“Now, take off the mask.”
This Gay Kid in My High School Lives in My Mind … Without a Name
Writing in today’s age of banned books, genders, and equality — namelessness means so much
I decided to write a novel when I was fifteen years old.
When I was in tenth grade, a girl came up to me in the hall at school and pointed to a boy with the most amazing blond hair I’d ever seen, a shimmering river of gold that brushed his hips as he walked. He was six feet tall, string-bean thin, dressed in white laced up pants, platform shoes, a gauzy shirt, and light makeup. The girl whispered that he had been beaten up by the jocks, hospitalized for three days.
All you have to do is take the first step.
Several years ago, an adolescent boy was killed in a hate crime targeting an LGBTQ+ community center. The family had set out for a normal day. Instead, their world crashed.
“Montford” had never come out to his family members, who were shocked to discover that their 15-year-old son/brother/cousin/nephew had been murdered at a social event for gay teens.
Montford’s aunt “Kate” and uncle “Stan” lived in a city near me, in a different state from Montford. A mutual friend referred them to my psychology practice.
From Homophobia to Acceptance: A Path for Everyone to Become an Ally
Clasping Hands at Gay Activist Harvey Milk’s Camera Store
Two strangers, two hands, one camera store.
From the early 1980s until the early 1990s, my husband and I lived in San Francisco, in a wonderful Victorian cottage, near Castro Street. Our little home had the original stained glass window (slightly cracked), a wacky off-kilter cabinet built into the dining room, and no closets. The previous owner had constructed (without a permit) a rickety sunroom where I read articles and wrote papers. I loved every inch of our tiny piece of San Francisco’s architectural history.
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