Confirming My Suspicions

It was sixth grade, and although I was an A student, captain of the patrols, a good piano player, second place winner of the bicycle derby, a published writer (an article in the local paper), a voracious reader, the spelling champ, and a reasonably willing lawn mower and chore doer, something was gnawing at my parents' approval of me: I was getting fat, and I hadn't "grown out" of my effeminate phase.

The first indications that my parents were worried about my development (or where that development was taking me) were subtle and not immediately apparent to me. I was crazy for the Lincoln Continentals in 1972. They looked so cool to me - like sharks. They even had gills. There weren't many of them in the Seattle area so when I spotted one on the road, I'd get excited and point them out, drooling over the various design combinations that were available. One afternoon, I was sitting in the back seat and talking about how gorgeous I thought the Mark VII was that we were passing. Mom turned to Dad and said, "See, he likes cars." And Dad said, dismissively, "Not like that."

I knew right away what this exchange implied, and it upset me, but I didn't say anything.

A couple of weeks later, Dad brought home two pair of boxing gloves and rolls of gauze tape. It seems he was going to teach me to box and we would be having sessions in the basement each evening. I had absolutely no interest in boxing. I was a completely non-violent, non-competitive person, who had already shown an interest and ability for swimming. But this wasn't just about exercise or fitness; this was supposed to "toughen me up," even "make a man outta me."

With determination and a good deal of gruff prodding, Dad and I donned our gloves and began to spar. The image of my Dad, sweating and bobbing around like Ali, saying, "Hit me! Hit me!" while he punched at me, struck me as absurd and silly, and instead of hitting him, I giggled (like a girl). I couldn't bring myself to try to punch him. I didn't mind the preliminary jump rope exercises, nor the calesthenics he showed me how to do, but when it came to combat, the experiment was a complete bust. Four or five lessons into the new regime, Dad gave up, and I relievedly shucked the gloves forever.

I saw the boxing experiment as a statement about my weight, an attempt to help me lose, and of course I saw it as a criticism, as disapproval of my body. I didn't perceive at first that it was designed to turn me from a sissy into a real boy. But I saw the initial disapproval of my body turn into disappointment in me when I failed to jump on the boxing bandwagon.

There was a basketball hoop contest at school. You had to see how many baskets you could get out of five. If you got two out of five, you went on to the intramural competition, and from there, on to the state competition. One day in PE we all tried to make baskets. I had never held a basketball in my hands before, much less shot a basket. But I was relatively well coordinated and, gamely, stepped up to the line. I got the first one in, a swish. All the boys looked at me in shock - Steve got one in? No way! The teacher was just as surprised. I was fat and a sissy - just as everyone knew I'd ace the spelling bee, they also knew I would be lame at anything involving sports. I could see it in everyone's eyes - revisionist history was being made.

The ball was thrown back to me. I tried to replicate what I did the first time, keeping my feet in the same direction and holding the ball exactly the same way. If I just got one more basket, I'd have achieved a sports-related victory like I never had done before. I took my shot, and the ball hit the rim, then bounced away from the basket.

No problem. I had three more chances. The other kids were actually cheering me on - that had NEVER happened before. Nobody cheers for you when you're in a spelling bee or a piano recital. I took another shot. Missed. Another. Missed again. Now I had only one more chance. I made a conscious effort to synthesize what I had just learned about basketball thowing and make another basket. I was watching the whole thing from outside my body, in slow motion. I took the shot. The ball hit the backboard, hit the front of the rim, then bounced away.

It was no big deal, really - nobody had any expectation that I would succeed. Least of all, me. But I was disappointed.

That night, at the dinner table, I mentioned the A I got on the math test. It hardly raised a grunt of approval - of course I got an A, it was expected. Pass me the broccoli. I started to tell about the basketball contest, and suddenly both my parents were riveted. I said I got the first basket, and that everybody was cheering me on - - - and my parents' eyes were sparkling, their forks suspended in mid-air, waiting for the punchline. Suddenly, it occurred to me I could lie. So I told them I made the last basket and would be going to the intramural competition.

They were so thrilled! They both spoke in such excited tones, looking back and forth to each other with a sense of delight - and relief. Imagine: Stevie had a success doing a "boy" thing like a sports competition! Oh, they were just so happy about it! They peppered me with questions - When's the next competition, who else made it, and on and on. I watched their obvious delight in this phony achievement and compared it with their indifference at my actual math test A. I kept lying through dinner, making up stuff - the competition would be at the high school in about a month or so, and Dr. Palmer (the principal) would be taking all of us "winners." There was even going to be some kind of awards banquet and I'd be getting a medal. The more I lied, the more I felt sad. That night, both Mom and Dad made it a point to come to my room and tell me they were proud of me.

The next day at school, Dr. Palmer called for me. I went to his office. He liked me - I was one of the best students in his school and was a member of the coin and stamp club, which he ran. I was captain of the patrols, and generally a high-profile student. Dr. Palmer was a kind man, and he gently told me that my mother had called him to volunteer to drive all of us "winners" to the intramural competition. I wish at that moment I had found the courage to confess my lie and maybe let Dr. Palmer know my conflicted feelings about the way my parents celebrated this non-achievement versus my very real academic achievements. But I lied to Dr. Palmer and said that, obviously, my mother had misunderstood, and that I only got one basket and therefore wasn't one of the school's winners, and that she must have thought because I got one basket, I was one of the winners. It was all a misunderstanding, obviously. Dr. Palmer gave no hint to me that he saw through my lie, and sent me back to class.

I dreaded going home. I wasn't sure what would happen. I went into the house, said "Hi, I'm home!" as I usually did, and found my mother in the kitchen. She was teary-eyed. She looked at me with such disappointment, then without a word, she went into her bedroom (carrying a plate of food) and closed the door. I went to my room. Dad came home later and looked at me with the same disappointment, but didn't say anything, either. He just changed his clothes and went down to the workshop, where soon the sound of buzzing saws could be heard. Nobody mentioned it at dinner. It was never discussed. I was a liar, a bitter disappointment to them. The one time Stevie had done something they could REALLY be proud of, something other little boys did, not like those sissy accomplishments I was racking up with boring regularity, well, it was all just a cruel lie, a horrible joke.

Now, not only was I fat and my sexuality was still suspect, but I was a big liar, too. Oh boy, we all hung our heads in shame now.

I knew I was gay. I had known since I was five or six. My first wet dream involved other boys my age taking their clothes off. Nobody told me about wet dreams and I was petrified - what the hell was this milky discharge? My parents had a copy of Dr. David Ruben's Everything You've Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (but were afraid to ask). I found it under the bed and took it into the bathroom with me. In a panic I found "milky discharge" and diagnosed myself with Gonorrhea. I figured I was one of those unlucky ones who got it from a toilet seat. Anyway, it took about a week before the light dawned and I rightly identified what had happened as a wet dream.

Dr. Ruben's book was a thrill - and agonizing. The paragraphs about erections and penises and testes and scrotums and ejaculation and all that was a huge turn on and I'd sit on the toilet seat with a boner and read, panicked that my parents would discover I had found the book. But it was the paragraphs about homosexuality that sent me spinning. I already knew I was one of those, and I knew "they" were horrible, but Dr. Ruben made it clear: homosexuals were deviants, interested in deviant behavior, an abomination, dirty, disgusting, disease-ridden pariahs. And there was nothing you could do about it if you were one of those except hang your head in shame and take the rejection of all of good society as your due.

That year, a new girl in school sized me over and said, "Fag," with a sneer. I could tell it was a huge put-down, but I had never heard the word, so I looked it up in the huge dictionary in the school library. First definition was a bundle of sticks used to start a fire. The second definition was a derogatory term for homosexuals. That girl had pegged me. It "showed."

The only people in the public eye who seemed like fags to me were Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly. They seemed really swishy to me, and as I paid attention to the jokes they made on Hollywood Squares and Match Game, I thought, "Yup, that's me, I'm crazy about Judy Garland, too." Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach for a year. I knew I was this despicable thing, and I wondered what my parents would say and do when they learned the truth. They had their suspicions, I could tell, but I think they were hoping that it was a phase I'd grow out of.

One day I was in the car with my Mom. She and I were very close, and I relied on her advice and opinions to formulate my own. If Mom thought something was awful, I thought so, too. Something about that day sparked a desire to tell her. I had been in the land of dread for so long, I just wanted it over with, no matter what the outcome. But I also was hoping that she would find a way to comfort me and help me get past all this anxiety.

Haltingly, with voice shaking, I thought I would open the discussion by mentioning that I had seen something on television about, umm, about . . . ah . . . homosexuals. I saw her jerk the steering wheel and our speed increased. I asked her, "What do you think of homosexuals?" My voice quivered with nerves and unexpressed emotion. Based on her answer, I might have the nerve to tell her I was homosexual.

Mom ripped off her sunglasses and looked right at me. Her eyes blazing and with a look of pure revulsion on her face, she said, "I think they are the most disgusting, dirty, pathetic and horrible people there are and I despise them all." She spit out each venomous word with fire and unquenchable anger. My heart leapt in my chest. My hands were shaking. Tears came to my eyes but she didn't see them - she had returned her attention to the road. I didn't say anything. I looked out the passenger window, and serruptitiously wiped away my tears so she didn't see. She didn't say anything more. She didn't ask me any questions. I didn't reply to her.

It took me awhile to find the courage to say anything at all - I was certain my emotions would give me away. But in a few minutes, I found something to say, about the sign in the dry cleaner's window, a sale or something. Mom acknowledged my remark and soon we were talking again like nothing had happened.

In that moment, when I learned of her intense hatred for homosexuals, I knew that if she ever found out about me, she wouldn't love me anymore. I already believed her love for me was conditional. Now I knew that there was no way I could keep the ball in the air. No matter what I might do or accomplish, no matter how much I pleased her, the truth was lying in wait to destroy it all and send me to unloved hell.