Journey of One Man

When I was a little boy, I wanted to be girl. As I have stated before, I understood girls. They made sense. They liked me. Boys, on the other hand, turn into men. Men are mean, cruel, untrustworthy, hurtful, selfish, what are the seven deadly sins? Well, men are all of them, plus three more. I was not going to be one of those!
I had tons of Hot Wheels, Legos, Mini-Micro Machines, He-Man figures, and GI Joes. I even had the GI Joe convoy tank. I chose it as my reward for quitting sucking my thumb. I also had probably over one hundred My Little Ponies, not to mention their big Day Care Center Playhouse where all the baby ponies could go. I had all the Strawberry Shortcake and Rose Petal dolls. I had Rainbow Bright (what perfect foreshadowing—I love it!) and her Rainbow Horse, Starlite. I had many Barbie Dolls. Ken is hot. Great definition. I would kill for that stomach. You will be sorely disappointed if you remove his clothing, however. I never thought that was fair. Barbie gets these huge breasts (yawn) and Ken gets what? Every cross-dressers dream pack job? Great California hair? I would tape all my doll’s legs together to form mermaid tails. This was pre-The Little Mermaid (which would later be, hands down, the most magical hour and a half of my life), so there were not pre-formed mermaid dolls available. Little gay boys have it so good right now, and they don’t even know it. I had the Barbie bust the allowed you to focus on hair and makeup. I had these beautiful little dolls that had refillable yarn hair so every little fag could style until he got carpal tunnel.
I wanted to have the longest, thickest black hair you could ever imagine. When the wind blew it would billow behind me and whip alluringly around my face. I would put a towel around my hair and toss my head in front of the mirror—Don’t hate me because I am beautiful. I would use towels as capes and dresses and jump off things or run in front of mirrors to see them flow out ever-so-gracefully behind me. On the outside, I may have been a fat little red-head boy with inch-thick glasses and shiny braces, but on the inside, I was this gorgeous mermaid with black hair that glistened blue in the sun.
Somewhere around seventh grade, I realized that I did not want to be a girl. I was thrilled to be a boy. I have no idea what changed, but it did. I wanted to be the most masculine, handsome, sexy man in the world. I had practiced being a girl for the first twelve years of my life. It was not easy to switch genders overnight. TV became my teacher. I emulated men’s talk, how they moved their hands, how they walked, and eventually, how they had muscles. I must say, it is probably one of my greatest accomplishments. It is completely natural now and I couldn’t sashay even if there was a gun to my head. In fact, most people have said I am one of the most masculine acting men they know. That is, until you uncover my mermaid obsession, manners, respectful treatment of women, and my flair for interior design. Even then, some just chalked me up as a Renaissance Man. Cause they were straight.
I was Good King Wenceslas in one of my school’s Christmas plays. I had to wear a robe (what if someone was able to see up the skirt?), stockings (good grief, they itched), a crown (too small for my big ‘ol head), and a cape (joy of joys). I got to keep the cape. Merry Christmas to me! I loved that thing. No more playing with towels. It flowed all the way down to my ankles. I was beautiful. I could even put the neck hole over my head like a head band. Instant hair. I would wear it in my toy closet (not one word, not a single word) so that no one would see me wear it. When my mom would run out to do an errand or have to run to her antique store I would get it out and flounce about the house in it. One day, I was not careful enough. I did not hear the garage door open in time. I whipped the cape off and threw it on the floor in the playroom, hoping no one would notice and I could slyly hang it back up later. My parents are nothing if not always on top of everything, I have no idea how they are so observant and intuitive. Well, mom found the cape. The two of us sat down. We talked about how the Bible talks against cross-dressing. How I am not a girl, I am a boy. Things like this ruin people’s lives. (Just read the tabloids—how many celebrities are exposed as gays and cross-dressers—never to have their own daytime talk show again!) These behaviors can tear up families. “I would rather my son be dead than gay.”
It was one of those sentences that is said without malice intent, truly. It is also one of those sentences that never leaves your brain. Nearly twenty years later, Mom would beat herself up for saying that and apologize profusely. She really never needed to. She would give her own life many times over to spare me the slightest hurt, if she could. This I have never doubted.

Your only daughter is dating a serial rapist/murderer. You have seen the police reports. You have heard witness’s testimonies. You have seen the photos of the mutilated bodies. So much blood. You have heard him brag how his is going to do the same thing to your daughter and he will send you pictures.
Your daughter doesn’t believe he really did all those things. Sure, he has been in trouble with the law, but he has changed. She feels you just don’t understand. You were raised in a different generation and need to learn how to forgive. Times change. Values change. People change. So should you. If you want to keep your daughter in you life, she has made it clear that you will have to accept her choices and trust her.
What do you do? You love your daughter and you want her in your life. Well, you have no choice do you? You have to respect your daughter’s wishes. She’s an adult, it’s her choice. You keep your mouth shut and kiss your daughter on the cheek and tell her how much you love her and respect her.
Like hell you do!!! What kind of jacked up parent are you? You badger your daughter until she listens. If that doesn’t work, badger the police until the arrest him. If that doesn’t work, kidnap your daughter and take her to another country. If that still doesn’t work, you blow the fuckers brains out! Your first and only priority is your daughter. You do whatever you have to do to save her. Anyone that tells you anything different should not be allowed to have children.
My Mom and Dad face a terror that many other parents in this country face. There child is going to Hell. Despite all the good intentions, all the prayers, all the hard work and training, despite all their love, their little boy is going to burn for all eternity in flames. They will be separated from him and never see him again. They will be in paradise and he in eternal torment. They did not choose this or cause it, even though they believe they did. Everything they have ever been told, taught, believe confirms that their little boy is damned. No matter how much therapy they have paid for, no matter how many apologies they make, no matter how many prayers or how many tears they offer, they will loose him forever. They cannot save him and he will not save himself.
Should they take me in their arms and say, “We are so happy for you—We are so proud that you are accepting your true homosexual identity—We can not wait to welcome the man you love into our family?” As long as they believe that God will punish homosexuality by damnation, then they had better not. They might as well buy a butcher knife for the daughter’s psycho husband for a wedding gift. So many parents don’t know how to save their children. Everything they try either hurts their child, pushes them away, or simply makes no difference. Yeah, those parents who are trying everything they can to save their child’s soul sure are bigoted, intolerant assholes. What would you do to save your child from Hell?
Christmas was always the best time in my family. Yeah, we got tons and tons of presents. Even more than that, for about two months, we decorated, put up lights, watched Holiday movies, ate amazing food—we were just happier during this part of every year. For those two months, we really were the Brady Bunch, but better. I was around six or seven when I saw a Christmas present nearly three times as big as I was under the tree (or beside it, how could it fit under the tree?). It was the last present I got to open, except for the ones Mom would find months later that she had forgotten about—as she does every year. I tore it open. I never have understood the whole gradually separating the bow and paper to reuse. Shred it! Make some noise! It’s Christmas! In front of me was the biggest, softest teddy bear I have ever seen. It was built like a bear rug, except it looked alive, not skinned. I was in love. I snuggled up to it all morning. I stayed by the tree and our little space heater and dozed while Mom and Dad got food around to take up to Grandma and Grandpa’s later that afternoon, as was tradition. I was so warm. I could sleep on this bear and be so safe. What could possibly get me while on this huge bear? The smoke smell woke me up. I was a little disoriented, but quickly remembered it was Christmas morning and I was on my new, wonderful bear. My bear whose left front paw was resting against the little heater. My bear who’s left front paw was on fire! I scrambled off the bear and pulled on its hind legs to get it away from danger. I ran around to his head and began to blow on his paw that was in flames. The fire went out. All that was left of my bear’s golden-brown paw was a charred black mass. Shame filled my chest. I had ruined my bear! I ran to the bathroom, turned off the light, shut the door, and hid behind the toilet. Sobbing.
My parents must have smelled the fire because they came running into the family room where my mutilated bear was. They began to call my name. They could not find me. Panic filled their voices. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mom came into the dark bathroom and peeked behind the toilet. They hugged me and cried with me. They bought me a new bear the next week. We kept both for years to come. I still have the new one in the guest room downstairs.