I is for Identity and an Impostor

I guess you can say I knew who was, really, pretty much in elementary school. Terms like, “she’s hot,” spoken in hushed tones to let the boys in the group know that the adage, that inbred misogynistic comment, wasn’t acceptable, didn’t carry that weight. But they went about their ways with talking about the most beautiful women on television and such. I was too young to know the unhealthiness of the comments, but no matter. It's too late. My concern, by contrast?

Why weren’t the guys hot too?

Middle school? Riding the bike around the block an extra time to see the high school wrestler mowing the lawn in a tank top? Again, I didn't realize that it wasn't exactly healthy.

And profoundly aware of the fact that everyone else was not noticing these things.

High school was the best and worst. I figured out my identity there. Now, remember, when you’d confess to anyone as an angsty teenager that you feel different from everyone else, you get eyerolls from both the adults and your peers. Because, at that age, you’re supposed to feel different. But for me, as the hormones raged as they did for every teenage boy, I had no choice but to hide it and pretend I was a statue. I'd go on dates, but they were with friends. Kept my nose clean. Kept good grades. Stayed heavily involved in activities.

That was then, grant you. The 80s. I had started to develop the vernacular ( would use sentences like, "are you family?" or "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" ) associated with the microcosm of gay culture as the arrival of the gay-cancer started to show up on television. Suddenly, gay people were on tv. And they were dying. They were being shown as victims. My identity was now skewed. Our illustrious leader was also doing his best to make sure that cancer devoured them wholly, telling my young teenage mind that I was worthy of only a death.

And it wasn’t a dignified one in any manner.  

That gay-cancer became known as AIDS. And since it happened to a then unwanted minority, it was allowed to run rampant until people realized that the disease didn’t particularly care about orientation.

So I learned to become an impostor.

I went to Christian school and did my best to hide and hope. Studied to be a minister, hoping I could cure myself through a profundity of good deeds. Hide my true feelings and hope that, magically, even after SO many years, my brain would somehow rewrite itself, rewire itself and I would see what all these peers of mine were seeing. The humor was, of course, that the strict Christian school didn’t allow men and women to mix. So, for many hours a day in my dorm, I was surrounded by the track team. And the wrestling team. And the football team.

Change didn’t come quickly.

And basically, screwed every part of my brain. Apparently, sexuality, regardless of your orientation, seeks, by its very nature, expression. This happens in all species. No, I’m not a scientist, but think about it. Your sexuality has a profound impact on your clothing selection, your expressive behavior and motivations in many different social interactions. Even if the wish to find a date isn't why an interaction is underway. The nightmares increased. The drinking increased.

Then there was me, the impostor. Not wanting to draw attention to myself. Act as nonstereotypical as possible, but, continue to choose words that express aspects of my secret. My identity remained, but it was now becoming a thing, something separate from myself, that had to be manipulated and every part had to be analyzed and taken apart.

Lemme guess. Straight people, for the most part, don’t have to do that. They’re allowed to go on dates as a high schooler and fail and learn so much about their needs.

Now, a few caveats in those last few sentences. I am, in no way, able to understand the experience of being a straight person. I’m not straight. I have never experienced the world in that manner. I’m what they call a “gold star.” When from closet door to Mo’s-ville in one direct line. Did not pass hetero-ville.

Something weird happened in its place, however. Being an impostor gave me the observational skills I like to think motivate me and my works, writing and professional. I get what I see by constantly interpreting what’s underneath. I like to think this was a necessary evil.

For me.

There’s that scene, in X-Men: United, however, where Mystique is asked by Nightcrawler about her shapeshifting.

Ugh...can't find the scene to post here.....

“Why don’t you just walk around and look like them?”

“Because I shouldn’t have to.”

I shouldn't have to fake who I am for the comforts of others. Especially when it's something I shouldn't be ashamed of.

I like to think I came out relatively unscathed. I’m smart enough to rise above the din in my skull and not suffer the spears of my predicament. But my suffering, like Harvey Milk’s before me, was for others to not suffer. Kids today should not have to hide. They should not want to kill themselves. They should capable of feeling love as nature intended. They should not hide who they are.

Ever.

And because of that, I will not, ever be that impostor again. I long for the day I tell kids about how I had to drive three states over to just get married before it was legalized. No more hiding.