I Was A Teenage Sissy...and I Still Am

Sissy in red. Photo by Colin Robinson, 2003.

Editor's note: It's been three years since I first published this essay at Africana.com in 2001. I was rummaging through old files and found it and thought, wow. I want to read this again. How do I feel about this piece now? Does it still hurt?

I culled "Sissy" from a larger, unwieldy essay called "Weak," which may never see the light of day because it hurts too much to read it. "Sissy" is "Weak-lite." My editor at Africana.com asked me if I had anything personal I would like to publish in concert with a piece Aida Croal wrote called "Black and Gay in Y2K." Back then I was only reviewing music. I had just thrown up "Weak" and edited a more readable, considerably shorter version of it for Blackplanet.com a month before.

It meant a lot to me to "come out" in Africana.com because although I had been publicly out since 1995 (hometown newspaper) 99.9% of my work had been published in black LGBT/SGL publications. "Sissy" provoked people and several (about 300) emailed me and told me why. "This is my story." "My son is gay and I don't know how to help him." "You'll burn in hell, sinner." Overall most people were supportive. I was overwhelmed. I think the "sissy" finally won.

How do I feel about this piece now? It feels like I'm on my own side. Does it still hurt? No, but it tingles when I think about it.

I Was a Teenage Sissy... and I Still Am

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.

But now my soul looks back and sighs, mostly from relief. What a lesson that was. What a lesson it still is. I thought I could change and be whatever they (meaning you) wanted me to be. I tried to date girls. Tried to smoke marijuana. Tried to drink beer and liquor and take drugs. Nothing took. More isolated than ever, I even tried to take my own life. But that didn`t work either. And I did not and could not know then was that I would never fit in; at least not in the way I thought I should.

Eventually I mustered enough courage to really look at myself. That look took years. It was the single most difficult thing for me to do. I incubated. I wrote, primarily to bring my life into focus. The only questions I had were "Am I what they say? And if not, Who am I?"

Faggot. At 20 begin having sex with known faggot. Faggot blow my cover. Faggot blows me, then my cover. Okay I am. Am what? I'm gay. I'm straight. I'm bisexual. I'm...I don't know. Weak. Cannot make a decision. Roll with being gay. Homosexual. Can't be either. I like men, I crave them. I need them. I am not one, so need to replace me with one.

But you can never really replace yourself. Nor can you hide from yourself. (At least, I can’t.) And although I didn’t (and don’t) necessarily want to broadcast my preference from the every mountaintop, I knew I wanted and deserved some peace within myself. And the only way I could envision this peace was by being an honest man. So I decided to come out of the closet.

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.

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Thursday, February 10, 2005 @ 09:02 AM