I grew up in a small southern town in The Bluegrass State where corn fields lined the two-lane country roads and lazy Sunday afternoons were spent taking a nap between church services. Where a trip to grandmother's house (just a few miles down the road) was always exciting. Where summer was made for homemade ice cream, churned by hand crank in the backyard. Where the smell of freshly mowed grass competed with that of line dried clothes for the best smell on those warm days that maintained their warmth even after the sun sets.
It was a lovely place, that's true. Still is. Seeing the stars actually twinkle in a cloudless midnight blue sky or watching lightening bugs dance around the pond in my parents' backyard are recollections I cherish. Memories like that are comforting in that familiar way that can raise one's spirits and calm the chaos. I do enjoy a visit back there from time to time. The corn still lines the roads but the clothes no longer dry on the line. And a trip to visit grandmother means a trip to the cemetery.
Sometimes I think I lived a charmed life there...sometimes. Aside from the verbal attacks of "faggot," "sissy," and "queer" that I endured throughout junior high and high school, I left there relatively unscathed in the sense of gay bashings and familial disownment. A basketball was thrown directly at my face once in the gym locker room, making contact. My car was keyed. My locker was vandalized with derogatory words. My head was filled with images of fire and brimstone. All situations and events one can heal from...eventually...if he's lucky.
Charmed is overrated though and my hometown wasn't as idyllic as I've painted it. I was so hidden when I lived there. So afraid to be me. Terrified of being found out as the gay boy I was. I even find myself putting on that invisible protective armor when I return for a visit, falling back into the old tropes of hiding that I learned so well when I lived there. There are moments when the guard comes down, and I reveal myself to family or friends, but more often than not I have to suss out the situation before I can even begin to relax and let my freak flag fly.
I've now been a resident of New York City for 18 years. The hiding has lessened. Sometimes I feel like I'm doing it in plain sight. I count myself blessed every day that I don't find myself in an awful situation to be attacked for just breathing in the vicinity of someone so homophobic that all he can do is lash out. Someone who has to show the "faggot" just how manly he is by beating me in the face and kicking me even more after I'm down.
This behavior of hiding seems to have found its way into my social media practices. On June 26, 2015, a day I hope becomes National Equality Day, I posted many equality themed postings via my Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr pages. I hashtagged every post #gay, #LGBTQ, #equality, #ALL50, #LoveWins, #GayPride, #SCOTUS, among other hashtags. I was excited. That morning I was sitting on my sofa, doing a little writing about memories for a piece of fiction, enjoying a cup of coffee when a dear friend sent me a text saying, "Michael, we did it!!! Look at the news!" Cold chills swept up my body as the goose flesh climbed from my feet to my head. My eyes filled with tears that fell on my cheeks before my Google search returned its results on my computer. I've never wanted to get married, but the fact that banning same-sex marriage had been deemed unconstitutional by the Supreme Court of the United States moved me beyond words. Until I found my words, that is...and used them.
I became very aware, via my Facebook news feed, of those that were disheartened by this historic, glorious, monumental ruling. I had to do a little pruning. Using the unfollow option, I hid the dark clouds of opposition from my otherwise rainbow-laden news feed, because I didn't want my joy to be dampened by the disparaging remarks and posts. However, I took this a step further. I blocked my posts from people. I hid myself from their view. I hid my joy. I hid my thoughts. I hid my excitement. I hid my frustration. I hid myself from them. It took me one day and the HBO documentary Larry Kramer: In Love & Anger to realize that I can't hide. I refuse to hide. Larry Kramer was loud, angry, vocal, persistent. He was--is--a fighter, a trailblazer. I can't hide my words from anyone just because I fear their reaction or the possibility of confrontation.
To quote myself:
You cannot effect change if the minds you hope to change don't want to be changed. You can only continue to be yourself and surround yourself with those who love and support you for who you are. I refuse to live in fear. I will be seen. I will use my voice. I will be who I am. I want to clear the path, shine the light, lead the way. I am equal. We are equal. We are human. We are here.
If I am to believe my own words--I am equal--then there must be no more hiding, especially from fear of confrontation or opposition. There can be no hiding on the streets of New York City. There can be no hiding on the corn-lined country roads of my hometown. There can be no hiding on social media. That means no more blocking and no more censoring. As the old children's song says, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." I'mma be me.