Born This Way (8 page)

I recently came across this photo from Easter of 1972. In it, I'm holding a tiny purse that my grandma made from an old margarine container combined with her delicate crocheting. When I shared this photo with my mom, she remarked at how cute my little sister was. I pointed out that the photo was not of her daughter, but rather of her proud four-year-old son, and she silently turned the page. Growing up,
my sexuality was the proverbial elephant in the room:
it was always present, but never discussed.

In my twelve years of Catholic schooling, just about every report card included the comment,
“André is a sensitive boy.”
That was Catholic-school code for
“gay as a daisy.”
It was tough growing up sensitive, and the journey was never easy. But it was worth it, for I can now say that I love who I am and I love the life I've built for myself. I love that I've learned to honor and protect that sensitive little boy with the pink Easter purse and black galoshes.

I have a terrific job as a writer. I have a wonderful partner and a cozy home with three cats.
It's exactly the kind of life I was told would never be an option
for me.

One of my favorite activities was dancing in my grandmother's high heels.
I would sneak into her closet and emerge in her black patent-leather pumps, my favorite pair.
That's my little brother wearing those favorite black shoes. I was a little bossy as his dance instructor, saying, “Hey, do it this way. Step, two, three, four. Turn, two, three, four.” My parents called me the Mother Hen. I love that I was always such a free spirit.
I'm still a free spirit today,
thanks in large part to the love and support of the women in my life, especially my mother and my grandmother.

In kindergarten,
I would chase and kiss my friend Kevin on the playground.
He didn't like it, and the other kids would tease him about it. But I didn't see anything wrong with it. These days this behavior would be called “not respecting boundaries.”

As a sensitive and creative kid,
books were my refuge.
I befriended a girl in first grade, and the unison shouts of “sissy” intensified. So I basically had no friends in school. Does this sound familiar? Then I met a boy named John, another skinny teacher's pet.
With his Coke-bottle glasses, he fit the geek stereotype I could relate to
—and my lifelong pattern for romantic interests was firmly set. But our intimate conversations weren't allowed in class, and teachers kept us apart.

I attended six different schools in nine years' time, yet
the bullies always immediately pegged me as gay.
I was shoved and locked inside a gym locker for an hour and got beat up for daring to wear pink, which put me in the hospital with a dislocated jaw. If I sought help I was told, “You brought this on yourself. Why can't you act more like the other boys?” In college, while no longer compelled to maintain secrecy or protect my parents from worry, I fell apart and was overwhelmed by depression. After another long period of self-imposed solitude,
I finally found the strength to slowly rebuild my life.
Thankfully, today I am surrounded by good friends and loved ones.

I was quiet, sensitive, and nonathletic from the get-go, and I cared little for typical boy things, like playing outside, running, or throwing balls at people. I much preferred to watch television, color with crayons, or play with my collection of G.I. Joe, Ken, and
Six Million Dollar Man
dolls.
It was right around second grade that I consciously trained myself never to show a dangling or limp wrist in public. And I learned early on that the best protection from mean boys was having a tough, fearless girl
like my best friend Terri around me.