I'm From Driftwood

by April Christy

I was born a male but decidedly so, I was born a female mentally. It has been a terrible dichotomy for me to live. I am 6’8″ tall and weigh 300 pounds. It is a trial both mentally and physically to try to emulate a female in today’s society. I still live behind closed doors and love to indulge in my fantasies of living as a woman in pretty things that I adore, exorbitant dresses and pretty high heels. I can’t imagine being a 7-foot-tall woman in heels; that wouldn’t pass anywhere but a drag fest! As a male, I cause a ruckus in any room I enter, never mind as a woman.

A few years back I became very agitated about being so closeted and had a conversation with my ever-loving wife who had totally accepted me for nearly thirty years. I wanted to come out to my family, which at that point in life numbered just a small handful, no parents. I decided that life is too short to live that way and was going to tell them at the holidays. Perhaps it would cause even more of a schism in our lives, or perhaps not. I dressed for the event. It was the quickest way to get this “femaleness” out there and it also gave a “no road out” answer to me punking out during my self-exposure. I kept it simple. I have some natural boobs so no padding was needed, and I wore a lurex threaded holiday sweater and longer black skirt with tights, very light make up, and slippers. I enjoy the clothing much more than trying to make up this rather male face to look female.

They all entered and the general consensus was, why are you dressed like that, and I just told them straight up that this is how I like to dress and this is who I really am. No one there said they hated me for it or left or disowned me. I was happily shocked and smiled the rest of the long weekend as I gave them a fashion show with everything I owned that was clean and worthy of being “out,” however small the crowd was. I was critiqued with some clothing I showed off. “That’s too short,” my 20-year-old nephew stated as I was showing a bit too much underwear under a very short skirt. It always stuck with me that I became the “weird uncle,” and that they all were trying to help me pass! My sister works in the fashion industry and she shared stocking advice and a very beautiful nightgown that Christmas; it was finally like being her sister!

After it was over and my wife and I had time to reflect on the holiday, I was so happy that my trepidations were unfounded, and short of telling the rest of the real world about myself, I was accepted in some way and that left me with a very great feeling. Partly because I know what many others have had to deal with in their lives. So now years later it is no big deal with them, and I do not throw it up in their faces either, I just know in my mind that I can be myself with them and I can express how I truly feel. If I see a woman in a great skirt, I don’t just ogle her for being a hot chick but jealous of how she looks in that skirt. If I make that comment while with my brother he doesn’t give it a second thought, but also doesn’t share my feelings about the skirt, he may ogle her for her being a sex object like most men would.

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Miles Silvas, “I’m From Mathis, TX”

A new friend inspires Miles to leave his small town for the big city, and live life to the fullest. (Video transcription available here)

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Sandy Davis, “I’m From Oswego, NY”

An older lesbian remembers LGBT life in the 1970s.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

by Anthony Sfrisi

We met on a Monday night. The city had shut down due to the blizzard and we found ourselves at the same party. For me, this was an unexpected stop as I had been out at the bars for hours and only stopped in to say hi to a few friends. For him, this was his only destination since he followed the beach party theme and dressed accordingly. As soon as I walked in, I saw him in the middle of the room dancing like a fool in a speedo.

My friend gave me a huge hug and drunkenly whispered, “He’s bi and single. You should totally hit on him.” By now, my inhibitions were lowered and I found myself talking to him without the usual awkwardness that I had around cute boys. We hit it off instantly when we realized we had a lot of mutual interests and knew a spark was there with a kiss in the back hallway.

As we walked through the snow back to his house that night, we stopped numerous times to admire the cityscape of Pittsburgh covered in snow and kiss as the snow began to fall again. After the long trek to his house, he pulled me into his room and told me that he noticed me as soon as I walked through the door and was the type of guy that he normally goes for.

We laid in his bed the next morning for hours and talked about our lives. I opened up to him and told him things that it took me years to tell my closest friends and he told me some of his secrets. As we parted that afternoon, he kissed me goodbye and got my number. Not even ten minutes went by when my phone beeped and he texted me and told me he was sorry that we had to part so quickly and that we should get together soon.

The next few months went by in a blur with numerous ups and downs. Whenever I was with him I felt like we were only two people in the world and that nothing could tear us down. But our insecurities began to get the best of us. It finally reached its ending point when he told me that he really liked me and cared about me but he couldn’t be what he knew I wanted him to be. With that, we decided to be friends.

I guess I should have known how it would end when he told me in the beginning that he wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. But I thought that maybe I could change him and make him believe in relationships. I still think about him everyday and wondering if there will ever be a scenario that would put us in the same city, at the same time again when we’re both ready for something more. I know it sounds a little foolish but a boy can dream, can’t he?

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Charles Johnson, “I’m From Hutchinson, KS”

After being forced out of the closet by a friend at school, Charles is bullied and intimidated. But by being comfortable with who he was, he helped shape change at his school.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

by Kevin Chen

The priest wrapped up his homily. “I would be remiss not to include a word to all the mothers on Mother’s Day. Say thanks to your mothers, and hope that they will continue to guide you in your lives, because they are most probably the only ones in your whole entire life that will love you unconditionally.” Unconditional Love. My heart sank a little.

—

During my life, one virtue I hold on to very strongly is honesty: honesty in living your life the way you want to, and honesty in disclosing your true thoughts and feelings. However, there is one situation in which I’ve concluded that honesty could do nothing but hurt. I know this because I have already tried once.

—

Around 30 years ago, my mother and her eight sisters, along with her parents and her grandmother, had been living as part of the lowest social class in Vietnam. In order to make a better life for themselves, they decided to come to America, and my mother was the sole pioneer. It was a lonely voyage. She crossed the ocean on some dingy boat, where the deceased were supposedly rolled off. She lived in a dog-eat-dog world, a world where only simple ideas existed. There was only school, cooking, and family. A complex idea like homosexuality was not even defined.

So it should not have been a surprise when I arrived home one day from high school in freshman year to find her sobbing on the floor in my room, holding up scrapped “love” notes to a high school obsession, crying about how I am “not her son.” I had come out a few days ago (on April Fool’s Day… I never ended up saying it was a joke), and she had decided to rummage through my stuff that day for any hint or clue as to how I had grown the way that I did. When she and I sat down to talk calmly, human to human, mother to son, she could not understand anything I was saying. I could not offer her any type of solace either; she thought the root of the problem had to be her parenting, and that only I could choose to “fix” what I had. She talked about disowning me, about my father’s heart giving himself trouble ever since I disclosed that part of me. My sister’s parental backing for college was threatened when she supported me. She could not understand the idea that my heart can only belong to another man.

It was one of those barriers I always feared hitting: the ultimate barrier between human hearts that prevent us from fully understanding each other, a barrier that may have its uses, but in this case threatened the fabric of my whole family. I realized just how helpless the situation was. It was impossible to change what other people thought, especially people that I love, but at the same time, it was impossible for me to change how I felt. It was the ultimate catch-22. And since I was the only one who noticed this and could comprehend it, I understood that I had to be the one that conceded.

So I erased it.

—

My great grandmother had been a great comfort to my mother when they had lived together in Vietnam. After school and working for the whole day, my great grandmother would prepare boiling water for my mother to bathe in. My mother proudly claimed that she was the grandchild my great grandmother spent the most time with. When my mother had decided to leave for America, my great grandmother asked her “…What will I do now that you are gone?”

She had passed away a day before my birthday. After my mother’s successful voyage, she eventually managed to arrive to America as well. She lived a total of ninety-seven years. My father said I did not have to attend the funeral, but I volunteered to anyways, taking a make up final two days early and heading on the earliest bus homeward.

I am usually not one to cry. I did not even cry during the whole coming out ordeal. The reason I probably did not cry is that I at least had some control of the situation and how it proceeded.

The morning of the funeral, we all went to the funeral home to see her body one last time. After a bit of cantonese praying, it was time to close the coffin. My aunts had all gone up to the front, and woefully cried aloud feelings and words in their home dialect that only select few in that room could understand. My mother nearly fell backwards as she exclaimed completely unintelligible words in their dialect. As the coffin came close to a close, everyone’s tone suddenly rose, and loud stomping reverberated throughout the room.

I closed my eyes. I imagined pain that I could not relieve my loved ones of. The coffin closed, and I started to cry aloud, a sound that was similar to my own laugh. I felt helplessness, just like seven years ago, but one I had no control over, one I could not alleviate. It was an idea I could not understand; I’ve only met my great grandmother a handful of times (and most of those times the language barrier prevented any form of communication besides her holding my hands in her soft palms), and I understood how important she was to other people. But that is just it: I only knew her in terms of how other people felt about her; I had no concrete opinion of her on my own. So because I could not relate, and could do nothing to help in the matter, I cried uncontrollably.

In my mind, all I could think was “How could I help?” How could I help my mom through this death, even though I cannot fully understand what my great grandmother has done for this family? How could I help my mom through life’s challenges? How could I help my mom understand who I was, but somehow preserve the love we have for each other? I was helpless.

Afterwards, at the funeral banquet, one of my many aunts asked me if I had a girlfriend. I awkwardly and bitterly answered “冇 (I do not have one).”

Two days later, we attended the regular Sunday mass back in our hometown on Mother’s day.

—

Maybe someday I can be fully honest to her. But for now, it will have to wait until I have gotten strong and independent enough. She may never even get to know. Sometimes I feel I am a coward, but life does not always work out perfectly for some people, and I accept that. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. When you know someone cannot comprehend an idea, and will only experience pain from any mention of it, what good is it to divulge? What use is it to explain? Every additional second I stay under her care is one she would not have given if she knew just one thing about me. All I hope to do in this lifetime is to repay her back for borrowed money and borrowed time.

I glanced at my mother’s eyes, her eyes which have forgotten all the pain from seven years ago. “What?” she asked. I said, “Nothing.”

I prayed.

“God, I know I don’t believe in you anymore, but if you exist, please… protect my loved ones who so dearly believe in you.”

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Yoav Schlezinger, “I’m From Tel Aviv, Israel”

Remembering the excitement and acceptance of going to a gay bar for the first time.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

Our mission at I’m From Driftwood is to help LGBTQ people learn more about their community, straight and cisgender people learn more about their neighbors, and everyone learn more about themselves through the power of storytelling and story sharing. 

The most personal and meaningful stories are shared when the storyteller is in a trust-worthy, welcoming, judgment-free environment. At IFD, we strive to create that environment on every level, whether you’re a long-time supporter at one of our events or a first-time visitor to the site. Be yourself, be comfortable and let’s get to know each other.

We are ALWAYS accepting stories, videos, pictures, and quotes. These can include, but aren’t limited to:

• childhood stories
• coming of age & coming out
• first crush
• love, relationships & encounters
• family matters
• whatever else you feel like sharing!

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by Sassafras Lowrey

I was raised to never get away.

Manipulation and abuse are what I thought family meant. I grew up in dysfunction. The physical bruises so much easier to heal that the ones that lay embedded in memory. Still, tender after all these years. The only time I ever stood up to her was when I said I was gay. I’d never kissed a girl, but I told her I wouldn’t change.

I left to save myself.

I still remember that  final time in my wallpapered bedroom taking the one gay book I’d found at the Barnes & Noble from under my mattress. It had been my best friend for months, as I dreamed of the community I’d never seen but believed was waiting. I knew I needed to leave, but didn’t know when it would be safe enough to run. She picked the date without ever knowing. I watched the bruises blister purple and red across my face and arms. Waiting, for her to beat me enough times that I thought the police would believe me.

I didn’t tell that county sheriff that I was a lesbian.

The Polaroid camera whirred as they documented the damage. He asked me questions about her drinking, the manipulation that had kept me her prisoner. Had I stayed, I would have remained forever her toy. Had I stayed, she would have killed me. I looked like a good country girl, no one suspected I was a dyke so he released me into the world. I was free for the first time, but looking over my shoulder. Too much work to have me emancipated, too old to bother with foster care. The courts told me to ‘stay out of trouble’ until I turned eighteen. My friends parents let me crash in their basement for a few weeks.

We compared scars

I met kids on the streets, in the back of the queer youth center I walked into heart pounding afraid here too no one would want me. For the first time I was honest, didn’t paint a picture of a functional family. I told them I was alone, and waited for the laughter. I was met with rolled up memories to reveal scars that looked more like my own than I could believe.

This was family

I learned that family meant hugs shared when meeting and someone who would hold you at 2am when all you wanted was to go “home,” to a place you’d never been before. We named ourselves, claimed ourselves, and each other. We fucked in bathrooms and held hands under bridges, hungry for contact, for connection.

My mother still wants me back

I leave again everyday, when I don’t pick up my phone.  She has never given up hope that I will change. She has never given up hope that she could get me back.  My mother  visits my website everyday. I never know what she’s planning. Decapitated chocolate rabbits at Easter, rambling letters about how this community has stolen me, how she wants me to move back into her house, acting as though I haven’t been gone for more than a decade, acting as though I didn’t run desperate to save my life.

We never stop being kicked out

I’m reminded of this everyday when I see the old jagged scars peek through my conversation, and when I talk with kids, whose wound are still oozing and just beginning to scar over.  We build family and community on this bedrock, scars as proof of shared understanding.  I’m one of the lucky, against the odds I “made it.” I got away. I built a life, a family, a community far beyond what I fantasized about in that wallpapered bedroom.  I can’t forget all those who never did. The kids whose lives were lost to streets and violence and addiction, the kids I loved and built family with, and the thousands I never met.  We trace gentle fingers over the ragged edges of memory, never forgetting where we come from.

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——

NOTE: Sassafras Lowrey is an internationally award-winning storyteller, author, artist, and educator. Sassafras is the editor of the two time American Library Association honored and Lambda Literary Finalist Kicked Out anthology www.KickedOutAnthology.com which brought together the voices of current and former homeless LGBTQ youth. Hir prose has been included in numerous anthologies and ze regularly teaches LGBTQ storytelling workshops at colleges and conferences across the country. To learn more about Sassafras and hir work, visit www.PoMoFreakshow.com

Wick Thomas, “I’m From Drexel, MO”

To ensure inclusiveness within the LGBT community, Wick helps organize a protest against Kansas City Pride. (Video transcription available here)

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