I'm From Driftwood

by Thomas Wicker

It was one of those endless, sunny afternoons that disappear when you get older. I was nine years old and on the cusp, not of adolescence, but of being able to play in the ‘Big End’ at primary school. I’d always envied the older children this part of the playground. While us younger kids had to make do with the ‘Little End’, a narrow strip of concrete as dismal as its name, where it was just impossible to zoom around as Superman, they inhabited the Promised Land – a vast expanse where marbles roamed free and you could get out of breath just by running from one side to the other.

In the months before I moved up a class and was allowed into the Big End I’d begun to hover at the edge of it. Standing on the grate that divided the playground in two was an exciting experience for a pretty solemn and sensible little boy; I wasn’t breaking the rules by stepping over the line, but neither was I quite where I should have been. Behind me my classmates were half-heartedly playing hopscotch or squashing insects for fun. In front of me was everything else.

I was doing what I always did: standing on the outskirts and watching. I wasn’t concerned about the older kids saying anything to me because I knew that in their eyes I didn’t exist. In any case, on this particular day, the majority of them were at the far end playing a game of kiss chase. The girls were giggling and the boys looked flustered, as if they were learning the rules as they played. Even then, I somehow understood that the thrill wasn’t in being caught; it was in the possibility that you might be.

There was one boy in particular whose attention the girls kept trying to get. I recognised him as one of the best at sport, which made him about as different to me as was humanly possible. He looked older than the rest, with a lazy confidence that made him stand out. His shirt was un-tucked and he had taken off his tie. I was fascinated by him. And at that moment, I wanted him to chase me more than anything else in the world. Then the bell rang and the thought drifted away like dust in the air.

There have been bigger events since; landmarks such as coming out to my friends and family. But this careless moment, sandwiched between lessons and playing with my Transformers after school, looms large in my memory. Sometimes I yearn for that little boy’s obliviousness, his innocence, as much as he yearned to grow up.

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by Sam L.

As I sat on my bed gazing at the television screen watching BBC Parliament for the first time, it occurred to me that I will always remember this day, February 5, 2013, for this was the day in the United Kingdom where the gay marriage bill was either to be declined or accepted by the British parliament. I am just 19 years old and this is the first major change in gay rights I have witnessed or can remember in my entire life. As the news broke that the bill had been accepted I suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion and joy. I am not the emotional type, in fact quite the opposite but I finally felt as if gay rights were moving on instead of moving back.

I live in a tiny village in Bristol, United Kingdom. We have seven shops and a high school, it’s the type of place where everyone knows everyone’s business and everyone has to air their opinion because there is nothing better to do. High school for me never felt like a school, it felt like a prison. I was held captive from 9 to 3:30 every day, all the time just counting down the seconds. I wasn’t openly gay but being somewhat effeminate I didn’t need to be, I didn’t get to come out of the closet, I was thrown out. There wasn’t a day that went by where I wasn’t knocked down or beaten or taunted, and in the end it became part of daily life.

By the time I was able to leave my high school the confident outgoing personality I once was had completely diminished. What remained was an empty, tired and unstable mess. I had numerous breakdowns including several years suffering from Anorexia Nervosa. Even as a young child I was teased and taunted and what childhood I did have was almost destroyed by the isolation I felt.

But turning 17 changed my life; I got accepted into a prestigious performing college which changed me forever. I met all manner of people, all races, all religions, and all sexualities and suddenly I didn’t feel so isolated. I started to develop a personality, I started to find my feet and become a person. When I turned 18 I hit the gay clubs in the city and met my boyfriend who I have been with for over a year and I started to recover as a person.

So last week it finally felt as if everything was beginning to fall into place, I felt as if my life was moving in the right direction and so was my country and I felt proud. I have never made any announcement of my sexuality to my family members other than my parents, partly due to the initial reaction my parents had as they banned me from telling anyone else. So on 5th February I updated my Facebook status (something I do rarely) to say:

“Today the gay marriage bill was accepted. I cannot help but think in a decade we’ll look back and think that this was a long time coming. Love is not gender, love is not something you control, love is love. Everyone is born to love who they love, we cannot change nor must we. Today something spectacular happened and love triumphed prejudice.”

The status was liked by over 60 people, and within those 60 people were family but more importantly several people that had previously bullied me during my time at high school, and I even received an apology via Facebook message from one individual. I felt as if I were in a daze, a moment of bliss, as my parents had accepted my boyfriend the world was accepting me.

But the very next night as I was stood at a bus stop, a man under the influence of drugs who identified that I was gay after attempting to start a conversation with me proceeded to attack me. Telling me that he ends his nights “slashing people’s throats” I feared for my life as he held me up against the screens of the bus shelter. He threw me into the road in front of oncoming track, and as I got back onto the pavement he once again grabbed hold of me and told me how easy it would be for him to kill me.

With dozens of people walking by I didn’t understand why not a single person intervened, he was just one man and I needed help. Then just as I had given up hope a gentleman appeared and took hold of my attacker to set me free, he urged me to walk away but just as I did my bus appeared and on it I went, the gentleman who had effectively saved me followed me on the bus to see how I was feeling, and he softly smiled at me and said nothing.

To many this event would replay in their minds as a negative, but to me I look back and think of it as a positive. It has restored my faith in humanity, although just one man stood forward, it was still one man, one man who saved another life. Those two days are amongst the most extraordinary of my short life, I don’t think I will ever forget what happened in those 48 hours, and I hope I won’t.

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by Neil

The words of my mother stayed with me for a long time.

“I don’t want a bent son” she had said when I was twelve years old.

She wasn’t referring to me, much to my relief at the time, but to my younger brother who had done something to incur this comment. I forget what.

Well, she did have a bent son.

I think she had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that one of her sons was gay and I don’t blame her for this. She was a product of the baby boomer generation when the only visible gay people were them likes of Charles Hawtrey and Larry Grayson. They were the definition of what it was to be ‘bent’ or ‘queer’ or a ‘poof’.

I couldn’t have been further removed from that.

I was a fat kid and quite strong, there was no effeminacy about me at all.

But as she made the comment I sat on the sofa, still in my school uniform and munching on some cereal, I remember thinking, “But you have got a bent son.”

I remember growing up in the working classes of Birmingham, knowing I was very different, I was not the ‘norm’. My early teenage years were filled with crush after crush, always on the men around never a fellow pupil or friend. I attended a boys school and if anything was going on I was not privy to it. I remember I had a strong crush on my Science teacher, a big bear of a man with thick legs and a lopsided grin. I didn’t learn much science, I whiled away the lessons imagining being with him, in his arms or lying on his chest the way I had seen women in films and on TV. Sex was an abstract concept, the though of it felt good but I hadn’t yet discovered the mechanics of it.

My attraction to big guys has never wained, perhaps part of the reason that I am a big guy myself.

Looking back, the whole of my teenage years were stifling and I really did not become my own person until the day I left home. I was surrounded by warring parents that included a step father who was constantly being unfaithful to my mother and a father who was nowhere to be seen. Even though he only lived 12 or so miles away he had chosen his new life and children over myself and brother. I would take the bus to school and then later to college, always fantasising about a life that seemed to be out of reach.

When I eventually moved out and moved to London, my life started to change. I suddenly had a few boyfriends and although each one was short lived I was learning how to be with another man both sexually and on an emotional level.

There never was any great coming out moment with my mother. I was living with a guy and she came to visit and over dinner she realised what the living arrangements were. And she cried. Quietly to herself she cried. I don’t know what or for whom she was shedding tears and I have never asked her.

Maybe she was forced to question and challenge her own prejudices, prejudices that had been forced upon her. If that was the case she won. Years later when her gay son got married to another man in front of 60 or 70 family friends, her pride was as immense as her love for them both.

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by Luke Lyesmith

I’m 18, and have been for about a month. It was hardly a big change, compared with all the other stuff that my life has involved.

Right now, I’m sat in my (foster-brother’s, but he’s at uni) room, surrounded by residual chaos. My clothes and variable possessions from before are strewn about the place, some in boxes, some in the wardrobe, some on the bed.

Seven months ago, I was effectively orphaned. My mother has been dead since I was eleven –cancer. I’ve never really grieved overly much about it. I knew it was coming, and I’d grown up with my mother’s tumour. She called it Voldemort, and the little chemotherapy thing Hedwig. I’ve not even read the last two books (I know how it all ends, of course), but I knew the first four religiously.

To the matter at hand, my father had a stroke. A massive, life-fucking stroke. It was five in the morning, and I heard a thump. Must have woken me up. Called out to him, and got odd moaning in reply. So, rushed in and did the whole “Dial 999″ thing. I thought it was a heart attack at first. I got drunk as hell the next three nights, and then taken in by a friend and her family. Still with ‘em, as I can barely spend more than a couple of hours with what’s left of my father without massive draining.

Anyway, the main thing. Of all the paradigm shifts I’ve gone through –“Your father is likely to die of throat cancer. Your mother has about 4 months lefts to live (Sucks to them, she lived just under four years). Your mother is dead. You like dicks. You’re effectively orphaned, and living in care.” –the second-to-last causes me the most strife.

Not directly. Or possibly directly. Guilt is pretty much a constant for me, to the point where I guilt-trip myself. The last time I was attracted to someone, I shut down for the best part of two days trying to purge myself of it. It worked (which I was shocked by, my self-discipline is atrocious), but I retain my enduring admiration for Russell Tovey –primarily for a role model to finally latch onto. There’s fuck all decent, openly gay men in the media, and that’s a fact.

The guilt of just being attracted to someone is unbearable sometimes. Sure, I’ll lech a little at the telly and in the street now and again, but that’s the limit. I only recently agreed to kissing another guy at spin the bottle, and that was for comedy. I’ve not had a desire for any single person that I know or not, ever. Still, a hand to hold and a mouth to kiss, a neck to nuzzle and a shoulder to cry on would do me just fine.

“It’ll happen at uni” is the default response. Logically, yes, I know that. I’m planning to go to Sussex, and relying on the massive amount of extenuating circumstances to make up the 5-month gap where I got almost exactly nothing done, and fighting every step of the way to not go see a councellor –an inevitable defeat, but a battle I had to fight anyway. I hope it works out. I want this to change, to stop the guilt and chain up the acid tongue, push that part of me that when confronted with homophobia flips straight to violence, and rises above.

Whoever tells you that the teenage years are the best is a liar. You’re full of angst, and there’s nobody else who can truly understand your worldview. You may even write poetry. But stick with it, they tell you. It’ll work out. It’d better, or there will be blood.

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by Jas Strong

I didn’t mean to do it, but I did, and here I am. How did I get here?

I’ve always been gay. I’ve known it since I was five years old. Growing up in a small Welsh town was not easy on me, so as soon as I could I moved away to the nearest city. It was hard for me to do this and make it to university, so I just worked and worked and worked, got experience, and bounced around Europe a bit working for different tech companies. Eventually, one in the USA offered me a job and I thought that seemed like fun, so I took them up on their offer.

I came to the USA on a work visa with restricted terms. I’m not eligible for a green card because I don’t have a degree – except, of course, by marriage. That would have been easy, except for the fact that I fell in love with another woman. Domestic partnership doesn’t get us the right to stay together in this country, so I’m going to have to take my wonderful, intelligent, loving and brilliant partner away from everything she’s ever known if we’re to stay together. I don’t want to do that, because I like it here in San Francisco, and we’re very happy together. I’d like to settle down but it’s hard to do that when you have the Sword of Damocles hanging over your head.

When California legalized marriage for us, it was another step towards getting official recognition. We felt like, maybe, it was going to all be okay. I’m trying not to make this into a rant, but maybe that’s all I’ve got left in me after a lifetime of fighting.

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by James Waygood

I had been haunted by homosexual thoughts and indulgences for some time. But with being 16 and within easy reach of an internet enabled computer at home, they were getting hard to ignore. How the Bible was taught to me I knew that this really wasn’t something I should be making a habit of as a “good Christian”, especially someone who was leading the school’s Christian Union in fellowship, and every so often being allowed to preach to my entire school and even at church.

Coming out to my parents, making a statement that I was gay, was surprisingly rather subdued. It was just after Graham Norton’s chat show – probably not the finest of timings with his camp japery still zinging off the credit roll, but certainly the most apt. I turned off the set and said, “Mum. Dad. I’m gay.”

“We know,” said Dad. Apparently there’s something called an internet history that can be one hell of a give away if not properly cleared out. There was no drama. No brimstone. No tears. Just an oddly dull clearing of the air.

They had always wanted me to come to them about it rather than them confronting me about my online shenanigans. They had already accepted my disposition before I’d come to admit it, something which I’m still very grateful for. After a bit of a discussion about what it meant to them as my parents, I told them what it meant to me as a Christian and informed them of my resolve to reconcile my urges with my faith. I had their full support. Coming out to friends was similar. Despite a few initial awkward shocks, particularly from my best friend, everyone had either already sussed it out or simply didn’t care.

But then things took a downer. I started to hate myself for not being able to control my urges. I was unceremoniously thrown out of the Christian Union for being honest about my sexuality and the conflict I openly acknowledged it caused with my faith. Christian “friends” started to blank me because I apparently wasn’t making enough effort or “progress” in becoming the good straight Christian God demanded me to be. I was denounced by a member of my own church as a heretic. At one point I even got exorcised of my “gay demons”, something which despite wanting to be straight gravely insulted and upset me. Because of this I had become emotionally fragile, volatile, and incredibly depressed.

But at some point I was fortunate to realise that there was no cure or answer. I had done nothing to bring about my sexuality. I had not asked for it, yet it was there. But why was I looking for a solution in the one thing–religion–that was only making things worse? I had been sat crying alone and skipping class in a solitary stairwell in high school when I had this revelation. Then everything changed.

That moment was my real coming out. Whilst many find affirmation in a statement, I had to go beyond that. I had made the statement and was accepted by those that meant the most to me –my family, and my real friends. But little did I know that I had to accept myself, be honest about myself, and know that I wasn’t evil, possessed, or simply not strong enough.

These days I’m no longer a Christian. Twelve years on and I’m unfortunately having to cope with the damage to my mental health that the entire episode has caused. But I’m happier than I could ever imagine myself be if it hadn’t have been for that epiphany. My parents still love and support me. Yes, they’d rather I’d be straight and in church, but that’s by the by. And my friends are still there too, including some Christian friends who decided to accept and respect me rather than deny me. They’re all happier that I’m happier and finally who I was always meant to be.

Coming out is tricky. There’s always that expectation of a pride parade in your honour, or the fear of being chased by a lynching mob – turned out and torn up. Even if those extremes do or do not happen, saying what you are, for me at least, was just the first step in coming out. Being comfortable with who you say you are is its completion.

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by Michael

I miss one thing.

I grew up in a classic 70′s burb. No gays. All whites. Little life. Worse: nylon clothes. Worst: no deli.

At 13 I forged a heart-bond with a mate at school. We listened to Brahms and Gershwin together. Even Bartok. We went through puberty together. By 16, he was climbing through my bedroom window at three in the morning to talk about the world. Heck, we shared a girlfriend. Or two. We talked constantly about authenticity, faithfulness, character.

I wasn’t gay then and neither was he. But our friendship was deep. Confusingly deep.

As we grew up together, we faced and denied the complexities of our sexualities. But we never kissed. Our shared girlfriends were our proxies.

As we hit our 20′s I had that damascene moment and came out. It doesn’t matter whether he was gay or not. Perhaps the crisis was/is all mine. I still don’t know if I had fallen in love with him, or he with me.

But he has never spoken to me since then.

And that’s the thing I miss.

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by Jack O.

1994. The beginning of this journey, one of which no one could have determined. One of which seems all so strange to one family. One of which one wished had happened earlier.

1998. He was sitting on my bed. He looked out of the window. He saw beautiful butterflies flutter around looking all so pretty. The colour of their wings amazed me; they were just like the long satin dresses his mother would wear on formal occasions. He used to want to be a butterfly.

2002. He stood at the edge of the playground. On one half was his group of friends, encouraging his participation in a game of “Stuck in the Mud.” On the other half was the group of “cool” kids. The ones he wanted to be, the ones he wanted to talk to. He wandered over to the “cool” kids, to his friend’s bewilderment. He said “Hello, can I play?” He received a corker in the right eye. He ran into the school building and sat in the toilets, he was in tears for many hours. He made a pledge that day. He said to himself “Never will I let a person humiliate me like that. Never!” From this day on he had renewed vigour. The “cool” kids were in for a treat!

2006. He had moved. These “cool” kids were no longer an issue. He hadn’t had the courage to face them. He started a new school. Everyone called it “Big School.” He was determined to prove to everyone he was a “Big Boy,” he could take what they gave him. He was going to prove to them he was not the droopy dandelion at the back of the flower patch. Day 1: “FAGGOT”! He never returned.

2007. He had moved again, but this time due to family separations. He was adamant to prove to the new people he was brave, he was ambitious; he was comfortable as he was. He was warmly welcomed on his 1st day. He made some friends. The one thing he did do however was lie. He didn’t tell these new friends the truth from day one. It got him liked though. He wanted to be liked more than anything. He hid. And hid. And hid.

2009. He couldn’t hide any more. He had to tell someone. After several hours of tears, shaky handwriting and soaked paper, he had completed the masterpiece that was going to make or break him. He carefully positioned it into the envelope, and he placed it gently against the vase on the table. He walked into the bathroom, ran the water steamy hot, lowered himself into it, and let his depressive nature take its course. He thought he’d freed himself, and that was the end of that. But in those few minutes it took for him to lower his head beneath that water, and the time it took the envelope to be opened, something remarkable happened. He doesn’t know what, he doesn’t know how, but he knows it did. And if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t be with us today. Hold on, the thing is, he isn’t with us today. He doesn’t remain that person. He doesn’t live that life. He proved those people wrong. He broke the family trend. He did what he had to do. And as for now…

2010. Aged 16. Life has never been better. He is the “cool” person, with all the friends. But he is the cool person for a whole array of different reasons. He was never the bully; he was never the hard-nut. He was only ever the secret, the denial, the honesty. It was the honesty that made him the “cool” one. He sits on cloud 9, with a silver lining, and looks out upon the world, upon his life, and he thinks “Never will this change, Never will it go back to the way it was, Never will this life become a bad one!”

2011. Him. Who was he? He was me. I am Jack. Aged 17 I live life, happy, free and honest. I live life with a new vigour that outweighed the old life, the depressive life, the secret life.

I now sit upon my bed, and I see that same butterfly I saw 13 years ago. And I think: “Life is like a butterfly. We begin small; we gain an identity we think is us. We grow up, we go into that cocoon, and we mature. We come out as a beautiful butterfly. Our colours shine brighter than any garden moth. We stand out from the crowd with our beauty. We think, I shall fly on, and I will leave that small cocoon behind.”

Life is never, and will never be, simple. There are always these ups and downs. There will always be upsets. But it is your true identity that gets you far. You have to be yourself. And that’s the whole truth of it. You cannot hide in denial, even if the consequences are much less. I know! But now, I am that butterfly, and my rainbow colours shine brighter than any boring garden moth. I fly above them all, and I think to myself. Nothing can bring me down, unless there is some gorgeous butterfly catcher, his net can bring me down.

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by Rose

I think I’ve known I’m gay for years, but I’m still struggling to accept myself and am very much still in the closet. The more I discover myself, the more my relationship with my mum breaks down. She is homophobic, and because of this I find her difficult to be around. A couple of weeks ago she suddenly said that we needed to meet up and have a discussion about something, but wouldn’t tell me what it was.  I thought she must know, and although I was very scared I thought it must be good if she wants to talk, and our strained relationship became easier over the days leading up to our meeting.

The day finally came and I was so nervous. But when the topic came up, my mum got very upset and asked me if my straight flatmate was gay. She was convinced that my friend was trying to “influence me” into a gay relationship, and she thought I was too “innocent” to understand and wanted to protect me. Fighting back tears, I pretended to laugh about it, and it took a lot of convincing to persuade her that my flatmate is straight and I was “safe.”

I feel so alone, and I’m terrified of losing the rest of my family to the prejudice and ignorance of my mum. Despite this struggle, I am lucky to have a supportive family of friends, and they are the only people that make this easier and help me work towards accepting who I am.