Principal tells gay student to go back into the closet

It is hard enough to come out of the closet. Read this artical in the Advocate http://www.advocate.com/politics/media/2015/02/03/watch-principal-tells-gay-teen-get-back-closet-or-leave

My new novel NOT TOO COCKSURE deals with the issue of outing and the process of keeping one's declarations a personal process. As far as my own personal process. The following is a passage from my first book REALLY!?!

TEARS AND UNDERSTANDING ON THAT RAINY DAY IN AUTUMN

It was a mug of cocoa and steamy soup kind of day. One of those rainy, cold New England Autumn Sundays, a day that begs you to curl up in bed with the thick stack of Sunday papers or a good book and never leave. But I couldn’t stay in bed, couldn’t go out, and couldn’t get comfortable in my own skin—not that day, anymore. I had had a fitful night, the last of several over the past weeks and months. Tossing and turning, I spent those nights fighting with my own demons; questioning not only who I was but also what I was.

It couldn’t have been a more melodramatic moment. But looking back all these years later, I know me and would expect nothing less. I was, to no one’s surprise, a theatrical child. Yeah, I grew up as a dancer and actor—both of questionable merit, but with ten years of training nonetheless. But that Sunday afternoon was the stuff of soap opera plot twists or B movie drama. Short of the melodic ‘ta-dum’ of a pipe organ and the clash of thunder, I couldn’t have written a more theatrically tragic moment.

I stood in the bathroom, having been crying for hours, not wanting to look at myself in the mirror—all tear streaked and puffy-eyed. I had taking to talking out loud to myself, as if lecturing a reluctant participant. And yet, I was a full participant in this turning point. Finally, in a mix of emotional exhaustion and the desperate want for the confusion to end, I looked in the mirror and in a tone of disgust and chastising, I demanded “Say it!”

“I am gay!”

They were the three hardest words I had ever spoken and something I would have rather died than admit. And once said, I quickly questioned what was the purpose of all those years of denial? To end up exactly where I didn’t want to be standing—crying, full of self loathing and lost as to where to go from here. I paused, wiped the tears away and waited. Surely such a proclamation demanded reprisal. And yet, nothing happened. Nothing!

I hadn’t been struck dead nor found myself on the express train to damnation. I was still just me, someone who just so happened to be gay...and a drama queen to boot! I was 23 years old, and from that moment on my life took on an inevitable but completely new meaning. And I never looked back.

The clarity of that moment was overwhelming. All of a sudden so much made sense. As soon as I was willing and able to see the light, my mind stopped the years of justification. Why had it taken so long, that realization? That was the question that plagued me now. Why was I so afraid of what was a given, a part of me.

I can trace back my inklings of ‘feeling different’ to pre-school, to a time when I related as equally to my sister’s dolls as I did to my Lincoln Logs and Hot Wheels collection. Dolls had always been acceptable playthings during my childhood. I had been given G.I. Joe’s and the plethora of army accessories from the moment it was age appropriate. Tastefully accessorizing, even then. But wasn’t it natural for Joe to have the ‘hots’ for Barbie? Playing with both, made sense. And yet somehow Barbie had so much more to offer. Surely, I too, like Joe, had the ‘hots’ for the beautiful Barbie.

And yet, Barbie did not make me gay!

At nine years old I came home and told my parents I wanted to tap dance. No problem—even my father, the man who grew up believing ‘fags’ were the social equivalent of a piñata, didn’t object. It was after all just a creative outlet and a phase that would play itself out like that summer of little league during which my team never won a single game and staggeringly lost one 48-0. And wouldn’t you know it, I had an aptitude for the complexity of the cramp-roll, ball change and double shuffle. And I stuck with it—to bigger and better classes, different schools and even an honest to goodness professional ballet-company. At about fifteen years old, I overheard my mother say “My son is a dancer but he isn’t gay.” Of course not! Why would she even have to make such a statement? How could I be gay if I related so well to the girls at school—high school? Besides, I convinced myself, I wasn’t exactly looking at the other guys in the locker room as much I was comparing my own pubescent progression against theirs. That’s normal, right?

And still, dancing did not make me gay!

A teacher molested me—well, four of us actually. I can tell this because I feel no shame in being a victim. It happened during the formative and questioning years when the first blush of puberty was in the air, before high school, when, for a brief couple of years the whole family set up home in South Wales. School was an ominous place with several hundred years of history and a head master that still had the legal authority to ‘cane’ the unruly students. It just never occurred to any student to disregard a direct demand of teacher. So when the slightly odd and perpetually plaid wearing Mr. X—whom I won’t name for legal reasons but encourage anyone to trace my past and easily detect for whom “X” marks the spot—called any one of us four to meet for a talk in the science store room, you went. It wasn’t lost on me, even at that young age, that being talked to didn’t require his jacket to be put on the floor to provide a makeshift drop cloth in case any of the glass science equipment took flight.

“You look like a strong boy,” he began, apropos of nothing. “Let’s see if you can get out of this wrestling hold.”

He had a stare, this Mr. X, which was intimidating to all us students, a stare that reminded us all that a public defiance of authority was the ultimate sin. He demanded our presence for a ‘talk’ in front of all our fellow students. Such a public disobedience was out of the question. Furthermore, such defiance for a seemingly innocuous teacher/student tete a tete would have required an explanation at the very least. And that meant admitting to the others what was unspeakable to all.

What occurred, at least with me, amounted to no more than inappropriate fondling. But as an adult, I realize completely that even the inappropriate combined with premeditation and manipulation is tantamount to molestation and CRIMINAL at its most basic level. My other three friends and the pack of blind boy’s brigade scouts he led may not have fared so well. I will never know.

I cracked first and told my parents the goings on. I have never seen my father so angry, barely bottling his justifiable ‘you-kill-molesting-fags’ sort of outrage. Subsequently, the others went to court—a tribunal of sorts I missed having left the country—where they told their humiliating stories in front of the teacher, his lawyer and hardly impartial adjudicator. My friends were all taken to task for willingly going along with his demands, even going so far as to be implicated as culpable for having attended the science class in the first place. Mr. X was simply moved on to another school in much the same way Catholic priests are reassigned but not counseled.

And NO, molestation did not make me gay!

None of these experiences, although life shaping, were not life altering. None of these made me gay. And I was determined to convince myself that I was right—virtually campaigning to stress the point.

And yet I was strangely drawn to people who seemed to know instinctually more about me than me. Although drawn in, I was careful not to get too close. Too close sent me running, guilt by association. Doesn’t every gay person recruit? Couldn’t they see I was accepting of them, without having to be one of them?

A bunch of us, both guys and gals would go to a local gay bar on Sundays. There was no cover charge and we could dance, and dance—disco was the rage. And despite being clearly underage no one checked our I.D.’s when we ordered dollar happy hour drinks. Kevin was from the rival high school across town. With his shy disposition, smooth handsome face and pin straight hair parted in the middle and feathered back to either side; it was he who fell for me. And I was simply flattered…not intrigued.

It was just something that happened, that night Kevin and I were intimate—just the kind of sexual experimentation all 17 year olds go through. An innocent kiss, then a light stroke. He was so hard and thick and it simply happened. He let it get out of hand. Did Kevin know more about me, than I knew about me? I couldn’t have that. I never spoke to him again. And I retreated further into the closet.

Yeah, I’ve slept with women. What a relief that was! You couldn’t be gay and sleep with a woman. Ah ha! Excepting the notion that the experience was cold and distant on my part, it felt fine on a physical level. But surely there was more to sex than that? Something was missing…oh yeah, passion. Still, it was enough to keep me secure in the womb with a view known as ‘the closet’.

Years later, working as a waiter to put myself through college, I met ‘Steve’—a public school teacher who waited tables on the side to make ends meet. We shared a split shift, an every Wednesday tradition where you worked the lunch crowd and then after a couple of hours off came back to work the dinner crowd. And on this particular Wednesday, it was one of those beautiful Boston spring days and we went walking during our couple of hour sojourn. When we ended up at my place it was purely by coincidence and not by plan.

When ‘Steve’ asked if he could take a shower before going back to work, I playfully started to unbutton his shirt. I looked into his eyes and he into mine. There was an uneasy tension, something in the air—raw and manly. I slowly unfastened five or so buttons, paused, and the continued down to the waistline all the while staring deep into his eyes questioning his calmness. His chest was so hairy, thick and patterned—a map, if you will, directing you south.

“You can keep going,” he said so gently and welcoming. But I nervously retreated for the living room. That wasn’t going to happen.

Later that evening, at work, he took me aside to say every so carefully, “I know what you’re going through. If you ever need anyone to talk with, I am here.”

Despite those being some of the most supportive words I could have possibly heard, I went on the defensive—rather offensively, I might add.

“How dare you make an assumption?” I screamed—an officially hissy fit. I pointed out that our little interchange was just a playful moment and questioned why it was that every time you get close to someone who’s gay, comfortably enough to share such moments, they assume you are inevitably coming out of the closet? I ranted and raved. He stood there stunned and to my everlasting regret, recanted his offer of support—something I was to learn in short order would have been much appreciated and helpful.

I knew in my heart of hearts that I had just done wrong by ‘Steve’ and began to realize in so doing, I was actually doing wrong by me. I regret to this day not taking advantage of that moment and his subsequent kindness and understanding. For I now can see, as only 20/20 hindsight can show you, just how much ‘Steve’ could have eased what eventuality was to be with some normalcy. The fitful nights began not long after.

So on that raining autumnal day, standing in front of no one, just me and God above, I could barely believe my own ears. I had said it. “I am gay.” I had even watched my mouth form the words, as if needing a second validation for such a moment. And then there was a wave of such clarity as if to say, of course you are. But I also knew in that instant that I had been living a lie and it was something I perpetuated to everyone, family and friends. I had no idea on how to begin along this new path of honesty and clarity. ‘Steve’ would have been such help but I had slammed that door shut sometime ago.

It would take years to talk openly with my friends, five to tell my parents. And each and every time, the same gut wrench that occurred in the bathroom mirror on that rainy Sunday happened all over again. I stumbled to explain that my life of a lie was more of a lie to me than to them, fully expecting the abandonment of one friend after another. It only happened once, and I never fully did make the declaration. She simply looked at me and said, “You aren’t the same person.”

And I said, “You’re right, I am a more complete person.” And we never spoke again.

People who study these things will concur the ‘coming out’ process is in many cases traumatic and is a trauma replayed every time you subsequently ‘come out’ to others. The fear of rejection just at a point when you beginning your own journey of self-acceptance is an emotional roller coaster I wish no one had to ride.

Over the years I have been strangely intrigued with friends who say there was no ‘coming out’ for them. They had either understood from the start this was nature’s plan or the transition seemed obvious and without drama. I thought 23 years old was late for such a realization, considering the number of gay people—good and bad—to whom I was exposed along the way. Presumably, I could have recognized my natural instincts as on parity with theirs and declared the almighty “Ah ha!” But after many years of self-exploration, I still don’t know what kept me in the closet so long. So long, I say, but my 23 years was nothing compared to my many of my friends who were married, fathered children and came to the same realization in their 40’s and 50’s. If there was ever a case for homosexuality being genetic and not learned, it lies within these brave men, who after years of following the societal expectations of marriage and parenting, they couldn’t fight what they knew as instinctual.

On the other hand, I have come to know plenty whose journey of shame, deceit and self loathing threw them in to a dangerous world of misguided acting out, both sexually and/or pharmaceutically, and eventually into therapy. They, in turn, look at me and wish they had had as easy a transition as they perceive mine to have been by comparison. Go figure, all those histrionics only to find that I was on the kiddie ride!

Some time ago, I was sitting with my parents and a friend of theirs brought up the issue of a ballot initiative to legally instill equal rights to gay people. He couldn’t grasp that equal rights were not special rights. By way of example, I pointed out that the constitution grants equal rights to Jews. Should Jewish people have the same legal rights against persecution and bigotry as everyone else?

“It’s different,” he said. “You are born Jewish. You choose to be gay.” Hmmm…is ignorance and blessing or a curse?

I insisted he was wrong. And he argued that I couldn’t prove it.

“Some people believe you are born an alcoholic,” I asked out of no where. “Do you think people are born with the tendency to be alcoholic?”

“Absolutely!”

“Oh I am sorry,” I apologized profusely and very reluctantly put down my vodka and tonic. “We have all been drinking in front of you and that is in total disregard to your condition.”

“What?” he asked, more confused.

“You’re an alcoholic.”

“No I am not,” he defended.

“You must be. Because when I asked you if you think that people are born with the tendency to become an alcoholic, you said ‘Absolutely.’ Now the only way you would know that, absolutely, is that if you were one.”

“No. No. I have a lot of friends who are alcoholics and they have told me…”

“Really?” I cut him off. “So your friends tell you something and because they are your friends, you take it as fact, even though there is no way you can prove it to yourself. But you refuse to believe me when I say that I was born gay. I don’t expect you to understand what that feels like. But I also don’t expect to be called a liar.”

How many of us have had one, or several, drinks too many only to face the bottom of the toilet bowl the next day and the hours thereafter nursing our mistake? Many of us. But because of that mistake, we now know the ramifications of ‘one too many’ and therefore, can then imagine what it must be like if we were driven biologically to crave that drink to the point of hitting rock bottom. So we empathize with the struggle of the alcoholic. But how many of those same people know the experience of being intimate with someone of the same sex? Precious few. So without shared experience, how are they supposed to understand instinct over choice?

It seems so strange now to look back at that one pivotal moment in my life, the day I declared to myself and, in so doing, the world that I am gay; and believed back then my internal struggle was over. Far from it. From that day forward the struggle had just begun. It does me no good to remain oppressed, as the gay minority remains, not within the greater good of the world I burst into from out of that closet. I am of the generation that came out, became successful, proud and assimilated well, by negotiating and circumventing the obstacles of oppression. I have found strength and family among the like-minded, open-minded friends. And still, every once in a while, I see the lack of understanding in the eyes of others. Perhaps there will be a day when teens and young adults don’t have to tearfully face the mirror. And they won’t, if the world would make it safer by understanding there is no choice.

The struggle for every successful, assimilated, proud, gay person is to leave the world a safer place for the generation that follows. And it starts with simple understanding. The onus is on me to not lose advocacy within complacency of a good life. And that is my struggle each and every time I look in that mirror, confident when I say “I am gay.”