If I could describe junior high in one word, it would be ‘transformational’. When one hears that word, it elicits positive emotions. But as is the case for all transformations, hardships must be endured to achieve transcendence from one level to the next. And thus was junior high for me.
I’ll be honest. Junior high wasn’t all bad. It was the first time I gravitated toward a new social group due to the consolidation of our school districts. For the first time since starting school, I was around people whose life stories were unknown to me. Those who fascinated me the most were the new girls — with their blonde locks, boys at their heels, not a care in the world about their social standing. They simply existed, and unbeknownst to me, I wanted the freedom to be as unabashedly female-presenting as they were.
With a new slew of girls also came a new slew of boys. Not only were there attractive guys in my class, there were upperclassmen — athletes — with whom I secretly craved intimacy. At the time I would tell myself that I simply wanted to be friends with these beautiful boys, with their prominent cheek bones, taut biceps, and pecs. That I fantasized about kissing them was just a temptation all men had to deal with. Right?
And then I came across a particular classmate whose caramel eyes and perfect smile couldn’t be denied. My entire body craved this guy. He was an athlete, and unlike the others, he gave me the time of day, going out of his way to build a relationship. When we were in a crowd, he would always single me out, using my name and asking about the goings-on of my life.
The first time we met was at a sixth grade dance. As I sat on the fringes of the dance floor, I felt a presence scoot up beside me. “Hey,” a boyish voice said.
I looked to see the beautiful, tanned boy everyone spoke about. “Hey!” I said, a bit too eagerly.
“You’re Clay, right?” he asked.
My heart fluttered. “Yeah.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, showcasing his bleach white teeth.
This particular guy was admired by all, at the top of the social food chain even though he was just an incoming seventh grader like me. He was also undeniably masculine, in that he pursued basketball, hunting, and every other sport that one could think of. And he was good at all of them.
Looking back, I don’t know how I justified being straight. I couldn’t even masturbate to a female. I tried time and time again to achieve some sort of pleasure from the female body, but it never came. I even prayed that God would somehow change the inner workings of my body should I take a break from climaxing off shirtless men. Sometimes my masturbation-breaks stretched on for whole months, in hopes that God would forgive my shameful pursuits and bless me with straightness. But the wet dreams still came, a man at the center. Every. Single. Time.
During this time, popularity is so important to a junior high kid, and even though I felt well-liked, I never considered myself popular or mainstream. I just felt like I was on the sidelines, the nonthreatening guy adopted by the elites without a shred of real influence. At the time, I couldn’t put a finger on what separated me from their world, but I do now.
I was gay. And everyone knew it. That is, everyone but me. Certain guys singled me out in the hallways, picking at me for being feminine. One day, while I was at lunch in our lounge, a group of athletes singled me out in front of everyone. “Hey, Clay!” one of them yelled, “Do you use a tampon?”
I blushed, mortified, more so because I didn’t even know what a tampon was. That they were taking a crack at my masculinity was secondary.
When I visited another school to participate in a fashion show, I struck up a friendship with one of the guys. After weeks of working with him, I figured I was in the clear: I had finally made friends with someone of the same sex.
On the night of the actual fashion show, I pulled him aside. “Hey, I have a crush on this girl,” I said.
A puzzled look took over his features. “Oh man,” he said, “I thought you were gay.”
It offended me at the time, broke my trust completely. But the fact that so many took for granted — that I was a faggot — was something I wouldn’t accept until almost a decade later.
And so I felt like the unicorn, never fitting in anywhere. On top of that, I felt like everyone was always speaking about my sexuality behind my back, declaring that I was something I had no power over but also decrying that same sexuality as sinful. I couldn’t win. I also couldn’t trust anyone, even though I was doing everything in my power to be the God-fearing man my family had raised me to be.
In other words, it was hell. But I know now why I endured all of it. Even though the problems of then seemed all-consuming and never-ending, they did end. Now I am in a place where I can speak about those experiences, hopefully to empower those still enduring them to this day. All of it was a gift, but at the time, I couldn’t see it that way.
So if you’re reading this and you know a young queer person, even if it seems like they have it all together, reach out. Just knowing that someone else appreciates our experience goes a long way. I’m blessed to have survived it all, but not everyone does. We need unwavering, non-judgmental support. Even if you don’t understand it, reach out. It could be the difference between life and death.
In the next article, I discuss the chaotic beauty that was high school — the tension between lifelong friends, my foray into theatre, and of course, sex. Be on the lookout.
