The first lie about me, told @ birth

Dear Anyone Who’s Ever Thought of Me as a Faggot:

The Faggot knows exactly who he is now, and he can say: you were right.

Scott (last name withheld), you were right the day you called me out in high school.

My snickering fellow yell fish at USC, laughing at the faggy way the new black yell leader claps, you were also right.

All the white jock gods I chased after for half my life, begging you to see something good in me, you were dead on. I’m a faggot.

“I was born a baby girl, or so thought my big sister.”

I‘m a faggot all right. Have been since the day I came outta my mother’s womb. Not because I was born gay. Oh, no, I don’t believe in all that “I was born this way” talk.

Were you born liking pizza? Were you born liking the Boston Red Sox? Were you born liking pussy or dick? No. You were born.

You were born. And your dad loved the Sox, even dressed you up in their logo.

You were born. And your family loved having pizza every Friday night. And you adored those nights: the funny movies, the snacks, the laughter. It was a nice change of pace from the violence and abuse that headlined the rest of the week.

You were born. And when your dick started getting hard, it ping-ponged you around to different people and circumstances that showed you the “most productive and least disruptive” way to get your nut. And so you stayed in that lane on the sexual highway, that is, until you decided to switch lanes and “see what it’s like down that road.”

“Yes, lying about a newborn child begets a nightmare.”

I was born. To a family where the perpetually-lying-and-cheating father told his eager little five-year-old daughter that her dream had come true: Instead of another baby brother (she already had two of those), she was finally getting her wish because mommy and the stork had brought home a baby girl … me. I was born a baby girl to a family that now had two boys and two girls, or so thought my happy, five-year-old big sister. That’s because I was a born to a father who, in our childhood, told more lies than he ever cared to correct or remember.
I love a black man with AIDS

hat explains it,” said my sister years later. She was sitting across me at the kitchen table. Our mother had just re-told the story of the First Lie About Me, Told @ Birth.

That explains it, said my sister, as in, that explains why her little brother was a cheerleader-dancing, pom-pom-waiving, soap-opera-loving, bratty little … faggot.

My sister should know. She’s the one who introduced me to the world of cheerleading one day when we were kids. Good thing she did, too. Those imaginary sidelines served as a refuge during the violent war zone known as my childhood. Thanks, Sis.

I can express myself this way today because of the dreams I had in childhood, dreams like cheerleading, getting an education and being strong enough to survive beyond the nightmares others have dreamt for me since the day I was born.

Yes, lying about a newborn child begets a nightmare. Calling people faggot in high school begets a nightmare. Calling people faggot in college begets a nightmare. Calling people faggot in the adult world begets a nightmare.

The nightmares go on forever, until you begin dreaming that faggots, or fags, or gays, or queers, or homosexuals, or bisexuals, or transsexuals, or heterosexuals are neither inherently good nor bad. They just are. Sexual.

Here’s to better dreams.