For years that shame was reinforced by threats of and actual violence. Before I was able to enjoy the pleasure and excitement of desire, I learned about shame. It’s taken me years to realize that something really precious was taken away from me: a curiosity about myself. Yes, I did have crushes on other boys in my class, and I didn’t want to feel ashamed for it anymore. Queerness was somehow always attached to me and after that day I decided to stop denying it. That moment was the closest I ever had to coming out. But after externalizing the label, I felt a freedom to finally let myself explore these thoughts and desires buried deep in my brain. Indeed, I actively fed my curiosities for girls, while I starved my curiosities for boys. I could easily access my emotions for them. I had a couple of girlfriends and I was attracted to them.
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My desires for men were not really accessible to me. “You’re gay?” “Yes, I’m bisexual.”īefore this moment I had never thought of myself as bisexual. A boy called me a maricón and I retorted: “So what if I am?” He looked mortified. I was in 9th grade English class when the straw finally broke the camel’s back. How could I explain to my mom that the kids at school for over a year and a half had called me gay? How could I explain to her that I wasn’t gay even though everyone thought I was? Would she still love me if I did? Even though I still had no idea I was gay - my desire for other boys pushed towards the back of my brain - I felt a deep shame for people thinking I was gay. I brushed off her inquiries and told her that he just had issues and I didn’t know why. In the hours of the waiting room, I hoped that she wouldn’t ask for details as to why I was stabbed. It also happened to be her 30th birthday, which we spent in the emergency room. I strategized ways to tell her as little as possible while also not inviting any further questions. I nervously called my mom and told her that I was feeling ok but that some guy stabbed me in the head with a pencil. She confirmed my fears and told me to go to the emergency room. The fear in his face worried me and he told me that because I was bleeding so much, I should go to the nurse. I asked my fellow tuba-player sitting next to me to look at it. I thought I could just take care of it on my own and no one would have to find out about it. It was during lunch and I only had one more class left, which was band. My first inclination was to not tell anyone because I knew it would come to light that I was being harassed for being perceived to be gay. Then one day, during one of our almost daily scuffles, Daniel - who was at least half a foot taller than me - stabbed me in the head with a pencil. Kicks and punches, nothing I couldn’t fend off. The verbal threats eventually escalated to physical violence. They teased me and even made a Myspace page about me being a faggot. It was my imagined community at a time in my life where I had none.Ī few guys in my middle school thought I was too gay to like punk.
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Punk music and its rich history, spanning decades and transporting me to different cities like London and New York, became my haven.
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Being labeled the “gay kid,” in sixth grade made me a social pariah. I started with The Ramones, which instantly became my favorite, before moving to more hardcore bands like The Unseen or Charged GBH. In seventh grade, I fell in love with punk music.
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Before I was able to be curious about my crushes on other boys, I trained my brain to stop before ever going there. I didn’t know what it meant, but the scrutiny around my mannerisms taught me that it was wrong. I was 11 when people started calling me gay. I never came out to anyone - and the idea of coming out has always been foreign to me.