There are moments in your life that stick with you, embedded in your memory: Your first kiss, the first time you saw the ocean, the birth of a child; a number of things may cling fast to our minds for various reasons.
As a gay boy growing up in the rural South I had several moments seared into my mind, many of which were not happy ones. At best they were uncomfortable; at worst they were terrifying. I would venture to guess that most, if not all, of them were inflicted upon me by people who would proudly call themselves upstanding Christians.
The earliest humiliation I can remember is from when I was very young and in elementary school. My closest friends were (and still are) girls, which apparently didn’t sit well with others. My PE teacher started calling me a girl, which made all the other boys latch onto it and call me a girl, too—not, mind you, that being a girl in my mind was any “worse” than being a boy, but it was implied that it was “less than” a boy. They already called me a sissy—this was a well-established opinion—so these words became synonymous with my name; in later years the derogatory terms became much more vicious. It troubled me greatly that I was being treated this way simply because of my nature and the gender of my chosen friends. I had much more in common with the girls around me than I did with the boys, so it was easier to relate to them. I didn’t want to wear cowboy boots. I didn’t enjoy “fishin’” or “huntin,’” although I’d done both because that’s what boys and men are supposed to do in the culture of the area in which I was raised.
One day in PE class we all had to do some kind of exercise; it seems to me that we were in the gymnasium, jumping up on the first bleacher and then back down, like step aerobics. I must have been talking to one of my girl friends, or not keeping up, or not paying attention, but for whatever reason the teacher yelled at me and called me a girl. All the boys started chiming in and doing the same. All eyes were on me—the entire class. I was a shy, timid child and suddenly found myself the center of attention, which is decidedly not what one possessing such traits desires. After this I was called a girl with regularity.
I had mentioned to my mother at some point that something was going on; I can’t remember what exactly I told her, and soon after that incident I got up one morning for school and tried to play sick. Mama knew that I wasn’t really sick and she asked me if I didn’t want to go to school because of PE class. I told her yes. She sent me anyway.
During the school day I was called out of class and told to go out to the playground. When I walked out the door I saw my mother standing there with my PE teacher in the middle of the place where I spent recess every day. The teacher looked at me and said, “Jeff, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that me calling you a girl was bothering you. I won’t do it any more.” Really? An adult man didn’t realize that belittling a young boy in front of the entire class would bother that child?!? It did more than bother me, as it has stuck with me my entire life.
I’m not sure how long we were all standing outside together, but it doesn’t seem like it was a very long time. I don’t know how long my mother had been there talking to him before I was summoned. She doesn’t like confrontation at all, but she came to the aid of her little gay boy. I was mortified that this was happening, but at the same time so relieved and proud of my mother for handling this situation and protecting me. It was a big moment for me. Thanks, Mama. I love you.