When I think about being a gay author and why I feel it’s essential to hear gay stories, my mind goes back to the beginning of seventh grade. Before, I was “gay” or a “Homo,” as they used to shout, I was just a weird kid. Being silly and playful was allowed for a child, but by seventh grade, I was supposed to act like a “man” and like “sports-n-stuff.” Gym class was the worst. The eighth and seventh graders had gym together, so the younger boys became targets of harassment.

Going down the long ramp towards the boy’s gym locker room, my legs wanted me to turn and run away, but I couldn’t. Starting with seventh grade, I was supposed to be all right getting naked in front of everyone I knew. I wasn’t. I was the kid who mowed the lawn in long sleeves, no matter how hot it was. Never would I hang around with my shirt off or even in short shorts; no, I was embarrassed by my body. I wasn’t used to it. My body kept changing, and no one helped me know what was coming. There was a “Father and Son” night at my middle school around this time, and we watched a film that said girls mature earlier than boys and what a “period” was. Everyone laughed and giggled, especially the Dads. When my body started to change and mature, it scared the Hell out of me. When I saw my first pubic hair, I knew it had to go! I ran into my sister’s room to borrow her scissors.

Unfortunately, the only pair I could find were her new pinking shears, which added to my difficulty. Still, I removed that hair, that sign of growing adulthood I wanted no part of. At that time, “being a man” meant having a girlfriend, then a wife and children…..while I worked a job in “business.” I wanted no part of it. I knew I wasn’t attracted to girls, and the little bit of pretending I did feel false. The youngest of five, I could see that my father wasn’t in love with my mother. He mistreated her and made fun of her body, her mind, her family, and her abilities to cope with life, his life. Growing up under that, I saw the effects of being married to someone who didn’t love you, and I vowed that I could never do that to some woman. It’s not fair to cut someone down from finding love just because you want to hide. In seventh grade, when wrestling was coming closer and closer, my most dreaded event in gym class, I thought about becoming a priest. “If I become a priest, I don’t have to deal with sex!” I assumed. Seems funny to me now. One day, I got the idea to ditch gym for a while. I went to our local store and found a plastic finger splint. That and some gauze looked pretty official.

A simple handwritten note “from my mother” was easy since my gym teachers never even looked at those notes. I could sit on the sidelines of gym action for about two weeks while my “finger healed.” The day came when one of the other boys said, “Hey, wasn’t that bandage on your other hand yesterday?”…..The next day, my finger was ready for gym class. After missing gym so many times, I was sent to our Guidance Counselor. She was a lovely lady who talked with me and asked why I missed my gym class. I told her about the bullying I was getting from the eighth graders in my class and how they called me names. I remember saying, “They called me a fag!” then bursting into tears. She assured me that things would be better going forward and that I should go to gym and enjoy it. The next day, I braved my way down the ramp to the boy’s locker room, the smell of rotting ketchup in the air. The gym teacher came into the locker room as we changed and told the eighth graders to meet him in the gym, but the seventh graders to play baseball outside, so we did.

When the game and class were over, I ran to the locker room with the other seventh graders to find the eighth graders exhausted and angry. “Crowley, you’re dead!” I was told by a few of them under their breath. The Guidance Counselor told my gym teacher that the eighth graders were picking on me, so he pulled them into the gym and said, “I hear you guys are picking on Crowley…..” Then, I ordered them to run in a circle for the rest of the class. They all knew I told, and even the kinder ones now hated me. For the rest of my seventh grade, I knew being a guy was something I was not good at.

When eighth grade rolled around, it wasn’t as bad. By then, the bullies had moved on, and I knew what to expect from class. There were even new fun moments, like growing stronger and noticing the other boy’s growing bodies in the shower. A year earlier, I was too scared to look, but by eighth grade, my peripheral vision was working well. When the last moment of eighth grade struck, I was free. Up the hill, I ran to the buses, waiting for our last trip home. In high school, my search for a man to be was helped by an outstanding art department and a theater department that gave me a place to shine. In seventh grade, I was the kid everyone despised, but in High School, I was the only freshman boy to get cast in the school’s big musical. At that time, that alone made me somebody. Upperclassmen saw me and called me by my name., “Hey, Crowley!” they would say, and I would blush and smile. In art class, I was being noticed and supported for my gifts, which was new to me. My worth in the past was based on how good I was at sports or spelling, but in high school, art, and talent were considered strengths, too. That changed my world. There were no gay role models back in my days. Even if there were, I would have said I hated them. I wasn’t ready to accept who I was till later. Back in the early days, being gay was just being attracted to men. As I grew, so did the meaning of being gay. I learned it was much bigger than that. For me, it was the way I saw life. Born outside of the box, I see life from my own point of view. Gay writers have a different viewpoint. Their experience in life gives the reader an angle they may not have seen before. The world was straight when I was a boy, and homosexuality was the sin that dared not speak its name. There was no option. A gay viewpoint is all about shoving that false perception aside. There is more than one way to live. There is more than one way to write about it. This is mine. I hope my words let others know they are not the problem but the answer.