When I was in Grade 10, I participated in a program called Encounters with Canada at the Terry Fox Canadian Youth Centre in Ottawa. It was designed for teenagers from around the country to gather and spend a week together, doing activities and then sobbing at the end of the seven days because how were you ever going to live without these people?
There was a dance on our last night. I had taken one of my white T-shirts and pinned it to a wall, asking people to sign it so I’d have a wearable memory of all the friends I had made. By the end of the night, it was covered in signatures and comments, but there was one comment that overpowered the others.
I think you are a bit feminine.
Someone had written that in large letters. I was horrified. I had been called out. Not only that, the T-shirt had been on display for everyone to see. And now that T-shirt, which was to have been a souvenir of a meaningful time in my life, was ruined. I couldn’t even bear to look at it. I didn’t throw the T-shirt away—there were still kind messages written on it—but I buried it at the bottom of my closet. Every time I thought about it, all I could focus on were those burning words, as though they’d been written in neon marker.
From that moment on, I was on high alert. I watched how I sat in class (feet flat on the floor, legs never crossed or pressed too closely together—the trick was to imagine my balls were the size of grapefruits), how I talked (never overly enunciate anything, mumbling was preferred, and be sure there was no rising lilt at the end of my sentences), what I wore (pink, yellow, and any pastel colours were out of the question, as was any clothing that was considered too fashionable), and, most important, where I looked (under no circumstances ever get caught staring at other boys). I was even mindful of how I carried my binders (always at my side, never pressed against my chest). I concealed the music I listened to (Madonna and George Michael instead of the more acceptable Guns N’ Roses and U2) and downplayed the things that brought me secret joy (baking, and singing and dancing in my basement to Jermaine Stewart’s “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off”—the theme song for closeted gay boys in the eighties). I tried to become the version of myself that I imagined everyone expected—someone who conformed to the laws within those hallway corridors. It was so hard. The daily pressure I put on myself was relentless. But I became so adept at it that by the time I graduated from high school, I was no longer the person with an acorn in his pocket. I convinced myself that I had managed to bury whatever those cornfield bullies had sniffed out—or at least suppressed it enough that I was no longer a target, which was still my greatest fear.
Would you believe that I was crowned prom king? Although, if I’m going to be completely honest, the real winner wasn’t around when they announced his name, so as the runner-up, I was crowned instead. But I wasn’t embarrassed at all. There was no shame in being the runner- up prom king. Just imagine what that moment felt like for someone who had hidden behind a church during lunch, for the boy who had only wanted people to autograph his T-shirt. And there he was, a few short years later, posing for photographs with the prom queen, in his Le Château double- breasted suit.
I’d count that as success, wouldn’t you, Craig? The survivors always come out on top. No need to pity someone like me.
The problem, of course, was that the success carried too much weight. Every ounce of my self-worth was determined by the checkmarks next to my name on the ballot. And the success wasn’t authentic. It wasn’t the real me who was crowned that night. If it had been the real me, if I’d been out in high school, my name wouldn’t have made the ballot. I likely wouldn’t have even gone to the prom.
And that’s what stayed with me afterwards—not in that moment, not when I was having my dance with the prom queen or when people were congratulating me, but later, when I was alone, when I had time to let it sink in. I wanted to continue to live in that bubble of acceptance, surrounded by the cheers of my fellow students, but I couldn’t. Because the prom king wasn’t me. He was someone I’d created to make everyone like him. Someone who had learned to play by everyone else’s rules in order to stay safe.
* * *
—
After my second year of university, I moved back to Sarnia for the summer. I was returning to my student job at the pipeline where my dad worked. I had started the process of coming out by then, slowly emerging from my place of hiding. Returning to live at home brought into focus how much of my teenage years had been wasted on trying to deny who I really was. The doubt, the guilt, the insecurity—it was all for nothing. I had been chasing after an acceptance that I never needed. I was angry, and bitter about the bullshit I’d been fed and had eaten so willingly.
One May day, I went back to my old high school to see the guidance counsellor I’d known there. During this visit, I told her that I was gay and that I was sure there were other kids like me, currently walking these halls, who were in the same dark place I had been when I was in high school. I asked her what supports there were for these students, and even for young gay adults like myself. Were there any groups? Was there anyone I could connect with? She was empathetic, but said there were no resources she was aware of, other than a contact she had at Public Health and a couple of gay friends she herself had. She offered me their phone numbers.
I left her office feeling the familiar weight of those cinder blocks surrounding me. Classes were still on, so there weren’t many students milling about. I walked along the speckled-floor hallways with their rows of flat-fronted lockers, and past the school library, the washrooms, and the gymnasium. I had returned to this school hoping to heal my wounds, but I didn’t even know where to begin. And I wondered how many students were at that very moment living with the same relentless pressure I had placed on myself. How many were feeling completely alone and powerless? How many were avoiding the cafeteria at lunch? And how many of those students would escape these halls only to return one day, once they had come out on the other side, to try to untangle the damage that had been done to them?
Staring down those hallway memories, I rounded the corners I was once afraid to turn, my middle fingers raised in salute.
* * *
—
I don’t know anything about you, Craig, or what grade you taught, but a part of me can’t help but wonder—did you ever look upon the faces of your students and see someone like me? Did you ever see yourself reflected? And how did that make you feel? Did you reach out, or was it better to leave things alone? Maybe it wasn’t your responsibility. You had your own life to live outside the classroom.
It’s unfair of me to ask these questions of a stranger, I know. And as tough as I had it, you had it just as tough, if not tougher. You were the role model, after all, the one the kids looked up to. If the faculty found out, if the kids found out, if the parents found out…
Fear was my biggest teacher. It taught me how to hide and how to stay afloat in the unyielding tide of that adolescent sea. I knew that if I was eating my lunch behind the church, no eyes would be looking across a crowded cafeteria at me. No targets could be identified.
But I think the greatest tragedy, the one that almost brings me to tears, was that I never once questioned why I had to hide in the first place. I never questioned those eight hundred hours. I never questioned my fear.
I never asked, “What’s so wrong about sitting at a table with girls?”
So, I guess that is someone to pity.
Sincerely,
Hi.
I haven’t responded to a personals ad before, but here it goes.
I’m a 22-year-old white university student. I’m 5 foot 8, about 135. I’m not religious or anything and I don’t have any particular background. I might as well tell you I’m a virgin, but there’s nothing wrong with me physically. No diseases, deformities or health issues. I’m pretty normal, all things considered.
I enjoy sports but prefer watching to playing. In terms of my main interest, I’d say it’s my bike. I’m not
a he-man but I’m not a princess either. I guess you could say I’m a normal “guy next door” type. Whatever that means.
What do you think? Would we get along? It’s completely your call since I don’t know anything about you, other than what was in your ad. I’m pretty easygoing, so hope you are too.
I’d give you my phone number but I live with straight guys and can’t take that chance. Suicide isn’t one of my priorities.
If you want to meet me, I’ll be standing inside the main doors of the university library next Monday, Oct 5. I’ll be wearing black jeans and a red jacket or just a Guess T-shirt if it’s hot. I’ll also be wearing my black Nike baseball hat. I’ll be holding my knapsack (dark blue) in my left hand. I’ll be there for about 5 minutes at 7 pm. Sorry if this sounds like a spy movie or something. But that’s life.
I hope to meet you. Maybe we can find a quiet spot to talk if nothing else.
Hope to see you Monday.
Dear “Unsigned,”
We never met, even though I would have been interested in meeting you. Did I go to the library that night at seven? I honestly don’t remember. Maybe I did go but just missed you, leaving me to lament that we would have been perfect for one another. My mind worked like that in those days. I was a bit of a romantic. I’d collect leaves in autumn and press them into books. I wrote poetry. I had a painting of Jesus above my door. I listened to Enya. Life was a beautiful tragedy and when something happened—or didn’t happen—it was very specific to me.
I don’t generally feel that way now. Not that my life is meaningless or without shape. I think it’s fatigue, mainly. That kind of interest in one’s own life—in autumn leaves—takes more stamina than you’d think.
You were a bit heavy with the clothing details. Couldn’t you have just said “a Guess T-shirt and a ball cap”? How much competition were you going to have in the span of five minutes on Monday, October 5, at 7 p.m. inside the main doors of the library? But I understand the need for specifics. These details were important to ensure no mistakes were made, no awkward encounters took place, and the wrong person wasn’t approached. Your specificity, Unsigned, was meant to protect our mutual safety as gay men.
What appealed to me about your letter is that you were closeted and living with straight guys, as I was. I shared a house in a neighbourhood where there were lots of families and trees and cars parked bumper to bumper in the driveways. It was a strange fit, a student house in the midst of suburbia.
Our house was in a perpetual state of disarray. Unwashed dishes abandoned on the counter. Furniture that looked like it had been scavenged from the recesses of our parents’ basements—or the town dump. I don’t think we even owned a vacuum cleaner. But, as you likely know, that’s student life for you. I don’t want to generalize and I’m sure there are tidy university students out there, somewhere, but I think most student houses are pigsties. It’s the nature of transient student life. When you’re living in a space that’s only borrowed, one that you’ll be vacating in just a few months, there’s no real sense of responsibility or ownership. Who cares if you stain the carpet? Or punch a hole in the bathroom wall? Someone else can deal with it after you leave.
There were signs that I was gay, although my roommates didn’t clue in to them—not back then, in the days before Will & Grace. But it was true that I was the only one to wallpaper his room and paint the trim in an accent colour (teal). I slept in an antique bed that I had refinished. And my CD collection should have been a dead giveaway. Cathy Dennis. Utah Saints. Black Box megamixes. And while these aspects might have been remarked upon and I might have been teased about the wallpaper or my remix collection, none of this necessarily pointed towards the fact that I was gay. I don’t believe that was an option for my roommates. I was someone to poke fun at, to joke around with, to question, but I don’t think my roommates ever seriously considered that I could be gay.
I’ve often heard from friends I’ve come out to that what I believed were my telltale signs of gaiety didn’t necessarily signal homosexuality in their minds. As one friend told me, “Those were all Brian things. It was just who you were.”
And while that’s reassuring in some ways, that I wasn’t defined as “gay” so much as “Brian,” it still speaks to the lack of awareness back then. I don’t want to typecast, but the wallpaper should have been a dead giveaway, don’t you think? But it wasn’t, because the idea that gay people could be milling about, and not just on The Sally Jessy Raphael Show, was inconceivable. It wasn’t possible that a gay person could be your child or your sibling. Or your former girlfriend. Sure, gay people were out there in the world, wherever “there” was, but they weren’t part of your daily life.
It wasn’t like you were sharing a toilet with one.
* * *
—
I met my roommates in first year, in residence. I’d been worried about moving onto an all-male floor, especially after my high school years. Other guys made me self- conscious; I never knew how to act around them or what to say. So there I was, in the midst of moving-in-day pandemonium, my parents alongside me, our arms loaded with boxes, walking into my dorm room and meeting my new roommate—a complete stranger who I’d be sharing a room with for the next eight months. Talk about awkward introductions. He was a jock, and a rugby player to boot. (And not exactly hard on the eyes, Unsigned.) One of his first priorities was to pin up a poster of a topless woman holding a beer bottle across her breasts, printed with the words “Man cannot live on beer alone.”
“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. “I’m in trouble.”
Surprisingly, we got along. In fact, I got along with most, if not all, of the guys on my floor. They were goofy, kind, frustrated, sweet, insecure. Human. It could have been that not getting along wasn’t an option, considering our close living quarters. Or maybe it was just that we were all so excited to be away from home and able to stay up until one on a Tuesday night drinking vodka mixed with grape Kool-Aid.
I had unnecessarily doubted myself. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be to connect with guys. Yes, I was putting on an act, a poor attempt at machismo. I remember going through my high school yearbook with my rugby player roommate, my finger coming to rest on black-and-white photos of girls who had never even given me the time of day.
“Fucked her. Dated her. This one was in love with me, but I had to call it off before she got hurt.”
Lies, pathetic lies. But I was convinced those lies were necessary to dispel any suspicions. I couldn’t risk the chance of my roommate—or anyone else on that floor—finding out the truth. I was certain it would only end in disaster. And this was the ultimate catch, the refrain of my life.
So long as no one knew the real me, I’d be accepted.
But all of us on that floor were putting on a show to a certain extent. That’s what guys often do, especially at that age, in the name of impressing one another.
Was residence where you found your roommates too, Unsigned?
A group of us decided to rent a house together for our second year. Things were fine for the most part. There were house politics and squabbles about whose turn it was to (not) do the dishes. But we respected one another. We weren’t just roommates, we were friends.
But it was suffocating at times. You would have known what it was like, how living in a house with other guys—straight guys—was a sort of vise. A pressure on your chest. I remember sitting on the ratty couch, watching TV shows, eating tater tots or drinking lukewarm beer, and listening to the comments that flew around the room. Not that anyone meant to be mean, but we were living in different times, when nothing really got questioned. And I was afraid of what the response might be if I did question anything. It was easier to be silent, to lie low under those words that hung heavy above my head, like grey clouds.
Maybe, like me, there were times when you were angry or frustrated at your roommates. But mostly, I was scared that some r
evealing clue would be discovered, or I’d slip up and say something that would raise suspicions. Chances were, it wouldn’t end well. You knew this as well as I did. That’s why you mentioned suicide, although I hope you weren’t serious about that part. But it wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility back then. You and me, we understood that.
Halfway through that second year, however, things began to shift. Or rather, I started to shift. The gay thing kept calling. One night, my roommates and I went out to celebrate some birthdays, including my own. I was turning twenty-one. I got drunk, and when my friends weren’t looking, I staggered off to the gay bar that was a couple of blocks away. I had been to the bar the year before with a lesbian friend while pretending to be “straight” and “cool with it.” There was no sign or marking indicating the door that led up to the bar, so god knows how many doors I drunkenly tried to open before landing on the right one. I met some people that night, hooked up with the DJ (it’s a rite of passage), and officially launched my coming out to the backdrop of “Finally” by CeCe Peniston. This was the start of what I’ll call the Great Gay Divide. A corner had been turned and there was no going back. I didn’t want to go out to straight bars or feign interest in girls anymore. I was tired of pretending, exhausted by the show I had been putting on for my roommates for the past two years—and really, for my entire life.
Within weeks, I swapped out my straight friends for a new circle of gay friends. And I wasn’t as much a part of the house, of its dynamic, as I had been. That’s what it felt like to me. My roommates didn’t seem to notice or care, and yet my nerves made me hypersensitive to any little comment they made. But whatever I felt was owed to me, whatever lost time I was making up for, whatever my fears, the bottom line was that I was lying to my friends. Lying about where I was going and who I was seeing. I told myself that it was the price of maintaining my two worlds. But eventually, the barricades I’d created to keep those worlds from colliding began to crumble. Guys would call the house, voices and names my roommates didn’t recognize, and I’d get defensive when questioned. Someone left a huge Valentine’s Day card on my doorstep once. (Luckily he wasn’t seen by anyone, but can you even imagine how I’d dig myself out of that one, Unsigned?) I’d stay out all night and be vague about my whereabouts when I came home in the morning. Again, these weren’t just my roommates, they were my friends. So why was I being so strange lately? If I was seeing a girl, why was that something to hide? Why the secrecy, Francis?
Missed Connections Page 6