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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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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Raymond Miller, “I’m From Toronto, ON, Canada”

Raymond remembers marching with his parents on the PFLAG float, surrounded by cheers and support.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

by Benjamin Golden

In the small eastern Pennsylvania town where I grew up, homophobic bullying was like the noisy freight trains that thundered daily along the tracks at the edge of town:  just part of life.  Everyone ignored the trains, I tried to ignore the bullying, and my politically conservative evangelical Christian parents seemed happy to ignore both.

My father was like the trains, sometimes loud and fast, others rumbling and plodding, always mercurial, unswervingly single-minded.  He and I were too much alike to get along and too different to understand each other, “strangers who knew each other very well,” quick tempered perfectionists with infuriatingly different ideals.  He spoke little.  I talked constantly.  He could fix anything.  I hated dirt under my fingernails.  We were both complicated and neither knew what to make of the other.  But when, after gathering courage for years, I finally came out to him in my mid-twenties, he betrayed neither surprise nor disappointment, only peaceful acceptance.

A few months later he slid into a coma during a Sunday afternoon nap.  Hospital tests that evening showed brain tumors.  He survived emergency brain surgery, gradually regained consciousness, and returned home late that week with a death sentence:  aggressive stage four brain cancer.  Another brain surgery followed four months later, then weeks of crippling chemotherapy and radiation.

The father I’d always feared and never understood became bedridden, confused, and slept around the clock.  He died shortly after 1:00AM one frigid February morning, three months before his fiftieth birthday.  Over three hundred mourners attended his funeral.  Only two were there just for him, another two just for me.  The last guy I’d dated had died suddenly a few months before, so I faced Dad’s funeral alone, mourning a paradoxical man I barely knew.

At the burial, a tent shaded the grave and cold wind whipped across the cemetery.  A family friend slowly played Ashokan Farewell on his violin.  Mom sat quietly on a folding chair near the grave, surrounded by my four younger siblings.  I leaned alone against the windward tent wall and hesitantly trusted the wind like I’d trusted dad.  The wind would have supported me if I’d let it.  Maybe dad would have, too.

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Nathaniel Phillips, “I’m From Las Vegas, NV”

A family creates a false sense of pride and security following a young man’s coming out.

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(Source: imfromdriftwood.com)

by Gustavo

19 years old, and the perfect son but there’s just one little detail: I’m bi.

When I was 14 I realized that but didn’t care too much about it. The time passed and I began to see boys just as another way to have fun and “satisfy” my needs, there was still no problem about that.

Recently I met a really nice guy, we hanged out lots of times, he liked me a lot, but I was afraid of getting involved in something serious, and also there wasn’t too much chemistry in the physical side, so I moved on and I left that guy without saying anything, just using my final exams as an excuse. I felt terrible, I think he thinks that I used him and played with him, but that isn’t true.

During that time I went through a very hard crisis, I didn’t eat too much, I was really weak, and I had final exams, so it was a terrible combination. That crisis was because I was finally accepting who I am, and realizing what I really want in my life.

Perfection is a word that describes me very well. For my parents I’m the perfect son, the one with the high grades, the one studying a really good career, the handsome one, what else could they ask for. I looked for that perfection in my life, being perfect in every sense has been like a goal for me, and being bi just made the road to perfection a difficult and impossible one. So accepting my sexuality was really tough for me.

All my life I pictured myself marrying a nice woman, having four children, having a perfect family, and since I met that guy, that image blurred, I began to accept, that I could be happy marrying a man, probably adopting some kids (obviously out of this country) and being a happy family. The image I had all my life was corrupted and I had to accept a new one, that was another difficult challenge.

All those days were horrible; I cried day by day just asking God and the universe why does it have to be me? I still can’t get the answer but I know it’s not really necessary to know it, and that one day it will just arrive to me.

Another obstacle in my life has been my family. It’s viewed as a perfect one, all the sons are handsome and intelligent, the parents are a happy couple, everything is nice. But there are no perfect families in this world. The sons: one bi, and I’m pretty sure the young one is also; the daughter: full of stereotypes about herself, and that’s dangerous because it can create serious psychological problems in the future; the parents: they fight very often for really stupid things, the son doesn’t want to tell them that he is bi so he doesn’t create more problems; the dad: cheats on the mom, I know and my sister also; the mom: a workaholic with not so much time for her family.

My friends, always making homophobic comments, I always have to listen to that, and try to create a nice image of gay people to them, but it seems impossible, although they all say that if they had a gay friend, there would be no problem, so that sometimes encourages me to come out to them, but that won’t happen for a very long time.

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by Anonymous

I’m from a town called Defuniak Springs, Florida. Never heard of it? There’s a reason for that. Defuniak is a rural community in northern Florida (which may as well be called lower Alabama). With the town being located deep in the bible belt, you can imagine the attitudes of the occupants. Everyone’s ultra-conservative, and about as anti-gay as it gets. I grew up in that community, went to church just like everyone else, knew the name of every kid in my school (I had been going to school with the same people since kindergarten). You can imagine how hard it was realizing I was gay. At first I denied it, said I could still like girls. Well after a particularly uncomfortable 3 month relationship with a wonderful girl, I realized that wasn’t true. I was deathly afraid of coming out. Afraid of what the other kids in my high school would say. Even more afraid of telling my parents.

My mother is from the neighboring town, and about as rural as it gets; my step-dad was born in Dothan, AL. Any time we talked about gay people, they were called queers, or fruits. Gay people were something to laugh at. During my sophomore year of high school, I decided to come out to my friends. My parents weren’t very social, so I had no worries about them finding out. Throughout the school day I would get my friends alone and tell them, and much to my amazement, everyone was happy for me (though there were a few mortifying “I knew it!”s). In the following week, as the word spread around school, I realized no one really cared. I mean, I had a few acquaintances stop speaking to me. Some of the really religious kids tried to get me to go to church with them, so I could be “saved.” But for the most part everyone acted like it was no big deal. After such a mostly positive reaction my confidence grew, and I decided I would tell my parents soon.

After work one night (and after drinking quite a few red bulls), I finally got the courage to do it. On the drive home I called my aunt and told her. She told me it was a phase, and laughed. While that might seem mean, that’s the kind of person my aunt is. To this day she says it’s a phase, but she doesn’t think any less of me or treat me any different. Next was to call my dad (he lived 60 miles away). His answer? “That’s nice, can I go back to sleep now?” I remember thinking, that was easier than I thought it’d be. Last but not least was my mother. I was still in high school and lived with her. Seeing as how I’d just gotten off of work it was around eleven at night, she was asleep. My step-dad, was working out of town. I went into her room and shook her awake, and said simply, “Mom, I’m gay.” It took a second for her to actually wake up and register what I’d said. But when it hit, she didn’t do any of the things I was scared of. She didn’t kick me out, she didn’t cry, she didn’t get angry. What she did was say, “Okay” and then proceeded to tell me she loved me anyways, and always would. Unconditionally. I was in awe. I had just done the thing that I had been deathly afraid of for a long time, and it was NO BIG DEAL. Even when my step-dad came home and found out, it wasn’t that bad. I mean it was a little awkward, seeing as how he’s a big country boy, but he never treated me any different.

I suppose the reason I’m writing this is to let those who aren’t out yet know that coming out isn’t a bad thing. It brought me closer to my friends and family, gave me confidence to be who I am, and let me be proud of it. Take the leap, even if you have a bad reaction, you’ll be amazed at how good it feels not to have to hide.

by Amanda Bergeron-Bauer

Mathias Oliver, “I’m From Spokane, WA”

A teenager and his family discuss the struggles of being an out gay high school freshman.

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(Source: video.imfromdriftwood.com)