And when I say rarely, I mean that there may be a handful of people that I’ve told.
I’m not sure why, exactly, but I think that some stories are treasures in some way and should maybe be held close to your heart rather than voiced to only be judged. That’s it, I’m sure. I’ve only ever shared with people I knew for certain would hear it as it should be heard and nothing else.
I do want to share it here for posterity sake and can only hope that it’s taken with kindness.
We went to a book signing. This was in the darkest of the days. I didn’t know the author nor his name and will not share it here. But I went with a friend not expecting much at all but hoping to at the very least, feel the fresh air.
The signing was in a library and the crowd was rather small really, maybe 20-23(?) people. The author stood up and began to speak and then he stopped and talked about the crowd size. He asked us to all put our chairs in a circle so we did, he thought that we should scooch in closer and we did and then he went around the room and asked our names and asked that we’d tell him about the funniest, the most awkward, the most painful things we’d ever experienced. No pressure.
We were laughing and cringing then laughing and then tearing up. It was really touching. I mean, I hated it because I like to be invisible, but when it was my turn I told the funniest, the most awkward and then stated that I was soon going to have a new most awkward and told the whole room my saddest story. Why on earth did I do that??? I have no idea. I had no idea then. It just felt like I needed to be honest. Everyone was spilling their guts out everywhere and I thought I’d be a jerk for disrespecting their stories by lying about mine.
When we were done he sat forward in his seat and began to tell us the story of his life. His father hated him and beat him relentlessly. He said he didn’t understand why as a small child but when he was about 9 years old his father beat him after he found him having a tea party with his sister. He yelled that he was a sissy and a fa@@ot and that he wouldn’t tolerate it.
The child realized that he meant that he wasn’t like other boys, which was true. He liked cooking with his mother and learned to sew. He didn’t like sports or “boy” things. He liked music and dancing and tea parties.
His father kicked him out at 15 years old where he lived on the street and stole from unlocked cars, sometimes even sleeping in one of it was really cold.
It was around that time that he realized that he was attracted to guys but had no idea what that meant. He started drinking and was “ befriended” by an older man who gave him alcohol and food and a place to stay and he also raped him in return. Finally the man began taking him to gay bars to troll for men, he would get paid for the men raping the teen.
He started doing drugs, it made things easier he said.
He stayed with the man for several years until he’d had enough and figured that he could get the money if he’d take himself to the bars. He described standing in the parking lot in the rain, rail thin, going through withdrawals, because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go in and do tricks. Finally he went in.
He spoke in a low tone. Looking at us each and then putting his head down. I was bawling. I don’t know what came over me but it was if I could touch the grief of the little boy who’d been lost inside the man. Or maybe see him there, in just the right light, as a small boy who only wanted, needed, to be loved.
To make this story shorter, he eventually got clean, went to college, met a partner and was told that he had AIDS. It had progressed passed the point of any real hope. He knew that he’d gotten it in those bars and he’d infected his partner. No one would shake his hand or eat with him for a long time. Fear was rampant. I was still bawling.
Eventually he wrapped up and asked “ Do your awkward stories suddenly seem a lot less awkward?” And I ugly cried and laughed. Yes. Absolutely.
I had to speak with him afterward and he hugged me. I will admit that my very first thought was fear. It was pretty early in the development of the information about AIDS but I didn’t pull away. He hugged ME as I cried over HIS life story and my life story and the weight that I felt crushing me… The kindness in that was immense!
We became friends. Kept in touch. Would meet for coffee and he was disappearing right in front of my eyes. The disease was vicious. One late night I received a call that he had passed. During one of our conversations he asked us f I felt that he’d go to hell. He was worried about that. He, like me, had been raised hearing about all the people who go to hell. All the sins that keep one from heaven, but as I knew this man I could not believe that a God worthy of worship would send him to hell. He nodded his head and then said “ I don’t know”
The friend I’d went to the signing with went with me to the funeral. There were picketers outside of the funeral home and we were escorted in by the police. No one else was there. Not even the minister. Fear of walking through picketers, I suppose. I signed his guest book. Sat for awhile and really wanted to tell him that if anyone was going to hell it would be those people outside. Not someone who’d just needed to be loved. And WAS, after all he’s been through, a loving person.
I think about him often. I think that meeting him taught me empathy. What a gift.
Me
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