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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Sandy Davis, “I’m From Oswego, NY”

An older lesbian remembers LGBT life in the 1970s.

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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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Gina Bonica, “I’m From Levittown, NY

From telling her family she’s engaged, to caring for a friend dying from breast cancer, Gina explains how being a lesbian affects every aspect of her life.

In partnership with the American Cancer Society’s Relay For Life of the LGBT Community, IFD shared stories of LGBT cancer survivors and friends. The LGBT community is affected disproportionately by lung cancer, prostate cancer, and cervical cancer. By sharing these stories, we hope to raise awareness of cancer in the LGBT community. To learn more, visit http://www.relayforlife.org/LGBT.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

by Mari S.

When you’re a kid no says when I grow up I want to be a mom, especially a single lesbian mother of two. You see in my household homosexuality was not uncommon. I had 2 gay uncles, and another who was bisexual, my mother’s best friend was a MTF transsexual. It only became an issue when I tried to come out and being an only child made it a bit harder. To make a long story short and not go through the history of my adolescence and half of my adult years; to make my mother happy I ended up living a double life. Two daughters later I decided that I could no longer live this lie and although I came out to everyone else in my family I finally came out to my mother and mentally sent myself free.

I thought then that telling my mother about my sexuality would be the hardest thing I have ever done but that was not the case. Being a mother of two made dating a complete headache and emotional roller-coaster. You see with lesbians there are no grey areas when it comes to children. It’s either black or white, my kids were either a deterrent to some while for others an excuse to hold on to me. I’ve dated quite a few women over the years but the one that affected me the most because my kids became a big factor in our relationship/breakup, it would have to be with my ex-girlfriend from 2007-08. We were together for 8 months and there were little things that I noticed about her behavior towards my kids. She was very standoffish and tried to spend the least amount of time with them as possible and it bothered my kids especially my oldest who always asked why was my ex so boring and she never wants to do anything with us like this person did. When I would ask she would give excuses and say she was tired but it was all a bunch of bullsh**. In the time we were together she had never once mentioned to her family mainly her mother that she was seeing someone with kids, all she mentioned was that she was seeing someone. It made things difficult for us. That along with the fact that she listened to what everyone else had to say about her being with a woman with kids, and could not make an adult decision for herself. The last weekend we spent together I knew something wasn’t right and the day she left to go back to her perfect suburban life she tells me, “We need a break. I just really need time to find myself and what I really want.” Although broken-hearted I let her go. Months go by and my friends are like, “Mari, c’mon, you really didn’t believe she needed to find herself right?” More like she needed to find someone who didn’t have kids. Not too long after I found out she did when she showed up without my knowledge to my birthday party with a date. My friends were right and although it hurt I had moved on and was with someone that accepted the fact that I had children and things eventually fell into place for everyone.

My point is, my story is that my children are a blessing to me and I have had some great relationships and dating experiences but I have also had some bad ones. I never let a few bad apples ruin it for the whole tree. Quite honestly it is in those relationships that have made me more grateful to be a mother because I achieved something most never will. Plus the fact that my daughters rock and I would rather spend my weekend with them than on a date, because we all know that lesbian drama makes baby Jesus cry…

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by Dave Mittlefehldt

I’m not gay, but my younger son is. You may have read his story; he’s from Clear Lake, TX.

I was clueless of my son’s sexual orientation until he revealed it. Rafi came out to his mother and me his freshman year in college. It was an awkward moment. Not because it was unpleasant news, rather because I had not anticipated it and didn’t know what to say. I tend to be flippant, but for serious issues I want to have serious discussions. In this case, Rafi floored me. I didn’t have any comforting or supportive words to say. I honestly don’t even remember what I said at the time. Do you remember, Rafi?

Afterwards, I had lots of time to think about what Rafi said. It made me realize a couple of things.

One was that I had partially failed Rafi. As a father, my number one job is to prepare my children for life. But how could I do this for Rafi? I have had no gay experiences that I can draw upon. There is a whole part of his life that I cannot help him with. I fret about this. How can I help my son with relationship issues? Are they the same as heterosexual relationships? I simply don’t know. Neither can I help him with his interactions with society at large. I do not know how he might be treated at the corner store, by the car mechanic, a police officer. I know how he ought to be treated, but that’s not the same. I still struggle with this issue.

The second realization is the more important one. When our son came out, he mentioned that he had known since he was in seventh grade, some six years earlier. Why didn’t he tell us sooner? I presume it was because he was uncertain of our reaction. I mentioned that I tend to be flippant. Did some of my flippant remarks make him feel uncomfortable as a gay man? I hope not. That would never be my intent. But I do not hear my remarks with the same ears a gay man does.

The bottom line is that I could not love Rafi more, or be more proud of him, if he was straight. I take delight in his triumphs, and I share his pain when things don’t go as planned. I don’t have a straight son and a gay son. I have two of the most wonderful human beings who call me dad.

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Raffi Miitlefehldt and Damien Butvik, “We’re From Queens, NY, & Clear Lake, TX”

Two young men share their hilarious first date story. Full of witty banter. (Closed captioning available here)

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“I’m From New York, NY”

Story and artwork by featured artist, Kisha Batista

*Be on the lookout for work by an IFD featured artist every Sunday!

Growing up, cooking and baseball were my two great loves. All my life I thought sweets were the way to winning a woman’s heart. Whenever I had a crush I’d give her candy and assume she’d know I liked her. In high school I tried out for the softball team because it was the closest thing to baseball. Even though by then I was already “out,” I was always an extremely private person.

At some point I realized I’d developed an attraction to my coach.

Ms. A had jet black hair, green eyes, and freckles that appeared ever so slightly whenever she was tanned. She had the most beautiful smile and very delicate feminine way of coaching even though she was sort of a tomboy. To top it off, she was a lesbian as well. Over time my fondness for my coach grew, and I think she took a liking to me as well. I would hear little rumors, gossip from the seniors on the team about the coach, and how at every game an aggressive-looking woman would roll up in a sporty red Corvette, who was very supportive of my coach and the game…

The girls started to tease me that she liked me too. Eventually I started to think that the rumors could possibly be facts. I couldn’t help but feel like, “Hey it’s not so far-fetched to imagine… I mean, the fact that she’s like me is the easy part, right?” And I guess when you have a crush depending on how hard you’re crushing you’d eventually do or say something to brake the ice.

Now, me being a teenager I’m thinking maybe it’s time I graduate from candy to something more substantial, especially considering she’s 13 years my senior. Not that I really expected my crush to go anywhere but a charming gesture expressing my admiration would relieve this weight on my heart, no matter how good the intensity of it felt.

I decided I’d talk to her and try and find out what some of her favorite sweets were. Alas, she loved pecan pie! Pecan pie was to be my golden ticket. Food Management was my major so it wasn’t hard to find or come up a recipe that was sure to stop her heart. A few days later, I made the pie and gave it to her; she thanked me and it felt great! I mean, better than great!

After lunch, my Food Management teacher asked to speak to me in private. I was nervous–I didn’t know what I had done or what kind of trouble I was in. We stepped out and he said, “I didn’t know you baked so great!” He complimented me from the crust down to the texture of the pie. I couldn’t believe I made a pie with so much of me and she just shared it with all the teachers at lunch. How could she share my pie that was made just for her?! But I was happy she enjoyed it and realized my new love for baking sweets.

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Barb Genton, “I’m From Syracuse, NY”

A breast cancer diagnosis leads Barb to be open and honest about who she really is.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

“I’m From Irvington, NY”

Story by Hugh Ryan; artwork by featured artist, Brian Ness

*Be on the lookout for work by an IFD featured artist every Sunday!

At this distance, it’s hard to know whether the comment on my mid-year report card – “Hugh is the best-loved child in the second grade” – was wishful thinking on my teacher’s part, or an attempt to willfully deceive my parents. Rarely are effeminate nerdlings the best loved individuals in any social circle, but in the world of public education, it can be safely said that we were at the bottom of the heap, along with the poor kids who had patched, off-brand clothing, and the fat ones who smelled funny. Woe betide the child who was all three.

I was skinny and unathletic, with a bowl cut given to me monthly in my kitchen by my Aunt Eileen. This was the mid-80s, when Ocean Pacific had become – inexplicably – a big brand in the Northeast. I wore shirts that changed color when touched, and said things like “Surf Legend: Gateway to the Sun.” I don’t think I’d ever willingly gone to the ocean. Certainly, I wouldn’t have gotten in it. It was cold and filled with squishy things that might have touched me. All I wanted in life were a crew-cut with a rat tail, a Nintendo, and my own collection of My Little Ponies.

In our small suburban school there were fifteen students to a class, four classes to a year. By the second grade, everyone was a known entity. Like the contestants on a reality TV show, we were all branded early: spaz, hottie, the kid who eats his own boogers, nerd. I met my eventual prom date – Tanya Zheng – in kindergarten. She lived four blocks from my house. Kyle Pogue, one of my (few) second-grade frenemies, lived far away – about a five minute walk. His mother was the town librarian; his father the 8th grade social studies teacher. I was too young to name it claustrophobic, but the world felt constrained to an incredibly limited number of possibilities, which was both lulling and deadening. I dreamt of far-away places like boarding school and New York City and Narnia. Each seemed as impossible as the next, though New York was but a short train ride away. 

Thus I was the natural market for that dorkiest of games: Dungeons & Dragons. Or as my Grandmother called it, the work of the Devil. For a child with few friends and an active imagination, it provided something to do with the long hours between school and sleep. It created a simulacrum of friends and adventure, without any of the messy reality. An asocial life. I didn’t play the game – that would have required other people – but I read the books and daydreamed. Sometimes I used tracing paper to copy the cover art, so I could color it in with those markers that smelled nothing at all like the fruits they were named after. Blue mango was my favorite, though I wouldn’t know what a mango was until college.

In the third grade something changed. I’d like to say it was me, but aside from suddenly comprehending my multiplication tables (thanks Dad), I was largely the same. Usually, fads came and went like distant airplanes: visible from where I stood, but with no direct effect on my life. Occasionally, I would come to one late and get caught in the turbulence of its wake (for example: the time an unfortunate confluence in the popularity of roller skating to music and my favorite Beach Boy’s song Kokomo led to an embarrassing moment of accidental karaoke, when the sound system cut out and my caterwauling soprano was heard throughout the school gym). For a brief period in the third grade, however, I was not just on the plane, I was the pilot. One day I woke up, marbles were out, and Dungeons & Dragons was in. By extension, so was I.

At first, it didn’t really penetrate. Yes; suddenly other boys were reading the Dungeon Master’s Guide and – occasionally – talking to me on the playground. But I lived so far off in my dreams that they were like cobwebs through which I drifted, mostly unaware. Until, that is, the day Rory Smith invited me over to his house.

Rory-motherfucking-Smith.

Rory’s house had an indoor pool and a room with wallpaper that looked like a forest. There was a rumor going around the jungle gym that his family owned a private island. He was elementary school royalty. He had sandy brown hair, but we called it blond, because this was the 80s, and blondes were in.

I still remember the sting of chlorine in my nose as we sat on the tiled poolroom floor and tried to figure out the rules by which a level 13 thief and a level 10 warrior would fight a Shambling Mound. The piles of paper and mounting frustration were indicators that this fad would be short-lived. We quickly gave up on playing the game, but I was gloriously happy nonetheless. I would remain so for approximately eighteen hours.

In the way of small children and people with autism, it never occurred to me that others might embrace something I loved with a different motivation. My heart was pure; I loved all things magical. It seemed only natural that others would realize the coolness of elves and wizards. But the popular boys came to D&D with an ulterior motive, which I would only discover upon being allowed to eat lunch with them at the back of the classroom, the day after Rory Smith deigned me a person worth inviting over.

Our class was shaped like an inverted lower-case letter d. Our desks and cubbies were all within the bulbous circle. The long skinny part jutted out to the back of the room. It held a few tables, and a counter where a profusion of small, doomed animals spent their short, tortured existences. The floors were gray linoleum and the walls were covered with ugly things in primary colors, designed to explain the letters of the alphabet and the capitals of states.

There were four of us at the table: Rory, Jimmy, Kyle and me. Three princes of the playground with their thoroughly modern names, and one simple peasant boy, whose name evoked moth-balled old English men, and who was mere seconds away from being ejected from the kingdom forever.

Even as I sat down, I could tell something was going on. Their heads were down and their shoulders were tense. They were trying so hard to act normal that they’d forgotten to talk. Rory had something on his lap, which he eventually passed to Jimmy, which he in turn passed to Kyle, who – after a moment’s hesitation, a spasmodic glance around the room, and a slight chuckle – handed it to me.

It was a paperback D&D book. Spine cracked with much usage, the pages opened naturally to an illustration of an athletic young man, bare-chested, with a knife in one hand, facing off against an equally topless half-woman, half-snake creature. I didn’t get why they were being so secretive. I stared at it, trying to understand, and the boys cracked up laughing.

“What?” I asked. Had I missed something? Was there a message written in number two pencil somewhere in the picture? Some bit of marginalia I should respond to? “Do you want to come over tonight, Check Yes or No?”

“Shhh!” They responded as one. Kyle spasmed another look around, and after deciding it was safe, leaned in and pointed.

“Boobs!” The word shot from his mouth as though he had Tourette’s Syndrome. When I seemed unfazed by this revelation, he elaborated.

“She has boobs!” he said. “She’s hot.”

I can’t remember what I responded, due to the crushing feeling of panic that overwhelmed me seconds after the words exited my mouth. Suffice it to say, it was something like “So’s he.”

This idea, or some variation upon it, had lived in my brain for as long as I could remember. Like an ember, it needed only to be exposed to air to burst in to flame. Or should I say, shame. In the split second when it crossed the threshold between thought and word, I realized this was the sort of terrible revelation that I should take to my (preferably early) grave.

Prior to this, it had merely been an unexpressed idea, something I might at any moment mention. The sky is blue. I love G. I. Joe. That boy is hot. Now it was a secret, something I would spend the next eight years trying – unsuccessfully – to hide. It was a slip of the tongue that would no doubt be forgotten the next time someone accidentally shit themselves during recess, but the stain on my reputation would linger forever. Despite my no doubt brilliant attempt at a cover-up (“I mean, she’s hot. Look over there!”), I was now officially queer.

More importantly, they – all of them, Kyle and Rory and Jimmy; the other students and my teachers and parents – were officially not queer. Amongst the many apparent ways in which I was different, my green eyes and my skinny arms; my skill at flipping Garbage Pail Kids and my inability to do much else on the playground; I now understood that this was something I did not share with my peers. The thought had never occurred to me. Though I must have known on some instinctive level, my conscious mind had never processed that liking boys meant being different. If I thought of it at all, it was like having a favorite color: I might like pink and you might like green, but that didn’t make us separate species. Except in elementary school, it did.

Dungeons and Dragons remained popular for another month or two, probably until someone managed to steal actual pornography from their father or older brother. I remained popular for the length of time it took Rory, Jimmy and Kyle to spread the story around school, or approximately an afternoon.

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