felt the guilt build up in me. I couldn’t live with it all. I mean, I did love
her, but I wasn’t in love with her. I
couldn’t keep living like this. I had to tell her the truth.
“L,
I have to tell you something really important.”
“Yes?”
She looked up at me, cutest smile on her face. She was holding a Prom Girl catalog in her hand, several
pages marked with post-it notes. I looked from her, over to the guy sitting
across the table, perfect smile and all, chatting away to his friend beside
him. This was it. I was about to do it. I was about to tell her everything.
Looking back at her, I felt a knot tie in my
stomach.
I can’t. I can’t do it.
“I love you. Just wanted you to
know.” She smiled and turned back to her book, giggling because I had made her
happy. I guess that was something I was good at: making others happy. Maybe I
could live with that. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living a lie. I knew,
however, that I couldn’t live being fake. I had to prove to myself who I was. I
had to discover myself. I would tell her, but not now. Let her be happy for
now.
It could wait
until later.
***
“Do
you think I’m preeeetty?” S asked. Our director was throwing a party to
celebrate the closing of RENT, so there I sat in his basement-bar: the
un-entertained designated driver. I was caught up in my own thoughts when
S collapsed onto the couch beside me. She held in her hand the tenth Solo
cup that I had seen her with that night. Her breath, as she slurred out her
question to me, stank of san gria.
With
the naïve hope she would leave, I told her what she wanted to hear. Instead of
leaving, however, she put her arm around me. “You’re a cutie, you know that?” I
could barely keep myself from laughing as she sat there and hit on me. I tuned
her out when she started telling me her life story.
Hampden-Sydney
had been an entirely new experience for me. College. I had met new people. I
had experienced life being out and open. And the year was drawing to a close,
too. Soon I would have to go back home and deal with my family again.
They all knew who I was then.
They all knew I was gay. They had heard it through the grapevine, and I
confirmed it. They claimed they weren’t mad. They claimed that everything was
the same. But I knew that things were different now. I noticed when the phone
calls became less frequent. I noticed the way that, when we did talk, they were careful with their
words. My ever-faithful siblings relayed to me about our parents’ fights. They
used to fight about money, alcohol, and my older sister’s shenanigans.
Now they fought about me.
“I bet all the boys fight over
you!” S was practically in my
lap at this point. She had spilled a bit of her fruity drink down my leg, and
the wetness had brought me back from my thoughts. I grabbed a randomly
discarded shirt and used it to mop up my leg. I then coaxed the drink from
S’s hand and placed it on the table. She began to whine for her ‘juice’,
but I laid her head down and began to stroke her hair, alleviating her
complaints. “You’re so sexy from this angle!” she told me.
I had always had a hard time
believing that I was physically attractive. I still do. But when I came to
college, I drew the attention of every man-loving guy who went to the school,
as well as some from the neighboring towns. Suddenly, I was given any guy I
wanted, and I took advantage of that. My first months were spent trying to find
and keep a guy. I kept trying to form a relationship, but it turned out that
they weren’t interested that way.
A good three months into the year,
I realized that I didn’t really care anymore. There were still guys who wanted
me, but I wasn’t interested. At first, I
thought that I just wasn’t interested in the guys around the school anymore. I
tried contacting guys from back home again, but after speaking with them, I
found that they were all the same: sex-starved horn-dogs who could care less
about forming an actual relationship. And since I didn’t have the same desires
as them, they lost interest.
So now, I was stuck. I didn’t
seem to have any interest in guys, and I still had no interest in girls. All I
had was this label.
“Why
aren’t you drinking, silly? It’s
yummy!” S’s hangover was going to be terrible, I could tell. She was
switching topics every five seconds at this point. “How come I never see you at
any parties, huh?” If she wasn’t intoxicated, I probably would’ve tried to
answer her questions. It’s not like I didn’t answer them almost daily, anyway.
But my explanation would be lost on her.
Back home, my coming-out didn’t
even have an effect on the relationship I had with my community, because I was
still fairly unknown. I wasn’t the type of person to go out and meet new
people. I stuck to my home, and left only for work.
Now
that I was at college, however, I had no choice but to face the community.
Unfortunately for me, these people were even less accepting than the ones back
home. When I got to Hampden-Sydney, they already knew I was gay. It was on my
Facebook, after all. I didn’t think it would be a problem.
Now
my fears of being gay had been realized. People here don’t just ignore me like
the people back home. Now people go out of their way to call me faggot, queer,
homo. I get pushed as I walked by people. I can’t make friends.
My roommate was occasionally
hostile, even to the point where I had to switch rooms for fear of my safety. I
felt alone. I had a few friends, but they were pretty much all gay, themselves.
The only reason, it felt, that we bonded is because we were in the same boat.
And
even within my group of gay friends, I was further put out of the crowd. These
guys were the gays that people talked about: fashion-obsessed, bitchy, and
snobbish. They treated ‘gay’ more like a lifestyle than a way of life. I had
nothing against them, but since I was none of those things, they often picked
on me as well. I was alone and trapped.
I
dropped S off at her dorm. I even walked her inside and passed her off to
her roommate, who thanked me for bringing her back safely. The drive back to my
school was short, but plenty long to think about everything. What did I
actually want? Would I ever be able to figure myself out?
I
thought about how the day had gone. I thought about how, when I went to turn in
a paper earlier, a group of guys had called me names. That paper had me so
proud. I didn’t bother remembering their faces. I didn’t listen to their
torment. I was past that.
I
left. I left the paper sitting in the box outside my professor’s office with
those guys who called me faggot, who threatened me with words. My breath drew
short as I thought about my paper. I raced to my professor’s office to check on
the paper. It was there. But it wasn’t in the box outside his door. It was on
the floor. Balled up. Like trash for the janitor to find in the morning.
I
picked the trash up, folding open my desecrated pride. Scrawled across the front
in black ink was the word FAG in large letters. I turned with the paper and
began to walk back to my room. I was shaking and crying before I even realized.
I had been vandalized. This work that I was so proud of had been attacked. It
hurt worse than if they had actually hit me. The product of several nights’
worth of digging through painful memories had been vandalized, balled up, and
discarded as though my work didn’t matter.
I
could always print out another copy. I told myself that over-and-over, but still….
I shook violently and cowered behind a bush. I was afraid. I looked down at the
paper. “It Can Wait”, I read. “’So where do you want to go before prom?’”
At
that very moment, there was nothing more I wanted than to go back to that
point. prom. When the most important thing was where I wanted to take L to
dinner. I read my paper. It felt like an old story. Uncompleted. It ended. Without
an end. There was no real resolution.
It left the reader wanting. I had had no more to write, but now, after what
happened, I felt like I had an ending.
This paper has taught me to be
strong. I can endure through the issues I’ve been presented. I know I’m gay. I
know it’s hard to deal with, but I believe I’m strong enough to survive the
trials. I never thought I’d be able to say that to
myself, but I finally have. I know that there will still be hate against me.
There will probably be more violent acts to come. But I will have to deal with
them when they come.
I
wiped my tears and marched back to my room. I went directly to my computer, and
began to write. I had to get it all down while it was still fresh in my mind.
When I was done, I went to sleep. In the morning, I typed these last few
sentences to wrap it up. In a minute, I will print it and turn it in.
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