I began to imagine life in college, and envisioned a more inclusive post-high school existence. I was ready to be wholly true to myself and my sexuality. Perhaps it was the support of friends, aunts, and those around me that made me not want to feel ashamed about myself anymore, even if that meant God damning me to Hell.īy the beginning of senior year, I went from “I’m gay” to whoever asked, to “Can you stop saying faggot please?” every time I heard the word. I first told my close, straight friend, then classmates, then anyone who asked, then my grandmother, and, finally, my mother. Two years after curiosity flared in the locker room, I came out. I eventually became comfortable enough to admit I like guys. Who would ask God for forgiveness every time he fantasized about another boy?
What happens to a black gay Christian who lives in a household that hates him who really believed that he was going to Hell. Imagine me, a young black gay Christian male, trying to reconcile my sexuality with school, home, and church life. It was a good thing I didn’t see my father often. Years later he warned: “If you turn out gay, I’ll fuck you up.” But by then I had already lost respect for him. My father would say, “Stop acting like a little bitch.” When I was little, I preferred the company of girls during my trips to the park, and I would sometimes play with dolls, showing little interest in sports. My father was not in the picture, although I would see him sporadically from the age of two, when he left my mother, to the year I turned 16. I was raised in a strict Christian household and lived with my grandmother and mother. How could I be condemned to Hell for loving the wrong way?
But even at 14, I knew I didn’t totally believe him. Gay people are an abomination and are going to Hell if they don’t get right with God.” These statements led to countless hours of reflection, and a terrifying fear that God might strike me down at any moment. But you also have to spread the word of God and tell them the truth. In church, the pastor would say, “I know you love your sons. It wasn’t just the school locker room where I heard homophobic remarks. At my school, the very place that I first observed queer curiosity, I was scared to come out, fearing my own physical and emotional safety. I wondered if I could share my desires with some of them, but the fear of being called a “faggot” stopped me. I would see guys touch each other’s private parts and call them “faggots.” I was alone and horribly confused. In actuality, the same boy that touched the boy in the locker room, later called him a “faggot” in the hallway.
In the corner of the locker room, and still in the closet, I felt a moment of joy: What if I wasn’t alone? What if there were other boys that felt the same way I did? Off to the side or in the background, I often overheard boys say things like “nice dick” and “you got a hairy ass.” At one point, I saw a boy playfully touch a classmate. And I can tell you I was not the only one looking. Curious, I couldn’t help but glance at some of them while they changed.
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My high school locker room completely bewildered me-a small space full of sweaty boys, constantly fighting, and pulling each other’s pants down. I was quiet and observant, and I didn’t yet know if I should, or could, act on those emotions. I was 14, just starting high school at an all-boys public school in the Bronx, when I began to feel a strong physical attraction to other boys.