Memories of Navigating High School as a Black Gay Teen
Like Noah it was always obvious that I was gay. Our stories
are remarkably similar: the bullying, the name calling, the loneliness. But
there are stories diverge.
I didn’t grow up in a small town but in The Bronx; I didn’t
have a gay uncle to show me that guys like me existed, that I wasn’t alone. I’m
Black.
Maybe being Black made it easier to embrace my gayness.
Afterall both identities carry the threat of discrimination and suspicion. I’ve
been called the N-word. In high end stores I was often regarded with suspicion
and then curiosity when I laid down my Amex Gold card.
Noah opted to change schools, “butch it up,” pray to be
straight. I never wanted to change my gayness. I knew I would never humiliate
myself by denying what was so obvious about me. To cope, I opted to shut down,
withdraw. I wrapped myself in daydreams—I was going to get married and buy a
house and adopt some kids. I ignored my bullies. Even the most dedicated bully
realizes he looks stupid and pathetic, hurling abuse at a rock.
Back in high school, they may not have said gay, but I said
it nightly, in the dark, in my heart, in my head. I said it, I owned it, I
walked in it. People have said I was courageous and in retrospect, I guess I
was. But the adult me realizes no 12-year-old should need that kind of courage.
It was hell but both Noah and I—coping in different ways—got
through it. Now decades later, I have a house and a husband, as I’d once
dreamed. We never adopted kids, but we’ve had dogs. I suppose the lesson is a
simple one: if you find yourself going through hell, keep going and never leave
any part of yourself behind.
Photo by RaphaelRenter | @raphi_rawr on Unsplash
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