“I would lie if I said I didn’t somewhat know when I was 12-years-old, when I was surfing the Internet and, one miraculous day, dozens of gay porn pop-ups hit me all at once. I supposed straight boys ought to find it grotesque, and yet I didn’t immediately turn away. But I wouldn’t say I knew then and there. Don’t all young boys have gay phases?

“The high school locker rooms pretty much cemented it for me. I knew it when I saw it. There was something alluring about the male form that the female form didn’t do for me. No matter how hard I tried, it would always be the male form.”

– J

“By its very definition, Glee is about opening yourself up to joy.”

– Lillian Adler

At the dawn of the pilot, featured beneath a photo of a very homely woman making a comically awkward expression, the camera settled over this quotation for a moment. It’s interesting, six years later, to think of how perfectly a single frame captured the strange blend of irreverent humor and wide-eyed optimism that would characterize Glee.

I finished Glee only a few days ago, taking my sweet time with the sixth season. If you’ve kept an eye on the entertainment scene at all, you might be tempted to take a jab at the show’s rocky trajectory. It’s true; Glee had its fair share of bumps, and it certainly became in vogue to hate on it. But I never stopped caring about it, and I never thought it lost its heart. A wise friend even reassured me that it’s kind of perfect, the show losing its acclaim; it was always, at its core, the story of a bunch of relentlessly dreaming misfits in a world working to dash their hopes.

No, the issue was not that I lost interest in the series. It was, in reality, that it came to mean much more to me than I expected. So much so that, as the reality dawned over me that I would soon have to bid it goodbye, I began to drag my feet. I can’t encapsulate everything about what Glee was – reflect on each of the characters and their stories – or at least I don’t want to. What I’m setting out to do here, I guess, is reflect on what this show became to me.

Continue reading “goodbye to glee.” →

This morning, as I was walking home, I saw the grounds workers planting petunias on this, the second day of Fall. The inevitability of these flowers’ decline sat with me for some time, and I sat down to write about it. This is what resulted.

–

It rested between them, the end, like an unwelcome visitor unpacking a bit too thoroughly. Over dinners, they laughed and pretended it wasn’t chuckling with them. Helping itself to their morning coffee and robbing them of the words that once sprung out from each to the other. At the first sign of it, they’d kept busy, raising the hum of their day-to-day lives to drown it out. But, steadily, it clamored, waiting patiently for the silence, until resignation to its permanence crept over them. Acceptance of the Fall.

And, though the leaves around them began to dry into rustic oranges and browns, urging them by example to set free the shells of what once teemed with life, they glanced at one another and seemed to agree: ‘Let’s take the weekend together.’

And so they embarked. Despite the inevitability of the impending bite of frost, they planted petunias. Gorgeous purples and creams.

They held hands in the car as the concrete highway whipped by underfoot. Dig.
They listened to the song they’d first kissed to. Set.
They stopped at every roadside curiosity, laughing until their sides ached. Cover.
They booked a hotel room, pulling one another’s shirt off before the door had even closed. Tamp.

The flowerbed sung freely before them, momentarily deafening them to the leaves falling from the sky and billowing at their feet. Had the flowers ever burned this bright in the summer?

“I put the bottle of bourbon down on the corner with a hard thwack. I keep thinking I’m going to burst into flame and emerge as my true self when, in reality, I molt slowly, carrying the old skin around with me a little while longer. So there’s the bourbon.

“When I was a child, I would bounce around and talk loudly and dance to music with such wild spasms I would knock over plates in the kitchen. Once, in a Florida bathroom, I broke into dance to the music – anything to get the energy out – and I saw a man drag his son out by the arm, loudly telling him to stay away from the idiot. I looked around for the idiot as my dad fumed and dragged me out, too. I think I was four.

“The next year, I went to school and I was surrounded by girls who were beautiful and boys who were handsome. The girls caught my eye, no doubt. Everyone told me I was a ladykiller and that I would fetch a pretty girl someday. I thought that sounded nice, but, every now and then, another little ladykiller caught my eye. I was good friends with one of them. He was tall, his skin was smooth, and his lips were like two raspberries. When he would purse them, I wanted to put them on mine and see what would happen.

“We all had a sleepover, and we did what boys do: We climbed on each other, we wrestled, and we began playing truth or dare. My friend picked ‘dare,’ and we dared him to pull his pants down. His pants hit the floor, and we all gathered around him like he was an exhibit at the zoo. We lingered for a few moments, and then we laughed. We always laughed. His turn came around again, and he picked ‘dare’ and we were all relieved, so another of us dared him to pull his pants down and dance. As soon as his hand touched the elastic of his shorts, the door flew open so hard it rattled the plates in the kitchen. His dad pointed a finger in his face, his own face red with rage, and told him we weren’t going to do any of ‘that shit’ in his house. We put a movie on and fell asleep, one by one, next to each other.

“The next year, my friend with the raspberry lips and I stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting for our moms’ cars, and we ran around the tree, chasing each other making puckering noises. I faked him out and ran around the other side, puckering and planting my lips on his cheek for a single second. We froze, his jaw dropped, and we began looking around. No one saw, but he didn’t say a word. He just ran. I did something wrong. Later that night, I told my dad that I thought my friend was gay and he told me to not even say that word. So I didn’t.

“And so it went. In middle school, I chased girls, but I always noticed if a boy had smooth skin, or full lips, or a mark on his cheek like Marilyn Monroe. At night, I would toss and turn until the feelings stopped. During the day, if I caught myself lingering on the way a boy’s jaw curved around the bottom of his face, I would find a freshly blossomed bosom to bury my thoughts in.

“One day, when I was twenty and drunk on mojitos, I loudly gathered all my friends and proclaimed myself bisexual. They shrugged and said ‘no shit.’ I made it a point to tell anyone who asked, no matter how uncomfortable or inopportune, that I was bisexual. It’s not a word I’m comfortable with because it implies a forked road where I prefer a path anyone could trod on.

“Today, I wonder how much I still police my attraction, and I wonder if my mother actually knows and is waiting. Because I haven’t told her. I’m just somewhere in limbo. Me and my bourbon. I set the bottle down after another swig, gently. The glass on the counter didn’t make a sound.”

– C

“Maybe I should have known when I was six and my friend and I would rub our butts together. Or maybe I should have known when I got a hand job from a guy at twelve. Or when I desperately wanted to make out with my best friend at fifteen. But, for most of my life, I didn’t have the vocabulary to describe the gay thoughts in my head. I didn’t hear the word ‘gay’ until well into my teenage years, and as a kid I didn’t know any (out) gay people. Being gay was, well, a fantasy.

“Near the end of high school, I got my first girlfriend. After several months of dating, we had reached a point in out relationship when became clear that sex was the next step. It was something we wanted, both physically and emotionally.

“Or at least, I thought I did.

“When actually confronted with the very real thought of having sex with a woman, I had to acknowledge that it wasn’t something I wanted, but was something I felt I had to do. It would make me cool. It would prove my manliness. I wanted those things, but I didn’t actually want to have sex with this, or any, girl. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be straight. In realizing that I had something to prove, I guess, that’s when I knew.“

– A

When I was around eleven, a friend in my class whispered my name. When I glanced over at her, she gestured toward my stomach with her pencil. “You look pregnant,” she said, then laughed. That night, when I got home, I sprung into action mode: I wrote a diet and exercise plan. When my dad caught me, he smiled and told me it was just “growing fuel.” A bit relieved, I scrapped the plan, hugged my dad, and went to bed.

Moving into my teen years, I was disappointed to find my body didn’t spring up into something athletic or trim. My shoulders were relentlessly broad, my face a bit rounder than I’d like. With an athletic older brother, someone my peers often told me was strikingly handsome, I felt a little bit cheated. When am I going to get handsome?

I’ve documented the weight loss journey that marked my transition from high school to college. I ran miles and miles, lost a hundred pounds, and finally figured out what it was to pull on a small shirt and feel at home. I also learned, through that process, that shedding weight physically is an entirely different thing than letting go of the weight mentally. At my fittest, I never felt attractive or athletic enough.

Grad school marked the first time since my weight loss that some of the weight returned to my body. A thousand demanding time commitments, the ready availability of pizza, and – yes – a relatively frequent party culture found me spending less time running and more time frowning in the mirror as my clothing hugged tighter.

Since moving into the full-time realm, coming to Ball State and beginning my life post-masters, I have reintegrated running into my life. I’ve cut Diet Coke (mostly) and I’ve refused to set foot onto a scale, aiming for a healthy and happy body rather than the cold approval of a number.

But I’ve also set to work on appreciating the skin I’m in. My shoulders are broad, yes, and my face not ever be chiseled, but I have begun to allow myself the wild notion of believing that these are not bad things.

Compound this with a year of coming out, of speaking my story to all the people who know me, and the most recent journey in my life is a story of embracing my whole self. I’m not asking to be anyone other than me.

When my hall staff set out to complete an Abercrombie & Fitch-style photoshoot, I opted to embrace the opportunity. Lean into the chance to take a few shots. One of my RAs, Ryan, took our photos, and he sent the results. Here are some of the resulting shots:

These are probably not perfect photos. They may not drop jaws, they may not turn heads, and they may not mean much to anyone besides myself.

But they do mean something to me. I have begun to feel comfortable in this skin, a reality that’s taken me a good number of years. I like the person I’ve become, inside and out. My body is broad, and my nose is big, and my eyes are squinty, and – you know – those are kind of wonderful things.

I make this declaration not for attention or acclaim, but as a long sigh of relief. The journey to loving ourselves, as we are, can be a bumpy road. Let’s give ourselves permission; let’s allow ourselves the wild notion that we are worthwhile.

“I always felt nervous around girls; unsure of myself even more than I was around boys. I didn’t understand why, and then Jane moved into the house down the street from me. She had honey blonde hair, was all limbs, olive skin sprinkled with freckles, and the biggest eyes that were never quite brown or green. Her toothy smile lit up her entire face, and her laugh always chimed high and clear. For two years we were inseparable, spending summer afternoons together and weekends during the school year. When I couldn’t see her, I missed her.

“During the third summer, she told me she was moving down south. I wouldn’t see her anymore. My heart ached. We were lying on her deep red carpet in her bedroom, the midday sunlight streaming in from her windows. I felt cemented into the floor, immobile. I was watching her. Her gaze was up, her eyes following the reflections play on the ceiling, her chest gently rising and falling. Both of us silent. I wanted to reach out, touch her, hold her hand. More than that, I wanted to kiss her. Just once. It was consuming and paralyzing, and stronger than any whim I had towards a boy.

“It made sense in that moment. I made sense in that moment. I hated holding hand with my friends, who were all female. It meant something different to them. She was different for me. But I didn’t kiss her, and I didn’t reach out to her, hold her hand, or even speak a word. I laid there in the painful knowledge of recognizing oneself as different, as ‘other,’ for the first time. I was seven.

“Years passed, Jane and I lost touch, partly because of distance, partly because of my crippling fear of her knowing something about me that I barely understood myself. Confusion was my constant companion. I was different, yet not so different. I found boys could make my heart race, but so did girls. And I was terrified. I dreaded gym classes and slumber parties. Both promised an uncomfortable proximity or near nakedness to friends and classmates who were female and carried that certain something that made my heart feel like it was in my throat. I felt unsafe, tortured in moments that seemed so innocent and mundane to everyone around me.

“It wasn’t until college I had a name for it. It was amazing how my life felt after a word finally helped me understand who I was. Understanding I’m bi was, and still is, the best thing to ever happen to me. Yet that moment, lying in perfect stillness with my childhood friend, that’s when I knew.“

– S

“I’m not sure how to categorize my story. I saw the ‘when I knew’ posts and I found myself getting choked up at so many stories that sounded like my own. I decided to participate in the ‘if I could change’ project, but I guess this can go either way.

“I first realized I was attracted to men in the fourth grade. I remember an ad popping up on the computer for some kind of underwear company, and it was a muscular man. I was amazed at his body and how tight and strong he looked. It was the first time I ever found myself thinking a man was ‘cute.’ I then decided to look up pictures of men in underwear. My dad came home that night from work and looked at the browsing history and was stunned by what he saw. At dinner that night, he sat my sister and me down and had a talk with us. I admitted to being the one looking at the pictures, but I played it off as me being innocent and confused.

–

“As I grew up, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get pictures of men out of my head. I had a few girlfriends and eventually lost my virginity to a girl. My parents found out, and I knew I finally had them believing I was straight, even though I still had thoughts of men in my head.

“I went to work correcting my ‘orientation.’ I began watching porn with threesomes, which I reasoned was ‘straight’ because a woman was involved. In high school, as a freshman, I admitted to myself that I was into guys, but I started to feel ‘wrong’ about it again by my junior year. I started watching lesbian porn, trying to make myself straight. While I watched the porn, I found myself opening tabs to look at guys too. I Googled ways to act straight and to think straight. I started lying to people and telling them I was hooking up with girls from other schools so that they thought I wasn’t gay. High school was hell for me.

“Eventually, I met a man on Grindr, and we had sex. I felt absolutely disgusting. I told myself I would never do it again and that it wasn’t for me. However, a week or two later, I began watching gay porn again. I graduated high school as a liar. I told so many people so many lies to try to cover my true identity.

–

“Coming to college, I began to find more people like me: people who loved people for who they are. I have only told a few close friends, so sharing this is a huge step for me, but I can say for sure that I would never change myself. I tried so hard to do that in high school, and it was so much added stress.

“The one thing I am jealous of completely straight people is that they don’t have to explain themselves to anyone. They are ‘normal.’ They don’t have to worry about laws to get married. They can – besides a few barriers for some – have kids whenever they want. If I end up marrying a man, we will need to adopt or find a wiling surrogate. Straight people don’t have to worry if their parents will still love them for being with who their heart wants. They don’t have to participate in blogs explaining when they first realized they were straight. It’s hard being a part of the LGBT+ community, but I feel it makes me stronger as a person, and it teaches me that no matter what happens, I will have someone there to turn to.”

– W

“The process of discovering that you are different is always masked with the comfort of the status quo. You’ve always done something this way. You’ve always felt this way. It’s always been normal to you until someone puts doubt into your head.

“The moment I realized I may be different was some time in middle school when the word ‘fag’ was presented smack-dab to my face. The word stung the very bottom of my soul, the vehemence and malicious intent behind it bringing forth many emotions: anger, fear, sadness, doubt. That very word spiraled an analysis of all my past behaviors; it shook the very foundation of who I was. So much that I had an existential crisis at the age of thirteen. Is there something wrong with me? Am I normal? Are other people feeling this? Why wasn’t this a problem before? Can I change this? Hide this? Why me?

–

“I played it off like I assume many other gay men in their formative teenage years probably do: I bantered back with other slurs, shamed the gay community, and tried my best to be heterosexual in a world that demanded it. The heteronormative pull connected strongly to my cultural roots. As a Mexican-American young man, I was expected to be the utmost machista.

“When my parents saw my Internet browsing history, they brought me immediately to church. ‘You’re confused.’It’s the things you see on television that are making you this way.’ ‘Pray to God to fix you and take these evil thoughts of your head.’

“When I presented myself in front of the altar, I was an absolute mess. There I was, fourteen, thinking I was going to die and burn in hell for the rest of eternity. Didn’t God make me like this? I didn’t wake up and decide to be gay; it just happened.

“When I finally took communion, a wave of relief flushed over me. I would not call myself a spiritual person, but something spiritual told me everything was going to be all right. From this moment forward, I just took deep breaths and let happen whatever was to happen.

–

“As I reflect on the years of my life thus far, I’m filled with nothing but happiness. Being a gay man wasn’t too hard of a battle once I accepted it. I quickly learned that surrounding myself with people who love me for who I am was more beneficial to my well-being. I would never want to change who am I, nor the way I came to accept it, because my experiences made me who I am today. If I wasn’t gay, I’d be an altogether different man that may or may not be so willing to accept things out of the ‘norm.’ Sure, some people got hurt in the process, many were taken aback, many left my side, and many more held my hands through the journey. It all comes down to the quote that ‘those who mind don’t matter; and those who matter don’t mind.'”

– J

“Okay. So I sealed the deal with my homosexuality by having sex at 15. The thing was that it wasn’t that big of a deal to me when it happened. It felt good, and I had something to brag about. I didn’t care that I lost my virginity, but I was scared by the fact that it was with a man. I remember spending nights locked in my room yelling at God for making me gay in a world that would never fully love me for the person I am. I didn’t want to be straight; I just wanted it to be okay with everyone else that I was gay. Dealing with the fact that this wasn’t going to happen (and still hasn’t) was the thing I struggled with the most.

–

“I guess I didn’t make any huge attempts to be straight or ‘straight-acting.’ I was on dance team and was a manager for the volleyball team. I had a few girlfriends in middle school, my only period of dating females, and the most I ever did was kiss someone on the cheek. I dated during that age mainly because everyone else was, but I never felt attracted to the girls I dated. If anything, I am happy I did, because the girls I gay-dated ended up being good friends.

–

“The only thing I envy about the heterosexual life is the established societal roles and the resulting simplicity. I want kids more than anything else in my life. If I was straight, it would be as simple as deciding with a woman to get pregnant. Instead, I have to find someone willing to put forth the money, commitment, and effort to adopt or find a surrogate. That’s the only thing I envy of any heterosexual person. Besides that, I absolutely love and adore my sexuality and what it means for me, including the bad.“

– T