Born This Way (2 page)

One Halloween, our mother dressed up my brother Dennis (
left
, age 3) and me (
right
) as Carmen Miranda, a Hollywood star noted for her signature fruited turban. Most boys this young dressed as cowboys and pirates, and I can't imagine that we asked to dress this way. But apparently we cooperated—lipstick and rouge to boot!—and
we look happy.

I went through grammar school without a girlfriend, but in high school I did the requisite amount of dating.
On dates, I'd often find the waiter more attractive than the girl I was with.
By my early twenties, I was going to gay bars in Chicago. My brother came out to me, and it wasn't long after that our parents learned they had two gay sons.

My brother Dennis had a wonderful life. But he was gone too soon, cut down by AIDS in 1993. At his memorial service, I made reference to this picture, wondering aloud about my mother: “What was she thinking?” The audience, my mother and father included, couldn't help but laugh.

I don't think my mother knew in 1948 what the future held for her sons, nor do I think our Carmen Miranda costumes made us gay. But it was still a momentous beginning, don't you think?

I had a normal and happy life growing up, with a strong family and many friends. I was good in school and enjoyed playing sports. I went to a big public high school, and luckily I was never picked on or bullied.

I remember, when I was about eleven, some boys were passing around playing cards with naked women on them, and I just had no reaction to them at all.
At first I thought I was asexual,
but I soon realized I just had an opposite attraction, to boys.

I remember very clearly that at age thirteen, during some horseplay with my male friends, it finally dawned on me that I was gay.
I was terrified and frightened and discouraged, and I figured I would deal with it simply by never telling anybody.
Thinking back, I knew I had those feelings as young as age five, but I didn't realize it at the time.

Because I was closeted until 1987, I had difficulty leading a so-called normal life. I was in hiding. Since coming out, I've found everything I need to live a happy life. Come out as soon as you can.
I can't think of any people I've known who've said their life got worse after coming out.
The consequences are almost always better than people think they'll be, and the negatives are much less. If you can't fully come out, find other gay and lesbian people and socialize with them, and find other people you can trust with your truth. Being who you are and being happy with yourself—those are the most important things in life.

I have always been an avid record collector. In kindergarten, my teacher told my father that
I liked to play with the girls and their dolls.
My dad did not like that at all. So he taught me the “boy stuff,” like throwing a football. In junior high, the other boys did not want me on their teams, and I was called a sissy by most of them. My eighth-grade teacher even said to me, “Robert, are you a faggot?” The boys in my class called me “Rob-Butt” and
I was bullied and ridiculed by the older, larger boys.
So I kept to myself. Things got a little better in high school. By then, most of the bullies had failed their classes, but I graduated at seventeen. I came out to my parents when I was nineteen, and since then I have been out and proud, even while serving in the Marine Corps Reserve program.
Life improves once we are open and honest about being gay.

I'm here on the right with my BFF, Cheryl. We're snuggled up together, and we used to hug and kiss every time we met. At our age in that era, people thought it was cute, but I really loved her.
I asked my folks if we could adopt her, even though she had her own parents.
In the 1950s, no one used the word
gay
yet, and I had no idea what a homosexual was. But I knew my love for Cheryl felt wonderful.

We didn't have the word
gay
when I was a child, only the word
sissy
. Thanks to my older sister's 1950s movie magazines,
I was obsessed with Hollywood glamour
.
In this photo, I'm emulating Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, or Mamie Van Doren—perhaps all three! Growing up “special” in a tiny, rural Texas town wasn't easy, but I survived. Through the years,
I cringed whenever I came across this photo.
But now, some fifty years after it was taken, I find it charming. Self-acceptance at last!