Looking Back
Lately, I've found myself thinking about my past more than usual.
I hear stories from people who say they always knew who they were. They knew they were gay. Some embraced it and proudly proclaimed it. Others hid it out of fear, shame, or simply because they weren't ready to admit it to themselves.
When I look back, I don't remember certainty. I remember confusion, darkness, and isolation.
I don't remember ever having a moment where I told myself, I'm gay. I just knew I was different. I wanted so badly to be liked. I wanted to feel like I belonged. But no matter where I was or who I was with, I lived with fear and discomfort. I always felt like I had to look over my shoulder, wondering who was judging me or waiting to hurt me.
The closest thing I had to an "aha" moment wasn't really an aha at all. It was simply another moment that helped explain why I had always felt different. It surprised me.
In high school, Greg and I spent a lot of time together. I looked up to him because he was confident. He didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him, and in my eyes, he was popular. He had friends. The world seemed to respond to him differently than it did to me. I admired him because I wanted to be like that.
Greg was always working on some kind of project. He was a real-life Tom Sawyer, and I often got pulled into whatever adventure he was tackling.
Back in the 1980s, before cable television and the internet, if you wanted access to lots of channels, you installed a satellite dish. Not the small dishes we have today, but one that was bigger than I was—six or eight feet across, sitting in the backyard like a small shed. It connected to one—and yes, only one—television in the house. If you wanted to watch a different channel, the dish would physically rotate to point at another satellite in the sky.
After Greg's family installed theirs, I found myself alone in the room with the television connected to it. As I remember it, the TV was only about 19 inches. I started flipping through the available satellites and channels until I landed on one playing pornography.
As a kid, I had seen a magazine lying in a field once, but I had never seen a video of people having sex.
I was nervous. I was afraid someone would catch me. But I was also incredibly curious.
As I stood there watching, I became frustrated. They barely showed the man. Every time I thought the camera was finally going to focus on him, it would cut back to the woman.
Then, in a moment I've never forgotten, I realized why I was frustrated.
I wasn't interested in seeing more of the woman.
I wanted to see him.
That was the moment I realized I wasn't attracted to women. I was attracted to men.
It wasn't a euphoric realization. There may have been physical excitement, but emotionally it was shocking. In that instant, I believed I had discovered a secret I could never tell anyone.
Today we have language to describe identities, gender, and sexuality. Whether those terms existed in the 1980s or I simply wasn't aware of them, I don't know.
I didn't even have the word gay.
What I did have were words other people used against me.
Faggot.
Butt Fucker.
Fudge packer.
People called me those names long before I ever saw that pornographic video. Those words hurt then, but after that day they landed differently.
Before, I became angry because I knew I wasn't those things—or at least I didn't think I was.
Afterward, those same slurs became something else.
They became shame.
They became something I believed I had to protect and hide, even from myself.
Looking back now, I wonder if my own family knew I was gay before I did.
I remember standing in the kitchen with my mom. I don't remember the entire conversation, only one question.
She asked, "Would you ever date a Black woman?"
The question caught me off guard because it was so direct.
I told her yes. If there was a spark and I cared about her, then absolutely.
She smiled and said, "Good. I wouldn't want you to grow up to be a racist."
Now I wonder if that was really what she was asking.
Was she trying to find out whether I was interested in girls at all?
I'll never know.
My brother played soccer throughout his school years. Every so often I would go to a game—or, if I'm being honest, I would be dragged to one.
One particular day has stayed with me, which is strange because there are so many parts of my childhood I can't remember.
After my brother's game ended, we sat on the bleachers waiting for him while the next teams took the field. It was a girls' team, probably twelve or thirteen years old.
As they ran onto the field, my stepfather said, "Let's check out the breasts on these girls."
I remember physically jumping.
I looked at him in disbelief.
They were girls.
Children.
I honestly don't remember exactly what I said next, but I remember how I felt. From that moment on, I viewed him as disgusting.
Looking back now, I also wonder if it was his attempt to teach me how I was supposed to look at girls—to normalize sexualizing them and shape how I viewed women.
My stepfather was a deeply religious man. His father had been a Lutheran pastor. His worldview was deeply patriarchal.
He was the only father figure in my life outside of my uncles.
I never saw him as my father.
He was simply the man my mother married.
My mother wanted that to change.
She told me she wanted me to call John "Dad."
I said I didn't want to because he wasn't my father.
She told me that was my choice.
But then came the conditions.
If I didn't call him Dad, he wouldn't take me anywhere.
If I didn't call him Dad, they wouldn't do things for me.
If I didn't call him Dad, I would simply stay home.
One condition after another.
By the end of the conversation, it was clear that if I refused, my world would shrink to my bedroom and whatever meals the family ate together.
So I forced the word out of my mouth.
"Dad."
This was the same man who punished my brother by making him bend over the hood of our car while he whipped him.
One punishment stands out vividly.
He used our dog's leash—not the leather strap, but the heavy metal clip at the end. During the beating, the metal clip struck my brother's penis. It swelled dramatically afterward.
As far as I remember, they never even took him to a doctor.
I don't remember much of my childhood.
Maybe that's protective.
The difficult thing about blocking painful memories is that you don't just lose the bad ones. You lose the good ones too.
Now I wonder...
What don't I remember?
If I can remember some of these things, how much worse were the things my mind chose to hide?
One memory that has always puzzled me involves my trumpet.
I vaguely remember playing it.
What I remember most is getting off the school bus one afternoon, just like every other day. The neighborhood kids were waiting for me, just like they always were.
Every day became a race.
Could I outrun them?
Could I outmaneuver them long enough to get home safely?
That day I remember swinging my trumpet case and hitting one of the boys just hard enough to create an opening so I could run.
When I finally made it home, the first thing I did was open the case.
There was a dent in the bell of my trumpet.
I was devastated.
We were poor—poor enough that we lost our home and had to move in with my grandmother. Having a rented trumpet felt like an incredible privilege.
I wasn't afraid of being punished.
I was ashamed.
Ashamed because I knew it was something special, and I had damaged it.
Oddly enough, that's the only memory I have connected to the trumpet.
I don't remember learning to play.
I don't remember lessons.
I don't remember practicing.
I don't remember concerts.
Just the dent.
Now I wonder why.
Playing the trumpet doesn't seem like something that would be traumatic. So why are all of those memories gone?
If something as ordinary as learning an instrument disappeared from my memory, what else has my mind hidden?
What was it protecting me from?
What really happened?
Maybe those are answers I don't actually want.
I've worked hard to heal.
Therapy.
Self-care.
Boundaries.
Today, I am in the healthiest place I've ever been. I am happier than I've ever been.
So maybe I don't need to dig everything up.
Maybe some things served their purpose by staying buried.
Maybe healing isn't always about remembering everything.
Maybe it's about finding peace with what you do remember—and allowing yourself to finally live.