The Republic of T. Archives

Via Ron, I came across an essay by Steven G. Fullwood, and had a moment of recognition. See, I grew up a skinny, effeminate, non-athletic, black, out, gay boy. In the South. During the Reagan years.

You can imagine, but it was pretty much like Steven says.

Weak was what I thought I was when I was a child. A weakling. Not strong. Skinny as all-get-out. I couldn`t prevent the occasional flying fists in my eye, my stomach, or chest. I was slapped. Punched. Beaten.

But I don`t have to tell you this, dear reader; you either watched or participated, remember? Nobody could know more and strangely enough, less–about me than you. See I was the faggot you taunted at school, the one you chased home and pummeled for fun and sport. I was the little boy who chose dolls over trucks, running instead of fighting, and dancing up a storm instead of acting tough. The prissy one, the skinny one, the punk, the homo, the one with a little sugar in his coffee. That was me. Probably still is me, to hear some tell it.

He`s got a little sugar in his tank. Stop acting like a girl. Watch that one. He`s feminine. A faggot. Punk. Sissy. Prissy. Weak.

From reading the essay, it sounds like the author and I travelled similar roads, though not entirely. I got punched, pummled, and taunted. More than I care to remember. I chose dolls over trucks. Never learned how to win a physical fight (though I could beat most of my peers in a verbal match). I danced with abandon, because I didn’t have to worry about simultaneously appearing tough. I never tried to date women. (If nothing else, at the age of 12 I knew enough not to try and fool myself or anyone else.) Still, we ended up in the same place.

So, yes, I love men, sexually and intimately. I have all my conscious life. Indeed, I also love women, but not sexually. I don’t know if that will change, and I don’t spend my nights on my knees wishing it would. I love me the way I am, finally. No small feat.

I will no longer deny my preference, nor will I place it at the center of my existence. Nor will I allow you to. But if you want to spend the rest of your life on your knees wishing I would change, that’s your business. Take it up with your God.

I’ve got a little sugar in my tank. I act like a girl. Watch me. I’m feminine. A faggot. Punk . Sissy. Prissy. Weak?

No.

Amen. It kinda reminds me of a line from song I used to hear in church when I was growing up: “My soul looks back and wonders how I got over.”

How I got over, indeed.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 10th, 2005 at 11:12 pm and is filed under Gay Rights, Race. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.