Am I Gay?

In the seventh grade I hit my growth spurt about a year before my peers. I had an advantage over them in terms of about 11 months. When I was 4 years old my mother had decided to keep me in preschool an extra year since I was a September kid. What must have seemed like an insignificant issue at the time turned into one with profound and long-term consequences most if not all of which were on the plus side. I was a very average athlete, but in the elementary and secondary years, one year makes all the difference.

So at age 12, I was the tallest kid in my class. Whereas in 6th grade I had not made any of the sports teams at my school, in 7th grade I became a starter in soccer, basketball and baseball. With each passing season my confidence soared. Unfortunately so did my ego, but time would abate that. I would proudly wear my yellow and maroon striped soccer jersey everyday before a game. In pickup games of tackle football, I felt like the next Walter Payton. I was faster and stronger than my still developing and much younger friends. I was as tall as I'd ever get in 7th grade at 5'8", but for a year I felt like a rock star. I never would have had that feeling had I not been a year older. Had I not made the team in the 7th grade, which would have been the case since I would have been a year younger, I would simply have given up this hope and pursued other less popular pursuits.

Much like my father, sex would begin to occupy all of my thoughts at age 12, but in my case it was in reference to girls. I never gave much thought to the possibility of being gay. By this age, I had abandoned the innocence of thinking Dad just lived with his best friend. I had no aversion to homosexuality, but I just assumed I would never be gay. Until that is one day when Dad asked me to take a walk with him. We were in one of those pigeon parks in Manhattan and sitting on a park bench. Dad had his favorite coat on - a purple and beige jacket that ended at belt line and had collars he could use to warm his neck. I was paying more attention to the pigeons that seemed so brave in New York City to come right up to you. That was evolution in the making. These birds had simply lost their fear of humans due to proximity and an abundant food sharing program with the citizens of New York.

By seventh grade I was using any excuse I could find not to come into the city. This was partly because I felt I would somehow be left out of some phone call at home from one of the popular girls, or a party when the parents were out of town. Another reason though was that I was still deathly afraid that someone would see me with my Dad and Bert. That fear was growing more and more acute.

I genuinely looked forward to conversations with my Dad. Talking with him was like reading a conspiracy novel where all of your beliefs are turned upside down through superior logic. This epiphany leads to a new outlook on life itself. Dad did that for me on more than one occasion. I thoroughly respected him, looked up to him as someone who seemed to have an innate ability to answer any question without having to resort to blind faith or idiotic cliches. He could talk about anything - the Steelers, the Battle of Troy, you name it. I would never tire of these discussions with him, even to this day, and there was no replacing him.

Dad started by noting that I did not enjoy the trips into see him. He reminded me that there was a time when I really did enjoy them. He was right, that was before I dreamed of being mainstream and "normal." I never liked to answer these types of questions. Part of being a Libra I guess is being non confrontational. The next part of the conversation, though, went somewhere I did not expect. I guess that was also quintessential Dad. He was unpredictable in many ways. He felt he might understand why I was becoming more and more distant and despondent. After a moment of silence where I did not respond, he attempted to console my fears that he thought were leading to my abhorrence of these weekends in New York. In so doing he said what I would not forgot for years to come. Dad said I had nothing to worry about, I was not gay. He could tell by my mannerisms that I had no homosexual tendencies, and homosexuality was not a genetic condition that was passed down for generations to come.

Now any normal pre-teen boy would have taken console with this, at least if he were not wanting to be gay which I was not. I did not see things so rationally, though. This was the first time it ever dawned upon me that I could be gay. Not that I ever had a feeling towards another male, but could that change? Perhaps I would wake up one day only to realize I had lost the desire for the female kind.

For the next few years I would have an almost obsessive fear that homosexuality was just around the corner. Despite not being too keen on girly magazines, a friend of mine pilfered some old editions of Playboy from his father and gave them to me. My mother found them one day in my desk drawer. Interestingly, she let me keep them probably relieved as well.

My fear would eventually subside, probably when I realized that my own heterosexuality and love of women was not something I could control, so how could it somehow change? That fact is images of girls began populating and multiplying in my mind well before I thought I could be gay, and they did not stop afterwards. I had no control over my own heterosexuality much like Dad had no control over his. I could not have changed it had I wanted to. No, I was a straight man, but one that still had some deep seated fears with no rational foundation.

Little League Banquet

By sixth grade I was becoming increasingly sensitive to the fact that Dad was gay. It is not that I did not enjoy being with my father. Quite to the contrary, I found him incredibly interesting. I felt that I could talk with him about taboo topics I would not consider asking anyone else. He always liked to play contrarian. He enjoyed turning conventional wisdom on its head, and this taught me to refuse to accept the party line. Even the topic of girls did not seem off limits with Dad, and this was becoming my obsession.

No, it was not Dad that fed my growing sense of societal anxiety. I was becoming increasingly paranoid at an age where assimilation is so valued for a pre-teenager that someone would realize that Bert was not just a friend or my father's brother like I so often suggested. They would know he was gay and that would be it, my life would go down in a spiral as my dream of sitting at the 'popular table' died a quick death. So whenever Dad came to see me in New Jersey, I breathed a sigh of relief when he got out of the car alone.

My social anxiety was magnified one night at our annual Little League Banquet. This was the occasion when all the teams in our town were treated to a dinner of an overcooked, tough steak and mashed potatoes. Perhaps 400 people filled the banquet hall with each team sitting at their own table, about 12 seats surrounding a white cloth covered oval table. Trophies were handed out to the teams that had won their divisions. My team, the Kiwanas, has won the championship for the Minor League that year. I felt that I was certainly on my way to the Show being that I had the third best batting average on the team that year.

Parents did not sit with their children at this event. Instead, the Little Leaguers sat as a team at their own table while the parents sat amongst themselves. I have to imagine that the parents' tables were a cesspool of bravado and idoltry based on their children's accomplishments and future in the Baseball Hall of Fame. The only person to have ever made it to the Big Leagues from my town played two years for the Minnesota Twins and was last reported as holding down a second shift job as assistant manager in a box store. This did not discourage the parents, though, I am sure. Their kids were different, and like most Americans, having a Major Leaguer in the family seemed like a good plan for retirement.

My father always insisted on taking me to these events despite having to come out to New Jersey from the city. Mom graciously allowed him to take me alone. She understood how important this was to him, and intruding would have ruined any hope he had of having the individual relationship with his sons. My father, though, was never good at group socialization. He could engage with people one on one just fine, in fact most people thought he was remarkably interesting and witty, but put him at a table with a bunch of straight parents who talk insistently about suburbian topics and he would quickly slip into silence. When his inability to interact with the company hit a critical mass and became too uncomfortable to let be, he'd seek the comfort of the bottle. This at least released him from his inhibitions and allowed him to walk away from the embarrasment of being the odd, silent man at the table with no wife.

Half way into the ceremonies, Dad came up behind me at my table and whispered that he was making a compliant with the Little League banquet moderator that my name was not mentioned when they announced my team. I felt a sense of impending dread, but Dad quickly walked away so like so many times before I told myself that nothing bad was about to happen. Shortly thereafter, Dad went to the bar.

He must have been denied a drink at some point, because the next thing I remember was being told by my coach that Dad had been thrown out of the banquet. It so happened that Dad took a swing at the bartender, probably missing by a long shot seeing that he was not so much of a fighter and too inebriated to connect. My coach took me home that evening, he himself a much worse alcoholic than my father ever was. The coach I so admired would beat his kids and then his wife on a frequent basis. His son was my best friend for years, but he and his brothers slipped into truancy in later years. My best friend would rob my house in high school, his brothers would get in a knife fight with one ending in the hospital with a stab wound. My coach would later have to resign his position as head coach for showing up at practice smashed drunk and hitting a line drive into the nose of our best pitcher. Nevertheless, on this night I was comforted to get out of this place without questions being asked.

The next day at school I was terrified of course that people would scorn me for the Little League Banquet incident. Ironically, only one kid asked if it was my Dad that punched out the bartender. I had my remarks well prepared, and after rebuffing him he quietly said "I was only wondering." Looking back, the poor kid may have just had a similar experience with his Dad and only wanted to relate with me. Nobody else said a word about it. Perhaps kids have more sympathy than we give them credit for.

This event would stick with me for quite some time, probably increasing my sense of apprehension at having Dad come to my school and sporting events. Still, I don't ever recall wanting to disown Dad or not wanting to see him again. Quite to the contrary, I don't remember this event hurting our relationship.

It has taken me a quarter of a century to write down this event and attempt to understand why it happened. I think I understand now. Being at public events like this, where he was immersed in uncomfortable social situations, this only accentuated his feeling of isolation. Humans instinctively learn to cope with such feelings, and his way was with the bottle. How can I be sure of this? I can reasonably be sure because I too suffer from this. Being at events like this, Christmas parties for example, bring out in me the same feeling of dread my father must have had. Only difference is that I can drag my wife along, whereas my father could not have brought Bert because, unfortunately, society did not allow it. So societal constraints caused an otherwise happy occasion to turn sour. Now there is a connection.

5th Grade

Flash forward a few years. By the time I was in fifth grade, I started to drift from Dad, and the weekend New York City visits became monthly. I was becoming a man, but much too early really. I had become quite a decent Little League baseball player. I also met my first girlfriend that year, another fifth grader herself named Amy. We went on one date to 'Something Different,' a small pizza shop across from my school, with another 'couple' on a double date. The pizza must not have been good because I did not talk with her again for 4 months when she then announced we were broken up.

As a young boy, I was about as much of a rube as they come. For my birthday weekend in 1982, I came into the city right at the time that Simon & Garfunkel were having their famous Concert in Central Park. This was the last time the band would play together, and in so doing New York City was planning for one of the most famous concerts in its history. Even my brothers knew about Simon & Garfunkel and certainly every New Yorker did. My father had a tradition of us children getting to pick where we wanted to go for our birthdays. Normally we picked a place to eat, and that was my choice. Dad asked me if I'd rather go to the concert secretly pleading with the Gods that I would choose what really was a better option, but I said my choice was Ravioli instead.

So we went that night to a random restaurant in New York City where I had a plate of ravioli that were probably frozen before I arrived. Dad never complained once, although my brothers certainly did. Every time I hear the 'Sounds of Silence' I think back to this birthday.

My father was very interested in how I was doing in school. By this time, I was showing promise. Math came very easy to me as did writing. I started to notice that he saw an opportunity in me to do what he had never achieved. I wanted to play in the Major Leagues for enough time to be elected to the Hall of Fame and then run for President of the United States. It seemed like a reasonable enough goal, and Dad flattered me by not laughing hysterically. Still, I started to see something different in Dad. He always had a drink in his hand, and he had become very cynical and, although I did not know it at the time, depressed. Dad had long suffered from alcoholism, but he would have fits of stopping and starting. The same with his weight. He would go on 'crash diets' and start running in Central Park. He'd drop 15 pounds, look great for a few months, then put it back on.

I also started to realize that Dad was different than the other kids' dads. I am quite certain now that none of my friends ever suspected he might be 'gay.' In fact, they probably did not even know what that meant. Still, Bert was always with him and this made me nervous. When he would come to New Jersey to see me for a Little League game or a school event, I would want to get in the car with him and Bert as soon as possible and escape into New York City where I was fairly certain nobody would see me. If I could change anything, I would have gone back to the fifth grade and asked Bert and my Dad to come see each one of my baseball games, to come to my birthday parties, to come to our house during Christmas. In fact, it sure would have been nice just to have invited Bert. That would have made Dad feel like his family accepted him, but to be simply put, I did not have the emotional capacity to put aside my fears of persecution for being different. So for the next several years, I would stay a safe distance away from Bert and Dad until we were hidden under the veil of a car roof and racing into the city.

Dad began to drink more and more. Ironically, he had expanded his circle of friends considerably. Bob and Fred were also now accompanied by Gene and Oscar. They had three boys, one of which was younger than me and unfortunately extremely obese. The others were older, more like my bothers' ages. Later Gene would spend some time in prison for white collar crimes. Oscar would die of AIDS, as would many of the friends Dad made in these days.

The Gay Father's Group, while providing emotional comfort to Dad, in all likelihood also re-enforced his alcoholism. Adult friends are unfortunately really just acquaintances. They like to be with you if it entertains them, but more often then not they do not want to address anything that may cause an uncomfortable situation - like a 'friend' drinking his future away.

Despite his drinking, though, Dad was able to maintain his career at AT&T. This is also an indication of how monopolies worked. He was spending himself into debt, though. Despite a very good salary, most of his money went to an overly expensive apartment, Persian rugs, and frequent trips to Barneys.

I had a friend in New Jersey that had an alcoholic stepmother. She was not the quiet drinking type, more like Hansel and Gretel's stepmother. Whereas I ignored my father's problem or chose not to recognize it, my friend found a way to convince his mother to enter a rehabilitation center. She is now a retired real estate agent in New Jersey and is still married and living in a very well to do neighborhood. The old cliché is indeed true. A man must take action when change is still possible.

Visiting Ma Bell

One winter, perhaps in 1979, Dad brought me into see his work at AT&T. He worked in a very posh office building next to the World Trade Center. When you entered the building, you immediately noticed the incredibly high first floor ceiling and the marble walls making this seem like a medieval castle. There were a number of elevators which quickly zapped you up into what seemed like a completely new building.

His office was equally as impressive. On the 32nd floor, when you entered the office there were two 4x6' windows overlooking the East river. He had a solid mahogany desk and enough room to comfortably sit 2-3 other people. He also had a golden paperweight that looked like the Sphinx. Years later I would find out that this was an item he 'expensed' to the company.

Now Dad was not a high rolling executive at AT&T. In fact, he brought me to see his boss' office which had a full lobby in front of it with a couch and enough room to practice one's golf short game. This was simply how the monopolistic companies treated their people. Today all of this has almost certainly been replaced with 4x6' cubical farms. The people I saw that day are also long gone from AT&T, replaced with employees that have no job security and certainly no pensions.

Dad introduced me to his secretary who showed me the Wang computer she used to transcribe memos my father orated. She seemed like a sweet lady from Newark, NJ. His office made a positive impression on me. Little did I know that this place seemed like a prison to Dad. We went home very early that day, and he said very little about what he actually did there. Much like most monopolies and state run agencies, there may have been comfort but little energy inside those walls.

Still, I registered this experience and decided that one day, I too would work for a company like AT&T. How little did I know that indeed I would, and that I'd have a similar love hate relationship with it.

Law School

From Dad:

In about my third trimester of Law School, I decided that it was about time to get serious about my life. I had done well in School. I had "Booked" Criminal Law I, and another was on the way, Constitutional Law I . "Booked" meant getting the top grade in the course. The term originated from the fact that American Jurisprudence gave a copy of the relevant section of its law encyclopedia in the form of a special edition of that section to the holder of the top grade. I was also already Research Editor of the Law Review. In short, I was on my way.

I decided that that as an aspiring young lawyer-to-be with promise, I would need a wife. It follows that to get a wife, one must first have girl friends of which I was in dramatically short supply, being as I was, a Gay man! So I talked to my friend, Jack Hause, in whom I only had platonic interest. I told him that I wanted to meet a 'special' girl. He and his new wife, Sharon, came up with "the perfect match," a girl named Karen. She was a sophomore and had worked with Sharon at a jewelry store in their hometown, Pensacola, Florida. Jack and Sharon arranged a blind date for Karen and me. We were to meet at a school football Pep-Rally. We met, and I liked her from the start. She was pert and pretty. She was shorter than me, about 5'4." I, on the other hand, had attained my final height 6' 1." She had her hair in a bouffant, Ronnette's style. Karen was dressed in a Jackie Kennedy style, even though the assassination had occurred more than two years ago. I, as usual, was dressed in my preppy best, wearing my fraternity pin prominently displayed on the chest of my meticulously laundered, hand starched and ironed, Gant 100% cotton dress shirt.

After a stimulating date, I walked her to her dorm. I snuck a kiss on her cheek before saying, 'Good night.' I asked if she would mind if I called her in the future at which she confidently responded "Of course not!" I was as happy as a Rookie Yankee who had just hit his sixth Grand Slam. I was beginning to learn that I could successfully pull off the greatest scam of them all - the Gay man dating a woman in the heterosexual fashion. Sometimes I think that this is the cause of rampant homophobia. We can so easily disappear into the heterosexual world prior to our take-over. Nothing except the "Protocols of the Elders of Zion, or "The Homosexual Agenda" could be further from the truth. In fact, to the extent that this fear exists, it betrays a strong lack of confidence in heterosexual marriage and, indeed, in heterosexuality itself. I would say this to my heterosexual brothers, "Geez! fellows, if the social barriers that you have erected with the aid of the pernicious Church can be so easily penetrated by me, a gay man in preppy attire, may be, just maybe, you should consider abandoning such inept, ineffectual and inefficient barriers.

In any event, Karen and I began to date regularly. I escorted her to football games and to campus dances. These were boring affairs, no booze, the guys invariably all stood to one side of the room with the girls all together and giggling on the other side. I would take Karen for Sunday rides in my '63 Pontiac Lemans. Our favorite spot was in an affluent section of Gainesville, the town that surrounded the Law School. In this section the main street had a wide median strip that was a tree shaded park with a meandering creek that opened into a duck pond. We spent many a happy afternoon there watching the ducks swim by majestically.

During summer break (in the trimester system this consisted of only August, not the June through August that applies under the semester system) I drove to Pensacola to meet her parents. Karen came from a broken family. Her father, a character named Garland, was an outrageous alcoholic. He deserted her mother, Elizabeth, when Karen was about 9 years old. Elizabeth and Karen moved from High Point, N.C. to Pensacola to start a new life. There Elizabeth met, and subsequently married, Wayman, who adopted Karen. Elizabeth and Wayman were nice folks with good spirit. She kept a modest house on Fisher Street and worked for Pure Oil as an executive's secretary (this was before the term secretary was considered demeaning). Wayman was a Fireman with the municipal Fire Department. I especially liked him. He had an adventuresome spirit that we all remember to this day. Big Daddy, Wayman epitomized the spirit of the World War II veteran.

Unfortunately, even though Karen was what any up and coming attorney should prize, I simply had no sexual interest in any woman. Sex was a source of enormous anxiety to me. I could, and would, 'make-out.' I found that I could make a passable show of heterosexual interest, but there was no real passion. I feared that this lack would show if I attempted real sex. This anxiety substantially delayed my proposing marriage to her. But, by the time of my second trip to Pensacola, I had been elected Editor-in-Chief of the Law Review, which guaranteed me the best offers of employment in the state, and, incidentally, made finding a wife all the more urgent. So one night in my car parked outside a disco club on Pensacola Beach, I proposed marriage, and she accepted.