Born This Way (7 page)

I was a creative momma's boy, and I sucked my thumb until I was thirteen. When I played house with my cousins and my sister, I was always a “girl” with a towel on my head, pretending I had long hair. I remember always feeling like an oddball, misfit, or less than good enough. In sixth grade, we were assigned to draw a picture of our teacher sitting at her desk. My teacher didn't like mine and she made fun of it in front of the entire class, and I was devastated. My mom picked me up from school and I began to cry. When I told her the story, she did a screeching U-turn in the street and bolted us back to the school principal's office. They called the teacher in, and my mother read her like a cheap novel!
My mother has always had my back,
and she still does now at age eighty.

Basically,
I felt like a girl
—or an overly sensitive boy with a very vivid imagination. We would put on shows in the garden, and I did drag brilliantly in my sister's long party dress.
I think I was quite scared of the other boys my age,
and by age ten, I was called a sissy and a poofter before I even knew what it all meant. The milkman once said to me, “Andy, why do you walk like a girl?” This really screwed me up for a while, and I'd think,
“Well, how does a girl walk, anyway?”

Here I am in my Easter finery sitting next to my beautiful mother.
Please note the scowl on my face.
I am furious—
furious!
—that I am adorned with that plain white carnation, the most blasé of boutonnieres, while Mother is wearing the most
gorgeous
violet corsage I have ever seen. We were all preparing to go to Mass when the flowers came out, and I pitched a fit about it. I skulked through the Easter Sunday service and possibly even after we got home.
I guess I learned early on that life is not always fair.

There was a page in our family photo album of six-year-old me dressed in all sorts of drag: an oversized gown, a flamenco dress, beehive wigs—all worn with a big smile. In my teens,
I frantically tore this page out and shredded the images
to dispel suspicions that I might be a homo. I was terrified that if anyone found out my secret, I would be utterly destroyed. I did whatever it took (dating girls, playing football) to stay below the radar.
By age twenty-five, I felt like a dam with a thousand cracks,
and I finally came out to my friends and family. It was the best move that I ever made.

Today I live in New York City with the love of my life (my husband of five years) and our two dogs. I wouldn't change a thing, but I
do
wish I still had those great photos. Last year I found one stray drag photo in my parents' attic, and now it's proudly framed in our apartment for all to see. It's a daily reminder to be true to yourself, that
there is no “normal,”
and what you fear most in yourself can one day become your greatest gift and source of strength.

In homage to my mom's Italian heritage, my dad turned our boring suburban backyard into a beautiful oasis with Roman columns and replicas of classical statues. When my sister suggested I give Caesar a little kiss, I went for it!