The Full Spectrum by David Levithan
Alcohol.
My father has been drinking again. This is nothing new. My father has been drinking for as long as I can remember.
I don't know or understand why. All it has ever done is tear my family apart, opening new wounds, deepening old ones.
I take off my shoes and place my dress shirt on the chair. I would make some dinner, but it is late and I want to go to bed.
I silently creep up the stairs, trying desperately to avoid waking my father. Unfortunately, I don't try hard enough, and he stirs when I reach the top of the landing. Instantly, he begins yelling, speech slurred by the poison flowing in his blood.
“Where have you been! It's one in the morning! Probably out with that faggot friend of yours again!”
I don't know why, but something inside me snaps this time. I have always been able to insulate myself from the homophobia, from the gay bashing, from the hatred.
But not this time. Not this day. The moments with you still linger in my mind, still hold in my memory. They, those moments, will not allow this. Will not allow something so beautiful to be tarnished by something this disgusting.
My mouth opens before I can stop myself.
“Don't ever call him that. Ever. Don't ever say things like that again. You don't even realize what he means to me, do you?”
My mother is awake now. She realizes what I have just said. She just stares at me from the bed.
My father breaks the silence, his voice booming. “You're one, too, then. Another queer.”
A tear slides down my cheek as I run back down the stairs and grab my car keys. I should have known that something like this would happen.
That I couldn't hide it from my parents forever.
That sooner or later I would slip up.
I'm at your house before I realize that I have no shoes on. I dial your number on my cell phone and get no answer. I should have known you would be sleeping by now. I leave a message as I continue on to a friend's house.
As I park my car, I fall apart. Hot tears stream down my face, soaking my shirt. It is an hour before the sobs subside.
Andy lets me sleep on the couch for the night. Even if my father is gone, I can't go home again tonight. I can't face those stairs again tonight.
Being so up, then quickly dragged down.
I'm starting to drift to sleep when the phone rings.
I tell you everything.
You tell me everything will be okay.
I wish I could believe you, but right now I'm not so sure.
We spend the next two nights together, you doing your best to comfort and reassure me. I still don't go home.
I talk to my mom briefly on the phone. She tells me all I need to know.
“It's going to take your father some time.”
It's three days before I realize that I can't avoid my life because someone can't accept who I am. I resolve. I talk to you quickly for reassurance, then step through the door.
My father stares at me from across the room. We say nothing to each other for some time.
I break the silence.
“It's who I am. I really don't care if you like it or not, it's who I am. I'm not going to change for anyone, and I'm not going to stop being me to make someone else feel better about themselves. If you can't deal with it, that's just too bad.”
He says nothing, just continues to stare. Finally he stands and goes to the kitchen. I hear pans banging around, followed by the sound of butter sizzling. He has started to cook dinner.
It takes me a moment to realize that the hard part is past. It will be some time before I can have a real conversation about it, but for now they will let me be.
A week later you break my heart. You do it gently, but you don't do it in person. At first, I don't understand why you do it.
How can you say you love me and mean it? How can we share a moment like we have shared, and then in the next throw it all to the wind?
It takes me time, but I finally understand.
You are not yet ready to face what I have.
You are not ready to show the world who you really are yet. In all fairness, I wasn't either. But for some reason you have chosen to take this road alone, and there is nothing I can do to change your mind.
I move on slowly, to other crushes, other relationships, other heartbreaks. But I will never forget you.
Continuation of the Life
by Tyrell Pough
It's been a hard road for me. Here I am smiling when deep down inside I'm crying and begging for someone to rescue me.
When I was three years old, I lost my parents. My mother died of breast cancer and my father was shot. There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not thinking about them. I miss them so much from the bottom of my broken heart. I want to see them again. Losing parents as a baby is the worst experience a child can face.
I realized I was gay at five years old.
My foster mom abused me with anything she could get her hands on. She used bats, wire, cable cords, pots, hands, anything. She would bash my face in the refrigerator and my nose would bleed instantly. One day she punched my brother and gave him a black eye. I lost my mind and hit her; she picked me up and threw me down the stairs. Some nights when my brother and me would be sleeping, she would sneak and hit us with whips. My brother would be crying my name and asking me to help him but I was too scared.
There would be times when I would stay up all night and would have to memorize the Bible. She said that if I fell asleep while reading the Bible she would hit me. I would have to memorize a chapter every night and I didn't like that. She told me that I'd be nothing in life and she hoped I'd die. I wanted to die, too. That is the past and I want that to stay in the past. When I reached thirteen, I was sent to a group home in New Jersey; I thought this was a rescue from God. My brother was left behind, but he got sent to another place later. Although we were apart, we grew closer together and called each other every night.
I've been through it all, such as physical and verbal abuse, abusive relationships with guys in the group homes, and even suicide has crossed my mind.
I've been in three group homes. It was hard being the only gay kid in each; I remember the other kids in the home telling me that I was straight, but I knew I was 100 percent gay. I was never molested or raped. I was just born gay. Whenever men were around me, I felt safe and secure.
I didn't choose my sexuality, my sexuality chose me, and that's the truth. From my high-pitched voice to my flamboyant ways, like me swishing when I walk, it's all natural. I didn't wake up one day and say, “Hey, I wanna be gay!” I enjoyed wearing tight shirts and jeans and being in fashion shows. As a child I only hung around girls because they treated me just like them. They taught me hand games and how to dance.
The boys used to throw rocks at me because I was gay and flamboyant. They pushed me in a closet and put a dresser in front of it so I couldn't get out. It took hours to break myself out of there and when I told the staff they said, “What are we supposed to do?” and “That's your problem, not ours.”
I recall dating this guy from one of my group homes. He told me that I would be happy with him, but he verbally abused me in public. At night, I would ask him why he would abuse me in public, but at night he'd want to be with me. He said, “If they see me being nice to you, they may think I'm gay.” He said he still loved me and asked me to try to understand. I still wanted to be with him. He made me laugh and he made me cry. I just couldn't take the pain and suffering anymore. This wasn't my only relationship; I've hooked up with other boys in the group homes. There would be times when my partner would hit me because I said I wanted to leave; they would punch me in the face and push me around.
My friends kept me grounded; they love me endlessly. I did eventually have some good partners, who treated me like royalty.
As of right now I'm in a gay group home called Green Chimneys and I attend school at the Harvey Milk High School. I'm finally getting the respect I deserve. It's a dream come true; a long an
In life there are many obstacles that I still have to overcome. I believe in myself and I know deep down in my heart that everything is going to be okay. People may criticize me and judge me, but I will not let their words get the best of me. If I feel someone is trying to cross me and take advantage of me, I will talk to the person and try to solve the problem. I have never been a fighter; instead, I resolve conflicts with my mouth. I've been through a lot. It's by God's saving grace that I'm still here and have the ability to never give up.
When I become a father, I'll love my child dearly and I'll give him all the love that I was denied as a child. I identify as a gay male who's open-minded and believes that anything is possible.
Three Sunsets
by Robert Brittain
1.
I'm sitting on my patio.
Sky colors whisper commentary on the sun's movements behind the hills.
I vow to experience more sunsets.
I deceive myself into believing that certain experiences are limitless. If I tried, I could watch tens of thousands of sunsets in my lifetime, though I know the final tally will be closer to a few hundred. In terms of sunrises, I've only seen a mere handful, not to imply that those experiences were trivial enough to fit in the palm of my hand. No, I know they're very much beyond my grasp. And that's probably why I've seen so few.
I vow to experience more sunrises.
There's something about staring into a low-hanging sun that inspires introspection. I always want to talk with God during these times. And that's what I've done for the past six nights: lower my eyes with the sun.
My prayers always dwell on the same topic, the same boy: Devon.
I've never been big on intercession. It's probably because I don't know why I need to pray. Since God is sovereign, it seems like God already has a will … a plan … a purpose … not to be swayed by the requests of a twenty-something screwup in Oregon. But, like a good Christian, I pray. But, unlike a good Christian, I pray mostly for myself and the goofball situations I find myself in. Sometimes I see God answer my prayers, though I guess I'll never know if the answers came as a result of my requests or if they were God's intention all along. Perhaps it doesn't matter.
I've never been big on intercession. But lately I've found myself praying for Devon.
Dear God … I don't even know what to ask for.
I know so many spiritual people who pray for people they care about and yet their requests go unanswered. So I really don't know why you'd answer my prayers for Devon.
I know you love him…. I know your heart breaksfor him, and maybe that's why my heart breaks for him, too.
God, I want him to experience love. That's all. That's all I want. I know he and I aren't right for each other, so I won't even bother praying for that. But, God, I just want him to know you love him. He's gone his entire life hearing the opposite. God, convince him you're absolutely crazy about him.
Please put people in his life who will pray for him … who will love and care about him … who will reveal your love for him and what you're really about.
Keep pursuing him, God. Overwhelm him with joy. Overwhelm him with love.
I'm overwhelmed with grief. I'm overwhelmed with despair.
I can't help but weep and I don't know why. My heart has never ached like this.
I watch the sky's first night-freckles reveal themselves. I find peace in their company.
I sit lost in thought … lost in feeling.
Yielding to reality, I stand, not really wanting to face the barrage of heart distractions I know are waiting for me inside. But I guess that's what yielding to reality is all about.
I vow to experience more sunsets. More sunsets for Devon.
2.
I'm leaning against my car waiting for him.
The parking lot is almost empty. The sun has just set and everything glows pink.
I want to look busy when he sees me. I check the locked doors to my car. Locked. I check the pressure of my rear tires. Pressured. I check my watch. 8:55.
“Hey, Rob.” I hear the playful voice behind me.
I turn and see Devon approaching. My heart yo-yos in my chest.
“Hey, friend.” I hug him. He kisses me and I lose my balance.
“Whoa, there.” He laughs, steadying me with an arm around my waist. “We better get to the movie.” We start walking down Main Street, his arm still holding me.
“So how was your day?” I ask, interested.
“It was good, but I have the craziest story for you.”
“Oh, yeah? What happened?”
“Well, it's kind of a long one. I was hanging out at Will's house before you got here. I used the bathroom to change clothes and when I came out, he said there were three girls at the door asking to talk with ‘the blond-haired guy who just came in’—me. So I went outside. This one girl was like, ‘I know this is going to sound weird, but have you ever been discouraged?’ And I was like, ‘Well, yeah, of course I've been discouraged.’ And she said, ‘Well, I just want to let you know that God has a plan for you, that something great is about to happen, that you should just hold on. Just hold on.’ Then they left. Isn't that weird!?”
I don't know what to say. “It's definitely weird.”
Street-witnessers have always weirded me out—mostly because I believe that God prefers spiritual revelation to come through relationships, not five-minute conversations with strangers. But who am I to put limits on God? It is uncanny. I remember praying that God would place people in Devon's life, that God's love would be revealed to Devon in profound ways. Was this God answering my prayers?
I'm skeptical.
“So what do you think about it?” I ask, trying to remain neutral.
“Well. It was awkward. They're Christian. Of course they believe God has a plan. And of course good things will happen in my future, good things along with the bad. I don't know. Seemed kind of vague. Will thinks they were just hitting on me in a really weird way.”
“Could very well be.” I leave it at that.
We arrive at the theater and he buys my ticket.
I wake to the feeling of cold plastic on my belly.
I wake to the sound of music playing through Devon's stereo.
I wake to see Devon walking toward the bed.
“Good morning, cute boy.” He gets back into bed and kisses me with minty lips.
“Good morning.” I speak through my hand, knowing that I don't have minty lips.
“I made you a mix CD.” He grins. “So now you'll have a piece of me to listen to when you're at home.”
I pick up the jewel case and open it, curious about the track listings. I read the title he gave the mix: Afraid of Staying the Same.
That's all it takes. Reading those words unlocks a beast within me. I quickly shut the case and feel an emptiness devour me from the inside out. I know I'm about to cry. Since when did I become so emotional?
Devon sees my sorrow. “Awww, Rob … you don't like it?”
“No, it's not that…. I'm just touched.” I know it's not the complete truth, but I don't know what else to say. Why am I sad?
He kisses me, interlocking our lips, and grabs my hand, interlocking our fingers.
He holds me as we listen to each song on his soundtrack.
I want to cry through each refrain, but I refrain.
He explains why the songs are meaningful to him and begins to sing along with the final track, “Baby Mine,” as if the words were meant just for me.
I close my eyes, more lost now than ever.
3.
I'm scooping ice cream at the coffee shop.
And I hear it.
I know her voice.
I know the lyrics.
“Baby Mine” plays through the store Muzak, res
I sigh without thinking. An instant flood of memories drenches my lowland plains.
“Are you okay?” my co-worker Jamie asks.
“I'm fine. My friend burned me a mix CD with this song on it. It just reminds me of my friend, that's all.” Jamie doesn't know I'm gay, so I'm careful not to tell her any more than this.
My managers had warned me about her—warned me not to talk to her about my orientation. When I asked why, they explained that Jamie's a “conservative Christian” who just graduated from a “conservative Christian high school” and would most likely “make the workplace awkward for everyone” if she knew.
“She must really like you,” Jamie interjects.
“Who?”
“Your friend … who gave you this song.”
“Oh, yeah. I hope so.” I don't correct her pronoun.
I place the espresso milkshake on the blender and turn it on high, successfully ending our conversation.
The last hour of my shift always seems longer than the rest. My feet drag like the time.
I overhear Jamie talking to a customer. “I love the co-op grocer in Ashland. I always shop there, too. Well, you have a nice night.”
“My friend lives right by the co-op,” I offer, watching the customer leave the store.
“Oh yeah, what's your friend's name?” Jamie asks, volleying the conversation.
“Devon.” I'm safe…. I'm not giving away too much.
“Devon?” She looks at me through the corner of her eye, suspicious. “Does he have bleached-blond hair?”
My heart skips a beat. “Um … yeah.”
“Does he have a soul patch?”
I try to stay calm, but my innards are starting to go AWOL. “Yeah …”
“Oh my gosh!” She starts to laugh.
I grin to hide my growing discomfort. Maybe I did give away too much. “Why … do you know him?”
“I think so. Okay, it's kind of a long story.”
I raise my eyebrows, prompting her for more.
“Last Tuesday I was walking through downtown Ashland with two of my friends. And I saw this guy go in a house. And I don't know why, Rob, but God was just telling me that I needed to talk to him. So I went and knocked on his door—”