by Sarah Moon
Like homosexuality.
“Homosexuality.” Now there’s a word that’s gotten progressively scarier whenever you’ve considered that it may apply to you. It’s too long and cumbersome to roll off the tongues of the playground bullies, but it’s the term of choice for authors, which is why you keep looking it up in book indexes.
You don’t like what the book authors say about it and you don’t like the word itself. Who would? It sounds like a sickness. An undesirable “condition.” You’re wondering, If I’m going to be a “homosexual,” exactly how mentally ill does that make me?
How do I know what you’re wondering? I know because I am you — the you you’re going to be half a century from now. Think time travel and you’ll catch my drift. I’m weathered and creaky and my hair’s thinning fast, but I still vividly remember being the you that you are right now. I know what’s in your heart because I’ve been there. Literally.
So I speak with confidence gained from decades spent walking in your shoes when I say, Forget about being “sick.” You’re not. It’s as simple as that.
And stop labeling yourself as “a homosexual.” Sure, James Dean does a number on you the way Marilyn Monroe does a number on lots of guys your age, but that’s just your individual hormones in action. And hormones are only a small part of what makes up a human being.
You’re you. A person, not a sex drive. You’re still the same preacher’s kid who played with hand puppets and wrote radio plays and drew comic books during lazy afternoons back in Springville. You got “born again” at eight and began complaining to your dad about fundamentalism’s inconsistencies by the time you were twelve. You’ve edited the school paper, been elected to the student government, and for a loser at athletics aren’t all that awful at soccer. And then there’s that correspondence course in cartooning you’ve been taking for three years. Think you might manage to sell a comic strip to some newspaper syndicate someday? You’ve put in plenty of hours with that dream in mind.
Those are all parts of who you are that are just as important as who gets cast in your wet dreams. Is all of that summed up by the word “homosexual”? I don’t think so!
You’ve got to trust yourself and tune out those authors who’ve got so much to say about how “unnatural” homosexuality is. They’re whizzes at throwing pompous psychological jargon around, but most of them know little to nothing about what makes someone like you tick.
Every year you’ve been getting better and better at thinking for yourself instead of automatically believing everything you read in books. So here’s a perfect opportunity to practice separating wisdom from hogwash. Marshal that healthy skepticism you’ve been cultivating and ask: Where’s the evidence behind all that disapproval? Does what the “experts” are selling square with what you’ve experienced in your own life? Does it square with common sense?
Remember the time you commented, in a paper you wrote about Huckleberry Finn for a literature class, that white people were inherently more intelligent than black people? Your teacher nailed you in a flash. “What’s your evidence for that?” he asked.
As a kid who had grown up in rural Alabama when racial segregation ruled the South, it never occurred to you to question that assumption. The grown-ups around you, who were supposed to be the experts on how things are in life, considered the intellectual superiority of the white race to be so obvious as to need no arguments. Did anyone need evidence that the sky is blue? Hardly. Some things, you were raised to believe, are true simply because everyone knows that they’re true.
But then your teacher’s question stopped you short. You tried to think of evidence for your assertion, but nothing you came up with could stand up to scrutiny.
Those authors who are telling you how sick and morally twisted homosexuals are and how doomed they are to lives of misery got those messages from their own elders, and their assertions were no more rooted in evidence than your ideas were about the relative intelligence of blacks and whites. Since in earlier days the subject of homosexuality was considered unfit for proper conversation, attitudes about it were likely to be conveyed mainly through smirks and fag jokes, but they still got embedded in most people’s psyches. And now that some of them have persuaded the editors of their books that they’re qualified to compose dignified discourses on sexuality, they’re passing on those attitudes to their readers.
But where is the evidence that you’re sick or morally twisted? Have you noticed how their attempts to support their arguments logically can’t withstand scrutiny? You need to think through these issues in light of your own real-world experiences instead of being intimidated by what you read in books.
You know that you never asked to be gay, and you weren’t seduced into it either. Your attraction to other guys flowered spontaneously within you as you grew into sexual maturity. Once you do set aside what the authors, preachers, and schoolyard bullies say about it, you will know in your heart that the yearning you have to be close to other guys is natural and positive. It even feels loving, sometimes, when your crushes are on a roll.
You’ve got to trust your inner naturalness, Howard. It’s dangerous not to. I know you’ve been trying as hard as you can to switch your brain into heterosexual mode, but it’s not happening yet and it’s never going to. That’s making you feel desperate. Your black moods about what life holds in store for you have been getting darker and darker, and you’ve been thinking more and more about suicide as a way out. You even took a serious swing at it once. Sure, you lucked out by botching the attempt, but it’s a memory that still disturbs me. It makes indulging in a little time travel today feel worth the effort.
I don’t want to spoil life’s interesting surprises by spilling too many beans, but given how much anxiety you have right now about what’s in store for you, let me throw out a few tidbits.
That cartooning course you’ve been taking by mail is going to pay off, though not in exactly the way you’ve been envisioning. Yes, you’ll get to draw a nationally published comic strip someday, but it won’t be anything like Li’l Abner or Peanuts. It’ll be way more satisfying.
Wanna know one reason why? Because when the time comes and you’re ready to take the plunge, you’re going to learn that any artist’s creativity rises to new levels of power when it’s rooted in honesty. Right now you’re afraid that you’ll never be allowed to enjoy a “real” cartooning career unless you keep readers from knowing you’re gay. But here’s a twist that’s going to turn that fear upside down: It’s when you finally feel strong enough to blow your Big Secret out of the water by letting everybody in the world know that you’re gay, when you start putting your honest gay perspective into your comics with no apologies, that your talents will finally get the kind of widespread recognition you’re dreaming of now. And the icing on the cake will be learning that the honesty you put into your comics will inspire new generations of kids who are struggling with their Big Secrets the way you’ve been struggling with yours.
Think about how scary the word “queer” has been while you’ve been growing up. Well, here’s a switch: The time is coming when you and other gay folks like you will claim that loaded word as a badge of honor. In broad daylight, no less! The rest of the world will just have to get used to it!
Then there’s sex. You can relax about that. The yearning you have to hold guys close and enjoy the sexy feelings that go with that will have its day in the sun. Yep, you’re going to get plenty of chances to take those delicious desires and run with them. It’s a perk of adulthood.
And what about love? Rest assured that your straight classmates who’re running off to neck at the movies every weekend won’t have a monopoly on that in years to come. By the time you’ve become me you’ll have enjoyed making a home with a terrific guy for thirty-three years. And there won’t be any need to keep it a secret from the neighbors either.
I could go on and on, but filling out the full picture would take fifty years. Better that you should discover it all for yourself.
What a shame it would be to miss all the fun!
Your pal from up ahead,
Howard
Dear Bil,
I was talking about you to a friend the other day. And before I knew it I was sitting in the same room with you at “Sister” Johnson’s sweet sixteen party. We both knew Sister only invited you because she really liked your mom. It was probably your mom who told her, “You should invite Billy.” So she did. You could have killed your mom. But you went. What choice did you have? Your mom said something like, “Billy, you’re fourteen. This is what you should be doing. Not staying in this apartment, trying to hide out.” And you got dressed knowing there was no way you were gonna look like any of the other guys there. You’d already seen a lot of them hanging out in front of Sister’s building. They wore short-sleeved argyle-patterned sweaters; tight, shiny pants that made their butts look like two basketballs wrapped in colored fabric; and shoes that matched. You didn’t own anything but cotton dress shirts, a navy blazer with gold buttons, the gray or navy pants you wore to church, and penny loafers. This was not gonna be fun. When you got there, all the guys and girls were already coupled up. Some were in the middle of the room dancing and the rest were sitting around the room, looking glued together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the lights to get turned lower so they could start making out. You could see the girls giggling as the guys’ fingers inched up their skirts. As much as you thought you should, you probably wouldn’t ever want to be one of those boys waiting for the lights to get turned down so you could make out with your girl. It’s safe to say — is it safe to say? — what you wanted was someone’s arm around you instead, so you could put your head against a strong chest and hear the music — “Ooooo — baby, baby” — and feel — there’s that word again — safe.
I was telling that same friend how three years later, we were walking down Central Park West together. You don’t remember I was with you, do you? It was August, at about four o’clock in the morning. You were trying to make it to 59th Street to catch the A train uptown to Harlem. You were exhausted, but you couldn’t sit and rest on one of those benches that lined the park because you hurt too much. The man who lived on 96th Street and Central Park West had hurt you when you’d thought he was your friend. Sounds funny now, maybe even ridiculous. But you did. You thought maybe he was a friend and you could put your head on his chest and hear the music, just like you’d wanted to do at Sister Johnson’s sweet sixteen. You thought maybe there was a chance, until you understood he wasn’t your friend and it was dangerous. You asked him if you could leave, he said no, and you knew you were anywhere but safe. “I’m sorry, I have to leave now,” you’d told him again, and he’d blocked his apartment door. You remembered your grandmother saying, “God gave you this body on loan. Don’t mistreat it and don’t let anybody else mistreat it either.” But it was too late now. Now, what you wanted was to get to 59th Street to catch the A train to Harlem, where you’d feel safe.
You couldn’t wait to leave home because you knew you’d never feel like one of the boys at Sister Johnson’s sweet sixteen party. You’d wanted to go to New York. Your mom let you stay with your aunt for the summer, you got a job in the city, where you could buy the clothes you wanted and stay out late. Till four o’clock, if you wanted to. Sometimes, a lot of times, you’d get off the A train and the sun would be coming up and your aunt would be waiting to tell you, “Whatever you’re doing isn’t safe, Billy. It isn’t safe.” But at least nobody wanted you to go to parties to make out with a girl on the couch or to “act like a man for a change.”
What I want to tell you is I saw you then, Billy, and I see you now and I wish I could have made you feel, yeah — safe. There was no way for you to know, trying to make it to 59th Street, hurting, that most people have to care about someone to want to make them feel safe. People don’t often care about strangers and your life was full of strangers. You were a kid trying to make strangers your family.
Family can make you feel safe, although sometimes they don’t. Friends can make you feel safe, but sometimes they don’t. It’s fine to look for it, lots of people do. And as I get older, I know more and more people who find it. That feeling of safety. It may not be in the form of one person. It may be a few. It may not come in the shape you thought or have the color of eyes or hair you dreamed. But it will come. Trust me on that.
I just wish, that night, I could have carried you in my arms, down along the park and up into the air over the city. I wish I could have made you feel. Safe.
Here’s a hug for Billy. He was a good kid.
Love,
Bil Wright
Dear Teenage Me,
Right now you’re probably holed up in your room, reading something by S. E. Hinton or Stephen King, scribbling furtively in your journal, which, unfortunately, you’ll throw away before you’re twenty, embarrassed by the secret crushes, the scared questions about God and death, and the cutout pictures of Bon Jovi, Ralph Macchio, and, oh, yes, Cher during “If I Could Turn Back Time.” Not to mention the bad poetry, and all your hopes and dreams about becoming a writer. Most of your peers don’t know how much you love to read, that you write stories. You’re so worried about what they’ll think, how they’ll judge you. I remember how shy you are. At school, you blend, don’t draw attention to yourself. What you also don’t do is protest the gay jokes or stick up for the kids who are bullied, which, if it doesn’t shame you now, will later. But don’t be too hard on yourself — you’re scared, and right now, you don’t know a single gay person. Still, I wish I could get you to join up with the boys who get called faggot, the weird kids, or the nerds who read out in the open. These are the cool ones, the fighters. They would teach you to not be ashamed. Eventually, years down the road, you’ll find them, the queers, writers, artists, the trannies and drag queens, but listen, it would make your life brighter if you could start looking for them a little sooner.
The good news is that although now you’re so worried about fitting in — listening to the right music, wearing the right clothes — one day, you’ll stop caring so much. It won’t matter anymore what the popular kids think. They’re not going to be in your life after you leave this small town. You’re going to make it to New York City. You’ll live there for ten years, and then (I know, this part is hard to believe), you’ll decide country life is more you. You’re going to travel all over the U.S., you’ll go to Europe. Your love for reading and writing? That’s what will save you. Books already transport you, opening your mind. Keep reading, keep writing. One day, you’ll meet others who love books as much as you do. One day, your dream of publishing a novel will come true.
Right now, you see things in black and white, and believe fervently in right or wrong. Heaven or hell, gay or straight, good or bad, boy or girl. But the world is not like that: nothing is permanent, and there are no definite answers, no single way of being. What if you could be handsome instead of pretty? Instead of disappearing behind shapeless shirts and baggy pants, you could dress in tight jeans and T-shirts that fall flat against your chest, just like the boys in The Outsiders, which you read at least a half dozen times? You’ll discover that sexuality and gender do not stay still, but like clouds, shift and twist and open up in beautiful, new ways. You’ll walk down paths you never thought were possible, you’ll move easily in your own body, you’ll answer to a different name.
You’re not a freak, you’re not a sinner, no matter what kids at school say, or the minister at church, or people on TV. God loves you. I wish I could tell you that things won’t be difficult with your parents, but the truth is, they might not ever accept or understand you. This is not your fault, and you need to stop feeling guilty for being yourself (you’ll st
ill be working on this twenty years down the road, so try to start now). You’ll have friends and lovers who support you, who love you for who you are. You need to let them in. Learn to be gentle with yourself, and forgiving — you have more strength and courage than you realize.
Sometimes I wish you were different: more gutsy and confident, maybe even more of a boy. But really I don’t wish any of those things — because I know you are going to grow and change, and if you weren’t the way you are now, then I would not be me. One last thing. Please don’t throw away that journal. You’re going to want to read it one day, trust me.
With love,
Carter
Mad, Sweet Kid,
I know why you drink. I know why you hurt yourself. I know you think you’re just all wrong. You come here and I’m going to wrap my arms around you and tell you the truth. The truth is people are ugly. I know you’re frightened and turned off and turned on living in Backwards Land. Everything is inaccessible and wrong in Backwards Land. All the doors are locked in Backwards Land. The town you live in is a breeding ground for generations of xenophobes, racists, and idiots. Every day in school is hell. The guys all drive jacked-up vans and the girls have all had two abortions by the time they reach senior year, and you all drink Schlitz beer on the beach together. And these are your “friends”! You get drunk with them and writhe with crushes on the girls and endure “boyfriends.” You see them every day and listen to them use words like “fuckin’ homo” and “cunt” and worse, and you take it in and believe it because nobody is telling you any different. You keep stuffing and stifling yourself and using more drugs, and drinking the older guys under the table. You have a reputation. You will take any mystery drug and report back, you will take any dare when you are drunk. You have been arrested, suspended, and grounded for entire summers. Finally! An identity! The white kids and the black kids in school riot often; the students stage walk-outs; the cops come and mace you all. But you like it, because it matches the chaos inside you. It is a place to explode, which you need so badly to do with nowhere to do it. Every waking moment is mental agony. Then at night, you brilliant thing, you go home and smoke a joint out the window, put your headphones on, and listen to four or five Bowie albums (“that fag”). And that is called a survival technique. And that is where you get the strength to get up and do it again. Of course you’re frustrated, suffocated. And emaciated; you should eat.