Misfit

As many of you are aware, there has been plenty of press recently regarding several gay teens who have committed suicide because of bullying. It is because of this that I have made the decision to republish a slightly revised version of a former post to remind people that: 1) Bullying, and those who would passively stand by and allow or, worse, condone it, has enormous impact on the lives of its victims. & 2) Affirmation to those victims that life does, indeed, get better.

Please see The Trevor Project for more information regarding crisis and suicide prevention among lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth.

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Kids. This will likely be one of the most difficult, and yet heartfelt, posts that I will ever write here at the Bedlam. I would like it to be understood from the beginning that what is to follow is based on my own personal experiences and viewpoints and is in no way a reflection of the viewpoints shared by anyone linked to on this blog. Nor do I expect that my opinions are a blanket generalization necessarily shared or agreed to by a wider group. This is about me...plain and simple.

I have given much thought to this posting and its relevance here at the Bedlam and this has not been a reckless decision but a passionate one. This does not reflect an overall change to the tone or subjects that I will write about or feature but what I believe to be an important topic. I will most certainly return to my usual inspirations that more often pertain to inspirations as opposed to aggravations. But to not write about this subject simply did not feel like an option.

I have indicated previously that I am not generally a private person. I have lived a life that has warranted levels of social maneuvering and masquerading that I often find the need to be discreet, secretive, or subdued difficult to swallow or stand by. That said, I also feel myself to be one that does his best to disclose or edit as is necessary by event or association. Essentially, I have made great attempts in my life to keep the comfort level. But not now. What I am about to share with you is my story. And I can only hope that you will allow me the momentary grace to share it with you and that you will read it in its entirety. It won't be short but it won't be unimportant either...not to me anyway.

The fact is...I am a gay man. This is a revelation that I typically keep to myself not because of shame but rather as a means to be thought of in broader terms and not immediately relegated to only one aspect of what it is that comprises me as a human being on this planet. I have never been comfortable with the idea that my identity would be comprised solely based on who I happen to be attracted to sexually or, more important, drawn to love. But I have found a large part of my life being relegated to such categorizations by people outside of myself, both gay and straight. And, frankly, I am sick of it altogether.

There are those in this country who continually and insistently want to sum up every aspect of a vast and varied group into a singular deviant box. For them it is a concept based upon their perceptions of religion and/or morality. And, in an effort to help shore up their belief systems, they latch onto and perpetuate stereotypes and falsehoods. They make every effort to put a face on a community that is as inhuman as humanly possible. That is why I am coming forward to put my face, an individual's face, on a situation that is more prone to generalization over personalization.

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As a young child I tended to be quite shy. Few would believe it now but that was pretty much the case. Generally, things went pretty well for me as I was an excellent student and, based on my parents rearing, most respectful of my elders, teachers, and any type of authority. But at the age of 9...things in my life began to shift with the presence of a boy named Kelly. He would tease me while we waited for the bus calling me "faggot" repeatedly. I couldn't understand what precipitated these events and only knew that whatever a "faggot" was...it wasn't good. Eventually, things started to move towards more physical confrontation and he'd push me around while relishing the mockery that came from his vile mouth. One day...I pushed back. But I was the one reprimanded for my behavior without any chance for explanation or retribution. This was the beginning of what would be a pattern of events that would last for close to the next 10 years.

After 4th grade my parents moved us out to the country thinking that this would add to our quality of life and education. They had no way of knowing that they had moved me into what would be tantamount to living hell. Fifth and sixth grade were no picnic for certain, but starting in 7th grade I began to experience treatment that would lead me to suicidal thoughts from the age of 12 years old and on. There were guys who began to mock me during P.E. (Physical Education) classes. The 8th graders who would threaten me with physical violence and hurl Chinese throwing stars at me in the hallways when all was clear. There was Cindy who would openly and repeatedly call me "Faaaaaaaaaaggg!" during math class without so much as an indifferent level of discipline on the part of the teacher. I did everything I could to become either less and less noticeable, retreating into myself as much as possible, or as much like the others to blend in...neither worked.

By Freshman year of high school I made great efforts to attend boarding schools overseas but seemed to continually get roadblocked by red tape and wound up in the local high school. The educational quality was great but sadly did not manage to develop any sort of intellect in a number of the student body. I had a free period for one hour every afternoon where I would go to the library to attempt to work on homework. However, for the duration of that entire first year in high school, I spent one hour of every single day being threatened and mocked by two comrades, Todd and Todd. Their names only hinted at their collective stupidity and didn't even touch upon their shared cruelty or sadism.

I would arrive home on the bus. Our house was located at the end of a very long driveway and I made the most of the walk to our front door. Often, I would wait for the bus to leave and any other kids to retreat into their homes before beginning my trek down to the house. As soon as I was alone I would begin to unleash the pent up emotions. I would walk down the gravel drive stumbling over uneven stones and unstoppable tears. But as soon as I reached the house I would quickly pull myself together and walk through the door as though nothing was wrong. What my parents did not know is that between Algebra homework and dinner I thought about suicide... a lot. I prayed to God even more.

Fortunately enough, one of the "Todds" left at the end of the year as he was a Senior and given that the other "Todd" was hot for my sister (who functioned on a different level of the social stratosphere) the intensity of my experiences waned a bit but certainly did not subside. For the next three years I found myself eating lunch in the art room as it was often the case that I would have food thrown at me in the cafeteria. Once, while walking across the campus, I had an apple thrown at my back with such force that the welt and the subsequent bruise would last for weeks. I would walk through the hallways being taunted with the usual "FAG!" or "fudgepacker" or "queer bait" and, not uncommonly, getting spat upon. I received an art award at an assembly in my Senior year but instead received infinitely more "faggot"-laced jeers than congratulations. But somehow, by someone's good graces, I made it through to graduation... barely.

So now high school was behind me. I was moving on to the beginnings of adulthood and a new experience on life and off to college...on the other side of the continent! I ensconced myself in a quaint college town in Eastern Canada. What a relief this was...for a moment. Within two weeks, the dormitory house I lived in had been planning our big day of initiation with a house party to follow. I engaged whole-heartedly into the spirit of the occasion even agreeing to volunteer as bachelor #2 in a party version of "The Dating Game". The day found me being doused in ice water, crawling through a swamp, and getting hosed down publicly in underpants. Not exactly my idea of a good time but I loved finally feeling part of the group. We prepared for the party setting up a stage in the student lounge, getting bottles and kegs rared up and ready to go, and praying that our livers would see us to another day.
"Knock, knock, knock!" I opened the door to my dorm room being told that they were ready for the bachelors to come out for "The Dating Game". I lined up with the other two guys outside the door to the lounge while we waited for our cue. One by one, we were brought in and up to the stage. Within a few minutes, this game went from fun to frightening as I became more aware that this was the beginnings of a "witch burning"...and I was the witch. It escalated from individually shouted cruelties to an entire room of perhaps 150 or more people chanting, "QUEER! QUEER! QUEER!" It was more than I could handle.

I finally launched from the stage, pushing through the crowd and their laughter, and out the door. I made my way to the cathedral where I denounced God at the top of my lungs not understanding what I could have possibly done to have warranted His abandonment. Then I told Him that if this was the life He had intended for me...I would be the one to take it! I made my way toward a bridge in town. There had been serious rainstorms recently and the river was over-flowing and turbulent. With the number of fallen trees and branches in the water I felt certain that it would take little time or effort to be caught up in the current and off to wherever it was God wished to send my soul. But I knew it was unlikely to be worse than where I already was.

As I walked onto the bridge I heard voices from behind. A couple of guys from "the party" had followed me. They asked me what I was doing by myself and that I should come out with them and grab some more beers. I quietly refused wishing them on their way. But "no" was an answer they weren't taking and they inevitably lured me away from what I intended to be my own funeral. What I later realized is that they knew. That they had followed me out through those dormitory doors, heard my tirade in the church, and waited. They waited to spare me the embarrassment of my own emotions and drag me away from my own despair. Two strangers from Newfoundland would be the first to ever throw me a life line. That night, I believe, is when God showed me that I hadn't been abandoned by Him but rather by those who would speak in His name. And, as far as I am concerned, He sent me two guardian angels by the names of Harold and Corey. And I will forever thank them and Him for their intervention.

From that moment on my outlook on life had changed. It was "sink or swim" and I was determined to learn the backstroke! I still continued serious moments of ups and downs but spent much less time suppressing myself. The next two years at that college would find me move from "odd man out" to being the "odd man in" on campus as I strove to stand in my own truth. Ironically enough, I would form some great friendships with those who initially mocked me. It would be years later before I found the courage to come forward and "out" but that is where the foundation began to be built.

I would return to the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. to finish college. I began by entering the Women's Studies program with my newly-found friend Sarah. I spent time coming to understand in greater detail all the ways that many had historically suffered under the restraints and restrictions put upon them because of their gender, their race, and/or their orientation. Having gone through my own experiences, it only further developed my empathy and my compassion for all people. I came to understand the richness and complexities of being part of a world community. It deepened my understanding of how uncomfortable it is to have to be conformed into someone else's discomfort. It taught me the value that being myself didn't require that others had to be just like me but rather to be themselves as well.

So here we are, years later, the 21st century. Steps have been taken forward and, sadly, steps have been taken back. But I stand here with my own history and the story that I bring to the American table. And I am sharing it. I am not forcing it and I am not delivering it with the expectation that others have to follow it or change their personal lives for it. I am not giving it as propaganda or to support some fictional "agenda" nor am I giving it as a means to convince you to be like me but to understand the preciousness of being able to be oneself.

So to those who see fit to judge... I am not asking you to recognize my life and beliefs by summarily rejecting and denouncing your own. I am not telling you to deny yourself the right to visit your beloved in the hospital or, in the event of death, to allow your possessions to be absconded by your spouse's family with no legal recourse whatsoever. I am not on an "agenda" to do anything to a child other than to let them know that they are important and loved no matter who he or she is or turns out to be ~ I don't want to cultivate a "gay" child, I want to cultivate a kind and happy one. Most important, I am not asking you to be like me. But I will not be like you either. I will always strive to be myself and no amount of legislation, pontification, or degradation will ever prevent that because you do not ultimately write my story...I do.

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The following is from a book I wrote and created based upon some of the aforementioned circumstances.

Bitterness is a strange fruit.
The less you like it



the more you eat.
But it's the meal of a misfit.



A heaping portion of self-pity & cynicism
and there's always seconds.



A man but a misfit
trapped on the Island of Misfit Toys



because no one wants to play with you,



but you don't even want
to play with yourself.



You're too gay
to belong to a straight world,
too strange and self-hating
to belong to a gay world.
So you engross yourself
in the Women's Movement
just enough to feel
perfectly out of place.

A sadomasochist in search of vanilla,
you long for a quiet escape.
Yet sigh at the impending boredom of it all.

But at least you can dream.
And so you do.
Through the bottom
of an empty cocktail glass
or the smoke of your last cigarette.

You dream of far away.
Of the bracing cold
followed by the sting of the sun,
knowing you only need
look down the barrel,
pull the trigger,
and go.

But you're too alive
to belong to a dead world.
So you just go on being

a misfit.