I grew up in Haymarket, Virginia. It was a sleepy little town located about an hour west of Washington, D.C., and an hour east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There wasn't much to the town at all really; a few gas stations, a liquor store, a stoplight. [I was about ten years old when the town got the stoplight. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to the town in years.]
My parents raised thirteen children. [No, they're not Catholic. They lived in a very small town that didn't even have a stoplight. There wasn't much else to do.] I am number twelve. I have one younger brother. I had a very nice childhood. I was raised by a mother and father who loved me very much. My brothers and sisters were nothing less than perfect. And being next-to-the-youngest, my childhood was actually made easier because of them. They did the difficult job of "breaking in" my parents. I got to do so many things that my older brothers and sisters were not, simply because my parents were more experienced. [They had pretty much seen it all at this point.] But, on the rare occasion when I did something that I wasn't allowed to do, I still have my hiding places. [My parents had pretty much heard it all at this point, too.] My parents never came looking for me though, they knew I wouldn't stay out past sunset. [I was afraid of the dark until I was about twelve.]
I realized at a very early age that I wasn't like the rest of my family. It might've had something to do with the fact that I was matching my shoes with my belt at the age of five when the rest of my family didn't care. I remember a conversation I had with my mom when I explained to her why flannel, although it was a good idea for bed linen, was not meant to be worn as clothing. She handled the news very well, I think. Not long after that conversation, on Christmas morning, I ran down the steps and tore open my gifts. That year I got two flannel shirts, a set of cotton sheets and a smile on my Mom's face that taught me one of the most valuable lessons in my life. "Never forget where you came from kid." [And I never have since.]
The kids in school started calling me a fag in the sixth grade. [Gee, maybe that's why I was always picked last in PE.] I was devastated when the cutest boy in my class called me a fag. [Does this mean that we're not gonna date?] But, being a resourceful little gay boy, I worked out a deal with my older brother. I would do his homework if he and his friends would beat up whoever was bothering me at school. We were both very happy with that. And I led a very peaceful life, until my brother went to High School. [Oops!]
I make fun of my family alot. I use words like white-trash or riff-raff. But really, I'm just using my roots as a source of humor. I accept who I am and where I am from. I love every member of my family for exactly who they are. I realize that if they were not who they are, I would not be who I am. And I really like who I am. And as much as I like to think that I am now a cosmopolitan city boy, I realize that I haven't grown any further than my white trash roots will allow. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I am who I am, take it or leave it.
What a long, strange journey:
I came out to my family when I was nineteen. It was very easy really. My parents had raises us all with open minds. We were taught to not judge anyone else using our own morals. What is right to one person is wrong to another. When I told my mother that I am gay, she was completely unaffected. She actually said, "Ok. Did I tell you what happened at the Piggly Wiggly the other day?" I stared at her, amazed by the fact that she didn't even miss a breathe. [Although I somehow knew she would react this way.] I said, "Mom, I just told you that I am gay." She had such a simple reply, "I have 12 straight children. I think that's enough, don't you?" I agreed.
I was twenty when a friend took me to my first gay bar, Badlands in Washington D.C. [I think that everyone who came out in D.C. holds a special place in their hearts for this bar. The place has no pretention of being anything other than what it is. I am what I am, take it or leave it.] I was actually embarassed that night when I saw two guys kissing in public. But as I felt the flush on my face, and I pointed to the two guys kissing, I knew my gay life had just begun. [Uh oh!]
I spent the next four and a half years trying to fit myself into a social scene that I didn't even like. The D.C. bar scene was ridiculous. And the guys who frequented these bars were even more ridiculous. [And there I was, every Sunday afternoon, drunk off my ass with my friends at JR's sipping 75cent Vodka cocktails bitching about everyone else in the bar.] For those of you who have visited D.C., but have never lived there, you probably don't understand what I'm saying. The gay men in there put on a facade for tourists. My biggest complaint about living there is the total lack of loyalty from everyone that you meet. They all have their own personal agendas. If you don't fit into that agenda, there's no need to talk to you. There were three questions that you were almost always asked when you met a guy in D.C. Who do you work for? Where do you live? What kind of car do you drive? [This is true!!] I wouldn't tolerate it. If I was asked any of them, I would simply walk away. No explanation. This attitude didn't make me the most popular guy in the Gay scene there. However, it allowed me to meet some very loyal friends. [Everyone who I consider a good friend today, I met there. Ironic, huh?] Anyway, I didn't like my life there, so I moved.
In July of 1994, I picked up everything I owned and said good bye to all my friends. [They were both devastated. LOL] I had decided that Chicago held my future. If you haven't been to Chicago yet then you should go. It's a beautiful city; the architecture is amazing. [As long as you stay downtown.] The boys are fun too, with very dirty minds. I really enjoyed living there. But it didn't take me long to realize that I wouldn't be spending the rest of my life there. It might've had something to do with the fact that it was too fucking cold in the winter and too fucking hot in the summer. So, on a cold winter day in early 1998, my boyfriend and I were spending a quiet afternoon at home. [It was too fucking cold to go outside!] I looked at him and said, "I can't take it anymore." He agreed. A few months later we were heading for Paradise.
We got to San Francisco on November 3, 1998. I still remember how happy I felt as we were driving across the Bay Bridge coming into town. My boyfriend was driving and I was on the passenger side, holding the dog (who was still mad at having to ride in a truck for four days). We were both staring in amazement at the city. I was thinking how life couldn't be more perfect. Today, the dog is dead (and I miss her more than I could ever put into words), the man that I loved so much on that day is now my ex-boyfriend (and will have nothing to do with me) and I am a completely different man.
I have accomplished more personal growth since moving to San Francisco than I had in the twenty-eight years before. I think it's all good. And today, as I sit and write this, I'm thinking how life could't be more perfect. [Now why does that sound so familiar?]
