The Letter Q

by Sarah Moon

  First, the bad news: You’re balding. The good news is that you have a finely shaped head. Pull out those old baby pictures and you’ll have a sense of what to expect. And believe it or not, you still have that rosy glow on your cheeks (you’re still brown, though, so don’t freak out). Some other good news: You’re gay.

  What — that doesn’t sound good? Well, it’s certainly not news to you, Rakesh. Yes, I know the truth. You know the truth. And now you know that I know the truth (as well as the position in which you configured those G.I. Joe figurines yesterday — boy, you dirty!). And guess what: It’s fine. It’s totally and completely fine, even if every time today that you imagine kissing a man you see yourself disintegrating into dust like that old Nazi at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Even if every time today you listen to “Vision of Love” you worry that there’ll be a special place in Hell reserved for kids who buy Mariah cassette singles with loose change.

  Even if every time today that you think the word “gay,” you pray for it not to exist.

  See, all those little things that you like to do, like drawing, painting, singing, organizing your Barbies according to level of décolletage — those are all helpful. The good adults in the world these days find those things amusing, especially in New York City, where you live now.

  No, no, no, New York City doesn’t look like those terrifying scenes in Coming to America anymore. It’s nice now! Instead of run-down motels, there are hotels full of hot Europeans and fifteen-dollar donuts! Instead of metal bins coughing out smoke and fire, there are cupcake carts! Instead of Cats, there’s no Cats! And most of all, instead of glares and muttered slurs everywhere, there are lots and lots and lots of gay people.

  And you’re one of them. When you go out on the weekends, you’re surrounded by friends, and many of them are gay too. There is a whole community out there that you haven’t even seen yet, and I can tell you that a large number of those men know what it’s like to try to re-create, in their own clothing, the cover of Paula Abdul’s Forever Your Girl. (Oh, and about Paula … You know how Dad likes to point out that she’s part Indian? Heads up: She’ll be more talked about in fifteen years than the Taj Mahal.) Not everything is going to be perfect, and for every potential gay date that reminds you of a cute Kermit, there’ll be one that gives you Miss Piggy nightmares. But I assure you that you are not alone. You are not going to crumble up and perish. You are not a weak kid. You are not … going to believe what people say to you when you wear those pedal pushers to class tomorrow.

  But don’t worry. You are not going to be scared forever either.

  Love,

  Yourself

  P.S. No, really — love yourself.

  P.P.S. Your best friend since fourth grade is gay. Just so you know.

  Dear Doug,

  I’m writing to you at a crazy time.

  It’s mid-October of 1980, and tonight — in just a few short hours — you’re opening in the Highland Park High School senior play. You have the lead. (With a rakish streak of gray shoe polish in your hair, you’ll essay the role of Henry Higgins in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion with a slight Texas accent and plenty of verve.)

  On top of that, you have a quiz in AP History tomorrow. To burnish your resume for college applications, you’re editing the literary magazine and even recording a book for the blind. And that’s not all; your father wants you to mow the lawn.

  Still, I hope you’ll take time to read this note; I’m your older self, and I’m worried about you. You’re trapped in a dizzying cycle of overachievement. It all looks good on paper, sure: the well-rounded go-getter, destined for immortality in the pages of the yearbook! But I know these compulsive strivings for what they really are: the manic efforts of a frightened boy seeking constant affirmation from the outside world in order to avoid confronting his true self.

  You’re running from secrets that have haunted you for years, some since grade school.

  Your first crush wasn’t Rosie Munroe, with her bubble-gum flavored lip gloss, or Amy Porter, who saucily snapped the straps on her training bra. No. It was Michael Edwards. Remember the pool party, where he wore pale blue trunks? He was golden and lithe, and the sight of the water coursing down his skin made you ache with longing.

  Or what about the day in art class, when your favorite teacher referred to you as a “sissy boy” in front of all your peers? After school at the bike racks, a gang of jocks who happened to share her opinion beat you up and stole your backpack.

  How about the pocket-sized Bible and flashlight you kept hidden under your mattress? When you had an erotic dream, you’d ward off images of Olympic swimmer Mark Spitz or movie heartthrob Ryan O’Neal by crawling under the bedspread and reciting psalms till morning.

  What about that desperate day when — searching for knowledge that might offer you some comfort — you went rifling through your parents’ bookshelf and discovered a self-help tome entitled Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask? In the chapter on homosexuality, you learned that if you were (God forbid) actually gay, you would be condemned to a life of furtive bathroom encounters with strangers, and have a high propensity for suicide.

  Have you forgotten that fateful morning in the shower when — with the water pressure full blast — you broke into tears and swore an oath to yourself: to carry these unsettling desires with you into the grave, even if it meant living a life absent romantic love altogether?

  These incapacitating secrets govern you; they’ve forced you to live a life of denial, inhibition, and hyper-compensation. I’ve often wished that I could reach back in time, give you a consoling hug, and whisper, “It’s going to be all right. Just relax.”

  So before you go onstage tonight, a few words of wisdom from your fiercest advocate.

  Stop working so hard to prove that you’re worthy. Let appearances be damned. Make extravagant, reckless mistakes.

  You know Bruce Myers, the one kid in the neighborhood with the courage to come out of the closet at seventeen? Don’t ostracize him; talk to him instead. Whisper to him that you might be gay too. You don’t have to carry the truth close to your breast, like a secret stash of pills or a grenade; let it be a bridge to your own salvation and possibly his too.

  Don’t spend so much time in the mirror, cursing your DNA. I’ll let you in on a secret: While you may not have a dimpled chin or six-pack abs, you are beautiful, because youth itself is beautiful, and time is too precious to waste on self-mortification.

  Don’t merely accept the fact that you were born gay; treasure it. You have a proud legacy: Alexander the Great, Michelangelo, Tchaikovsky, Gertrude Stein, Walt Whitman, Alan Turing, James Baldwin, Willa Cather, and Tennessee Williams, just to name a few.

  Yes, the indignities you suffer at the hands of bigots can make you bitter. But they can also strengthen your ability to empathize with the oppressed, and in doing so, enlarge the capacity of your heart.

  Live comfortably — gratefully — in your own skin.

  I know that I’m asking you to incur substantial risk, so to tantalize you — and to offer encouragement when the path is dark and strewn with nettles — here are a few snapshots of your future. Let them be our secret. Pin them in your Drama Club binder, and only peek on the days you’re hard-pressed to soldier on.

  You’re hosting a political fund-raiser in your Manhattan apartment; every candidate in the room is openly gay.

  In a Los Angeles rental car, you’re driving to pick up your wedding cake, and your mother says wistfully, “I always wanted all three of my children to be happily married; I just never imagined it would be the gay one.”

  A breeze ripples your cabana on a beach in Mexico, as you celebrate your husband David’s birthday. After eight years, his jokes are still the funniest and his approval means more than any sanction the anonymous world could ever provide.

  You’re protesting in Times Square for marriage equality. Your own civil rights era has finally begun. Despite your cynica
l nature, you know it’s proof that — despite our prejudices, our capacity for cruelty in the guise of moral rectitude, and our chronic small-mindedness — mankind still lurches toward enlightenment.

  That’s all I’m going to say. I can’t tell you more, because life should, life must carry some measure of surprise; I won’t reduce yours to a laundry list. But if I’m content now — truly happy — it’s because of you. It’s because you’ve achieved a small miracle, far greater than getting the lead in a school play, or bringing home a Debate Team trophy, or chairing the Current Events Club. It’s because you’ve managed to grow up gay in a hostile environment. That, my friend, is huge. So hang in there for both of us.

  I won’t keep you. Eliza Doolittle is waiting for her elocution lessons; you’ve a performance to give tonight, a role to play, one you’ve cultivated to a high sheen, a character you can safely inhabit without risk of exposure.

  Between us, let it be your last.

  Love (hard fought and hard won),

  D.

  Thank you for being smart enough to forget that you drove

  sixty miles to a bluegrass festival in Salem, Iowa

  that Sunday in June

  when you were sixteen, Gospel Day, the Christians

  twangy and grateful

  on the plywood stage before you on the crayon green grass

  with your friend Jane Fett, track star, square-shouldered, beautiful

  thank you for forgetting how you noticed

  the freckled sheen of Jane Fett’s

  skin that day, her blond curls, how the satin neck of her pink tank

  dipped to a soft vee between her breasts, which were also pink

  I know because you stumbled into a look at them then shot

  to her chocolate eyes and back again a million thanks for forgetting

  how you were overcome in that moment with the desire to kiss her

  and for being so sure you were going to do it that you had to get up

  and try to get yourself under control even though you didn’t really

  want to be controlled, allowing the three- and four-part harmonies

  of the faithful to soothe you enough to buy a lemonade and go back

  and be overcome again and like that until you got in the car

  and drove home as if nothing ever happened

  not the killing kind of forgetting but the waiting kind,

  thank you for being so smart to forget about wanting

  to kiss Jane Fett until you were two thousand miles

  from your relentless home and finally free

  for the first time in your life so lonely you made yourself

  stand beside the hot pink azalea in your rented yard

  and say hello to your next-door neighbor

  who invited you in to meet her girlfriend

  upon which a screen swung wide in your chest

  that let the memory of wanting to kiss Jane Fett back in

  because it had been waiting for you until the coast was clear

  and you could from then on and always

  remember who we really are.

  (The first letter was written by Brian Selznick to his future self in 1980 when he was thirteen. The second letter was written to his younger self in 2011.)

  March 27, 1980

  Dear Brian,

  Hi! how are you? what was it like growing up and getting older? did you marry someone? is she nice? I’m in english with mr. pellechia. For math I have Allen (Boring) for social studies I have Rollis (jerk). For Reading I have Stocky (!). How old are you now? I’m 13. Today is Thursday and easter vacation is next week. I can’t wait. Do you still wear glasses and have asthma? Colleen (remember her?) is sitting behind me. Remember Ginger and David, and andy and howie and carren lubowsky and Julie and how is Lee and Holly? How is Toto?, and Grandpa? Where are you living now? Remember Mike Ploplis and Mal Blackwell and Mrs. Clevenger, what do you do for a living? Remember Todd gillman and amanda and Jess? Do you still like Mussells and drawing? Do you remember Charna and Jenn Beyes and Mrs. Sutton and Mr. Selick, David O Selznick, Bruce and Shelia, Jamie and Lisa Reiter remember Mr. Seel (6th) Mrs Sharkey (1st) mrs. Sherman (2nd) Mrs Dzelac (3rd) Mrs. Shisler (4th) Mrs. Dzelak and Mrs Sharpe and 6th Mrs Shisler

  See ya around 1990,

  Yours Truly,

  You.

  February 12, 2011

  Dear You,

  I rediscovered your letter in my closet (an appropriate place to have found it, I guess) in 1988, the year I graduated college (I was twenty-one), so in fact I read the letter a few years earlier than I was supposed to. Even then I was shocked to have found it because I’d forgotten about it up until that point. I read the letter and put it back into my closet. I had all but forgotten about it again until I was asked to write a letter to my younger self for this book. I went back to my mom’s house, but the letter was no longer in my old closet. Eventually I found it in a box of my things in the basement. The letter, like myself, had been liberated from the closet, it seems.

  I’d like to answer the letter now, question by question, starting with the last one first.

  1. Yes, I remember all my elementary school teachers. I could still name them all even without looking at the list you wrote.

  2. I don’t remember Lisa Reiter. Sorry, Lisa, whoever you are! I don’t remember Jamie either, but Bruce and Sheila are my cousins, so yes, I remember them!

  3. David O. Selznick was my grandfather’s first cousin. He was a very famous producer of movies like the original King Kong and Gone with the Wind, so yes, I remember him.

  4. Mrs. Sutton was my art teacher after school from the time I was in third grade until I graduated from high school. She was very important to me and my artistic education, and I will never forget her. A few years ago we reunited at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City where she’d taken me as a kid to see a Picasso exhibition. It was a thrill to walk around the museum with her again, talking about art. But Mr. Selick … who were you??

  5. I do remember Charna, but not Jenn Bayes. I don’t like mussels so much anymore, but I do still love to draw.

  6. Todd Gilman was my next-door neighbor, and I remember him and his sister Jennifer very well. He was my brother’s friend, not mine really, so I’m not sure why I wanted to make sure I remembered him, but I do. Amanda and Jess, alas, have faded from my memory.

  7. What do I do for a living? I write and illustrate children’s books. I love what I do. I get to draw and research and travel, and it’s a wonderful job. I’m very lucky.

  8. I don’t remember Mike Ploplis very well, but Mal Blackwell was a ginker. I thought everyone knew what a ginker was but when I got to college I found out that it’s a term that seemed to be used only in East Brunswick, New Jersey. A ginker is someone who has long hair, wears a leather jacket, listens to heavy metal, and supposedly smokes a lot of pot. Mrs. Clevenger was an art teacher in middle school, and I remember hating her because she drew on my art without asking my permission. A few years ago I illustrated a book called Frindle, written by Andrew Clements, and I made the mean teacher look exactly like Mrs. Clevenger.

  9. I live in New York and San Diego.

  10. How are Toto and Grandpa? Not so well. Toto, our first pet, died in 1981 and Grandpa died in 1987.

  11. Holly and Lee are my sister and brother, so, uh, yeah, I remember them pretty well. Holly and her husband, Ed, have three boys and live in New Jersey. Lee and his wife, Sue, have three boys and a girl, and live in Virginia.

  12. I do remember Ginger. Her last name was Yoshimoro. David must refer to David Klein, who was my best friend when I was a kid. We are still friends. He lives in Texas with his family. Andy is Andy Levine, and yes, I remember him well. Howie is Howard Himmel, who lived up the block from me in East Brunswick. I heard he got married a few years ago and moved out of his parents’ house. Carren Lubowsky was another neighbor. We used to love to make each other laugh. One time we made milk come out of our noses. I got in contact with h
er a few years ago. She’s a lawyer now.

  13. I’m afraid I don’t really remember Colleen, but I still wear glasses. My asthma is almost all gone, but I still have a little trouble breathing when I’m around animals, so I always carry some medication.

  14. Today is Saturday and Valentine’s Day is next week.

  15. I’m forty-three.

  16. Did I marry someone? Is she nice? Well … this is the question that most surprised me, because I’m the only person who knows what you were really thinking at thirteen when you wrote it. You were already aware that there was something … wrong … with your interest in girls. I remember the girls you dated, like Lisa and Beth, but it never felt quite right. So it’s interesting to me that even though that was already in your head, you still assumed that you’d grow up and get married to a woman. Of course, you did phrase it as a question, so I guess you weren’t totally sure you’d get married, but it’s interesting nonetheless. So, to answer your question: No, I didn’t get married to a woman, but I did fall in love. When I was thirty I started dating an incredible guy named David Serlin and we’ve been together for almost fourteen years now. Oh my gosh, I just realized that my relationship with David is a year older than YOU were when you wrote me your letter!

  17. Is he nice? He’s very nice. And patient and handsome and funny and brilliant.

  18. What was it like growing up and getting older? Well, some of it was very hard, and some of it was great. When I first found your letter after college, I had only ever kissed one boy, and I was still pretty much in the closet. No one really knew I liked boys except a few close female friends from school. I felt a lot of shame about it for a long time. Why did that change? Well, I had great friends who were really supportive, and our family was supportive after a very difficult time trying to get Dad to understand (he did, eventually, although it took some doing!). I started dating, although before David my longest relationship was three months. Looking back now, I can say that I’ve liked getting older. I feel more confident than I ever have before, and I’ve realized there’s nothing to be ashamed of about being gay. I like being gay. I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.