Everyone is bound to go through trying times in their lives. There is always bad that trails shortly behind good. Most people go through these trying times in the forms of a midlife chrisis, the death of a parent, or the severing of partnerships. For me, I went through a good chunk of my bad times when I was in middle school.
I had to grow up very quickly. I don't mean to say I was cooking and cleaning and supporting siblings at age 15, but emotionally, I really had to clean up the broken pieces.
Let me paint you the picture. I was between the ages of twelve and thirteen . My best friend was a hippie named Sarah Dewey. She wore flannel shirts unbuttoned overtop of her tank tops, ratty jeans, and had short wavy brown hair. She was a year or two older than myself. Sarah lived in a house hidden by trees not too far from my own. I couldn't drive of course, so I would walk to Sarah's house a lot of the time. We would jump on her trampoline, and watch the horses that grazed in the fenced in pasture sharing a border with Sarah's yard.
Sarah was the only person I spent time with outside of school. I knew she was bisexual, and I stood up for her when I heard she came out when she was in eighth grade and I was in seventh. I knew something was different with me when I started sixth grade. I discovered, somehow but I'm still not exactly sure how, the wonders of internet porn. It became very clear to me that I was not aroused in any way at all by the female anatomy. I was absolutely crazy for the male's external plumbing on the other hand. There was a guy on a website called Bolt.com that I exchanged messages with frequently. His name was Darius Ciccine. He lived in England. He was the first person I told about my sexuality. It was a great relief. I told him about the first time I masturbated too. He became the dumping grounds for my secrets. I could tell him anything, and being oceans apart, I had no fear of those secrets ever finding their way back home.
Sarah was over at my house one day sitting in the plush blue recliner in the corner of my room (that has since found it's way to a dumpster somewhere in Hong Kong I'm sure). She sat indian style. I sat on the floor directly in front of her.
"I want to tell you something," I told her.
"What?" she responded.
"Guess."
"You're gay?"
I smiled. She told me how she already knew. She hugged me and told me she wasn't going anywhere. Days later, she introduced me to a friend of hers. His name was Brian "Nick" Wood.
Nick was Sarah's age. He would walk to her house from a good distance away. On rare occaision he would be at her house, jumping on her trampoline, smoking cigarettes. He was average weight, a little taller than myself. He had bright blue eyes and short black hair. I was so nervous I could barely speak the first time I met him. My first kiss was on that trampoline with Nick. I remember putting on the peach flavored Lipsmacker's chapstick right before he leaned in and closed his eyes. He used his tongue. I had never experienced that before. It was strange, but I liked it. I felt like I was in the movies.
Nick was my boyfriend. I don't know if it was official or not but I talked to him on the phone a lot and would see him at Sarah's house when he showed up. He came over to dinner one night. He sat next to me and ate at the table with my family. He smiled a lot, and didn't eat a lot. I made him laugh and he briefly touched my thigh beneath the table level. I flushed red immediately. We finished dinner and went to my room to hang out.
My dad was driving me over to Nick's house to hang out. I never made it through the front door though. Dad asked, "Is Nick a fruitcake?"
"What?" I acted stupid.
"Is he....gay?" he asked, almost whispering the word "gay" in a way that made it sound too abominable to even speak aloud.
I waited a moment and chose my words carefully, "Well, yeah.....he's bi."
"We're going home. We need to have a talk with your mother." I froze up and felt my stomach twist in knots so tight, I was sure every internal organ in my body was hemmoraging simultaneously. There wasn't much I could do or say.
We got home. Both siblings were instructed to leave the three of us alone as we sat and talked in the living room. That soom has since been remodeled into a small gym, but I can still see the blue and cream checkered couches, the large blue rug, and feel every emotion that the room brought out of me that day. The sitting positions were terrible. Looking back, I see a lot of symbolism in it. The room had one large couch on one side close to the front door, the other side had a small love seat. My parents sat side by side on that love seat on one side of the room. I sat dead center on the couch on the other side of the room.
"Ryan told me Nick was gay," he informed my mother.
She sat there thinking, the look on her face was agonizing. "Do you feel the same way?"
"Yes." I couldn't even hold my head up. I have never been so ashamed in my entire life as I was.
Strangely enough, one of the first things my mother asked was if I intended to have a sex change one day. It sounds strange, but a heterosexual parent with no homosexual experience comes across thoughts like these. I assured her that the thought had never crossed my mind.
"Well we would be lying if we told you we weren't upset or disappointed." My mom looked so sad. I'm sure they were both wondering what they had done wrong. They told me that they had seen it coming. When you take tap classes in elementary school and all of your friends have always been girls, the red warning flares are so numerable, everything surrounding the situation seemed to be a flammable substance, waiting to explode and erupt into flames at any moment. My parents slammed me with questions, making sure I realized how upset they were.
The day came to a close. They told me that I wasn't allowed to see Sarah Dewey anymore, seeing as she was a bad influence, introducing me to people they didn't want me to associate with. I spent days on end crying in my room. My parents would take turns coming to my room to talk to me. I would cling to the closest pillow I could find and just sob as I listened to them try to tell me it was a phase. My mother told me during one of these sessions, "God doesn't make gay people."
I sobbed sporatically, "then who made me?"
My father told me he didn't want to support this type of behavior. He told me I should keep my feelings to myself. I still never really forgave him for that. I'm sure he doesn't even remember ever telling me that, but I'll take it to the grave.
I spent most of my time reading, alone in my room, listening to Sarah McLaughlan's Mirrorball CD. I would sit on my dresser and look out the window at night. It was fall and the brown and orange leaves littered everything outside that window pane. I wanted my best friend back. I had nobody. Middle school was hell. I would walk the halls, people would yell "Faggot" out at me. The would mess with me in gym. One guy tried pulling down my boxers in the locker room. They would try to trip me when I ran around the gym for P.E. with everyone else. I was walked on a lot.
I found new friends, friends that knew Nick. I would try to meet at the friend's house and be discovered. Mom found out I was trying to see Nick behind her back. It didn't go over well. I was constantly breaking her trust. I would sneak phone calls. I would lie about where I was going and who was going to be there. I was under one of the stictest supervisions. I was absolutely miserable throughout the rest of those middle school days. Sarah went to high school before me, and I later joined her after having lost that contact with her. She was a different person, and I didn't go back to her in the way I had always imagined I would have.
Time went by with my parents, the talks ceased, and it went ignored for a while. I grew up more, becoming more and more independent mentally each day. I would go out to meet 'friends' and that was that. When I was seventeen, my parents went out of town, and my friend Justin took me out to The Wave, my first gay club experience. I used the fake ID I bought in Chinatown NYC when I was on a school field trip. I got in. My jaw dropped. There were so many beautiful gay men. They were dancing and smiling and drinking. Nobody was ashamed. I knew I was home. I didn't dance much that night. I was so self-conscious. I came back home late, and my parents never knew.
I didn't talk about my sexuality with my parents. It was a constant elephant in every room in the house that contained either of my parents and myself. My dad thought it was disgusting. He would make faces and tell me how repulsive the concept of man on man action was. He would try to ask if I didn't find females attractive in any way. I told him no over and over again. He just didn't want to believe it.
It was summer of my junior year in high school. I was at a three week camp for foreign language. I spent the night at the VCU dorms in Richmond and spoke only french for three weeks. I corresponded with my mother through letter writing. In one of her letters she wrote me, she spoke words I had never heard before. She told me she had done a lot of praying and that she knows God made me exactly the way I am. She was just so upset about how I was treated and bullied in middle school. She said she wished she could hurt all the kids that made fun of me and made my life miserable in school. She had finally come to terms with my sexuality and realized that my happiness in life was the only thing of importance. I knew my mother was talking to my father and tried to reason with him to sway his thoughts. He has accepted things now. It took my mom about four years to accept the fact that I am gay. It took long enough, but it had made my relationship with her that much stronger.
Because my mother worked so hard and accepted me, she's always been my number one. When I think of family, I think of those I love who are tied to me through the blood flowing inside us, but moreso, I think of my mother. I think of the woman that loves me so much and has sacrificed to much to ensure my happiness.
I don't talk to my father very much. I know that deep down, it won't ever really settle. I don't trust him with my feelings, so I omit them. I talk to my mom about the men I meet out now. I bring home my friends if I want to, and everyone is fine as long as I'm not kissing or holding hands. It used to be a big deal, trying to shield my brother and sister from my behavior. My sister was so young then. She's 13 now and she knows. She met my last boyfriend and loved him to pieces. Everything is a lot easier now. I've grown a lot and am stronger because of it.
I went so long without a best friend, I learned to keep my feelings to myself. I learned to process my thoughts solo and not need advice from others. I'm pretty independent now because of this. I love my friends to death and I do need them in my life now because I am used to their companionship, but I'll never forget being without that luxury.
I had to grow up very quickly. I don't mean to say I was cooking and cleaning and supporting siblings at age 15, but emotionally, I really had to clean up the broken pieces.
Let me paint you the picture. I was between the ages of twelve and thirteen . My best friend was a hippie named Sarah Dewey. She wore flannel shirts unbuttoned overtop of her tank tops, ratty jeans, and had short wavy brown hair. She was a year or two older than myself. Sarah lived in a house hidden by trees not too far from my own. I couldn't drive of course, so I would walk to Sarah's house a lot of the time. We would jump on her trampoline, and watch the horses that grazed in the fenced in pasture sharing a border with Sarah's yard.
Sarah was the only person I spent time with outside of school. I knew she was bisexual, and I stood up for her when I heard she came out when she was in eighth grade and I was in seventh. I knew something was different with me when I started sixth grade. I discovered, somehow but I'm still not exactly sure how, the wonders of internet porn. It became very clear to me that I was not aroused in any way at all by the female anatomy. I was absolutely crazy for the male's external plumbing on the other hand. There was a guy on a website called Bolt.com that I exchanged messages with frequently. His name was Darius Ciccine. He lived in England. He was the first person I told about my sexuality. It was a great relief. I told him about the first time I masturbated too. He became the dumping grounds for my secrets. I could tell him anything, and being oceans apart, I had no fear of those secrets ever finding their way back home.
Sarah was over at my house one day sitting in the plush blue recliner in the corner of my room (that has since found it's way to a dumpster somewhere in Hong Kong I'm sure). She sat indian style. I sat on the floor directly in front of her.
"I want to tell you something," I told her.
"What?" she responded.
"Guess."
"You're gay?"
I smiled. She told me how she already knew. She hugged me and told me she wasn't going anywhere. Days later, she introduced me to a friend of hers. His name was Brian "Nick" Wood.
Nick was Sarah's age. He would walk to her house from a good distance away. On rare occaision he would be at her house, jumping on her trampoline, smoking cigarettes. He was average weight, a little taller than myself. He had bright blue eyes and short black hair. I was so nervous I could barely speak the first time I met him. My first kiss was on that trampoline with Nick. I remember putting on the peach flavored Lipsmacker's chapstick right before he leaned in and closed his eyes. He used his tongue. I had never experienced that before. It was strange, but I liked it. I felt like I was in the movies.
Nick was my boyfriend. I don't know if it was official or not but I talked to him on the phone a lot and would see him at Sarah's house when he showed up. He came over to dinner one night. He sat next to me and ate at the table with my family. He smiled a lot, and didn't eat a lot. I made him laugh and he briefly touched my thigh beneath the table level. I flushed red immediately. We finished dinner and went to my room to hang out.
My dad was driving me over to Nick's house to hang out. I never made it through the front door though. Dad asked, "Is Nick a fruitcake?"
"What?" I acted stupid.
"Is he....gay?" he asked, almost whispering the word "gay" in a way that made it sound too abominable to even speak aloud.
I waited a moment and chose my words carefully, "Well, yeah.....he's bi."
"We're going home. We need to have a talk with your mother." I froze up and felt my stomach twist in knots so tight, I was sure every internal organ in my body was hemmoraging simultaneously. There wasn't much I could do or say.
We got home. Both siblings were instructed to leave the three of us alone as we sat and talked in the living room. That soom has since been remodeled into a small gym, but I can still see the blue and cream checkered couches, the large blue rug, and feel every emotion that the room brought out of me that day. The sitting positions were terrible. Looking back, I see a lot of symbolism in it. The room had one large couch on one side close to the front door, the other side had a small love seat. My parents sat side by side on that love seat on one side of the room. I sat dead center on the couch on the other side of the room.
"Ryan told me Nick was gay," he informed my mother.
She sat there thinking, the look on her face was agonizing. "Do you feel the same way?"
"Yes." I couldn't even hold my head up. I have never been so ashamed in my entire life as I was.
Strangely enough, one of the first things my mother asked was if I intended to have a sex change one day. It sounds strange, but a heterosexual parent with no homosexual experience comes across thoughts like these. I assured her that the thought had never crossed my mind.
"Well we would be lying if we told you we weren't upset or disappointed." My mom looked so sad. I'm sure they were both wondering what they had done wrong. They told me that they had seen it coming. When you take tap classes in elementary school and all of your friends have always been girls, the red warning flares are so numerable, everything surrounding the situation seemed to be a flammable substance, waiting to explode and erupt into flames at any moment. My parents slammed me with questions, making sure I realized how upset they were.
The day came to a close. They told me that I wasn't allowed to see Sarah Dewey anymore, seeing as she was a bad influence, introducing me to people they didn't want me to associate with. I spent days on end crying in my room. My parents would take turns coming to my room to talk to me. I would cling to the closest pillow I could find and just sob as I listened to them try to tell me it was a phase. My mother told me during one of these sessions, "God doesn't make gay people."
I sobbed sporatically, "then who made me?"
My father told me he didn't want to support this type of behavior. He told me I should keep my feelings to myself. I still never really forgave him for that. I'm sure he doesn't even remember ever telling me that, but I'll take it to the grave.
I spent most of my time reading, alone in my room, listening to Sarah McLaughlan's Mirrorball CD. I would sit on my dresser and look out the window at night. It was fall and the brown and orange leaves littered everything outside that window pane. I wanted my best friend back. I had nobody. Middle school was hell. I would walk the halls, people would yell "Faggot" out at me. The would mess with me in gym. One guy tried pulling down my boxers in the locker room. They would try to trip me when I ran around the gym for P.E. with everyone else. I was walked on a lot.
I found new friends, friends that knew Nick. I would try to meet at the friend's house and be discovered. Mom found out I was trying to see Nick behind her back. It didn't go over well. I was constantly breaking her trust. I would sneak phone calls. I would lie about where I was going and who was going to be there. I was under one of the stictest supervisions. I was absolutely miserable throughout the rest of those middle school days. Sarah went to high school before me, and I later joined her after having lost that contact with her. She was a different person, and I didn't go back to her in the way I had always imagined I would have.
Time went by with my parents, the talks ceased, and it went ignored for a while. I grew up more, becoming more and more independent mentally each day. I would go out to meet 'friends' and that was that. When I was seventeen, my parents went out of town, and my friend Justin took me out to The Wave, my first gay club experience. I used the fake ID I bought in Chinatown NYC when I was on a school field trip. I got in. My jaw dropped. There were so many beautiful gay men. They were dancing and smiling and drinking. Nobody was ashamed. I knew I was home. I didn't dance much that night. I was so self-conscious. I came back home late, and my parents never knew.
I didn't talk about my sexuality with my parents. It was a constant elephant in every room in the house that contained either of my parents and myself. My dad thought it was disgusting. He would make faces and tell me how repulsive the concept of man on man action was. He would try to ask if I didn't find females attractive in any way. I told him no over and over again. He just didn't want to believe it.
It was summer of my junior year in high school. I was at a three week camp for foreign language. I spent the night at the VCU dorms in Richmond and spoke only french for three weeks. I corresponded with my mother through letter writing. In one of her letters she wrote me, she spoke words I had never heard before. She told me she had done a lot of praying and that she knows God made me exactly the way I am. She was just so upset about how I was treated and bullied in middle school. She said she wished she could hurt all the kids that made fun of me and made my life miserable in school. She had finally come to terms with my sexuality and realized that my happiness in life was the only thing of importance. I knew my mother was talking to my father and tried to reason with him to sway his thoughts. He has accepted things now. It took my mom about four years to accept the fact that I am gay. It took long enough, but it had made my relationship with her that much stronger.
Because my mother worked so hard and accepted me, she's always been my number one. When I think of family, I think of those I love who are tied to me through the blood flowing inside us, but moreso, I think of my mother. I think of the woman that loves me so much and has sacrificed to much to ensure my happiness.
I don't talk to my father very much. I know that deep down, it won't ever really settle. I don't trust him with my feelings, so I omit them. I talk to my mom about the men I meet out now. I bring home my friends if I want to, and everyone is fine as long as I'm not kissing or holding hands. It used to be a big deal, trying to shield my brother and sister from my behavior. My sister was so young then. She's 13 now and she knows. She met my last boyfriend and loved him to pieces. Everything is a lot easier now. I've grown a lot and am stronger because of it.
I went so long without a best friend, I learned to keep my feelings to myself. I learned to process my thoughts solo and not need advice from others. I'm pretty independent now because of this. I love my friends to death and I do need them in my life now because I am used to their companionship, but I'll never forget being without that luxury.
In reflection, I can say that it isn't easy coming out to your parents in the least. You may think you know your parents, but you will learn a new side of them. Even if they DO seem gay friendly and open and accepting, it's always different when it is THEIR child that is gay. All parents dream of grandkids and families and holidays spent together. When this option is thrown out the window, parents can sometimes behave in unexpected ways. It's even tougher when it's the only child that is coming out. I also want to say that though it wasn't easy for me, I could tell you that it was much more difficult for some other men I know. A good friend of mine that I dated briefly in high school was beaten terribly on his back with plastic clothes hangers until they broke. His step dad would find out from the exchange student that was living in their house that my friend was hanging around me. He would get beaten to punish him for his behavior. I blew him off a lot and never knew about the beating he endured to spend time with me until one day we had an arguement and he said to me, "Look what I go through just to be with you," and he lifted his tee shirt, revealing scores of red whelts. I was breathless. It's not always physical like this particular situation. I knew a great guy that went to William and Mary that had a rather affluent family. When he came out to them, they stopped paying for his school and cut him off completely as far as finances were concerned. It really put a large strain on him to take on responsibilities he never had to endure before that point in time. I also know men who never came out to their families, who had wives and children, but secretly hit the gay bars on the weekends looking for a quick fix. It's sad to think of how lonely they must be. I can't imagine living a lie that large, and suppressing the desire to be with someone else. It's all behind me now though. I've paid my "coming out dues."
If you are REALLY interested in knowing what it's like coming out and growing up gay, I recently watched a movie that reminded me a lot of what it was like growing up.
Rent the movie The Edge of Seventeen. It's an 80's flick that parallel's my life quite well. It's a good movie. Watch it. Please.
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