I, Too

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

--Langston Hughes

I share Ft. Worth City Councilman Joel Burns’ experience of being harassed as an early teenager because I was perceived as being gay. I was, but I barely knew what sex was, and suddenly it seemed to be every one else’s business. The bullying was too humiliating to tell anyone about. So I didn’t.

Instead, I lived inside a shell pretending to be straight until I was 25. I had girlfriends to keep up the appearance of heterosexuality, but was never sexually attracted to any of them. I made it through high school and college by using girls and then women as beards. I lied to them, to the world and to myself.

That fundamental dishonesty was probably as bad for me as being harassed: I was harassing myself.

I felt like I was broken, that I possessed some basic defect that would make me miserable for the rest of my life. That my life would be lonely, depressing and not worth living. That I would be a freak, shunned by the world, for the rest of my life.

So I lived in my shell, desperately alone.

In grad school, I accidentally outed myself to a close friend while, ironically, we were watching “professional” wrestling late one night. We’d both had a few beers, and I told him that wrestling reminded me of a drag show. Then I had to explain why I knew so much about drag shows.

He was a little shocked, but didn’t care. He was a friend. A good one.

I systematically told my closest friends over the next few weeks, and it was a truly liberating experience. I finally felt free and normal. It had taken me over a decade to do it, but with every confession, the weight on my psyche lightened.

The worst was my last girl friend. We hadn’t been together for a while, but she lived right upstairs. I told her, then didn’t answer the door for three days. I was getting stronger, but I wasn’t ready to deal with her pain over my deception just yet.

I’m older now and have two dead husbands that I loved dearly. I’m not happy about the “dead” part, but I had many happy years with them. That’s something I couldn’t even have dreamed of when I was 13. Or even 23.

I contemplated suicide for a while when I was an undergraduate, and even as a grad student. I remember one cold winter night in my old bedroom at my parents’ house on a school break. I curled up against the wall and listened to the wind howling outside. I was so alone and isolated. I couldn’t be honest with anyone, not even myself, about anything. I didn’t see how my life could ever be any better than the miserable one that it was.

Things got better. I learned how to be a man. The gay part became secondary. It hasn’t defined who I am like I thought it might have way back then. I’ve grown to become a man who happens to be gay. It’s one of the least important things about me.

I wish I’d known that a couple of decades before I did. I lost so many years to the dark place of guilt and despair that I've treasured the happy ones more that I might have otherwise.

Maybe I should be happy that those dark years made me stronger and more aware of what matters and what doesn't. But I came very close to not making it.

If anyone had told me when I was 23 that I would be 45, still alive and at peace on a fundamental level, I'd have laughed. I had no point of reference to understand that life as a gay man could be happy, fulfilling and normal.

Even with two dead husbands, I'm happier than I was then.