My memoir Performance Anxiety, about my adolescence, is a true story. But I realize that writing it, I created a character. He has my name and attributes, but is at least partly invented. That's inevitable because the source material, memory, is fluid. And he is nuanced by what I chose to emphasize about my past and those times.
These five memoirs depict—and, at least partly, invent—boyhoods wildly different from mine. I've never met the writers, but I know these guys. Our challenges and fears, and hopefully triumphs, are common to queer kids. Are they shared by all kids, regardless of orientation? I'll keep reading memoirs to find out.
Paul Monette's life could have been mine. (His death, too.) Fear kept us both closeted until full adulthood. All he ever wanted was a lover, one of "the smiling men" he could never seem to touch. (Me, too.) Then he got HIV. (By dumb luck, I didn't.)
Writing in 1991, years before new drugs could have saved his life, Monette was "dying by inches." By then he had found his man—twice, actually—but lost each one to AIDS. His searing anger brought that tragic, terrifying time back to me hard. But rage couldn't hide the innocent, pained boy he shows us he had been.
I was humbled by his self-forgiveness: "I can't judge the world of my first twenty years by the laws of freedom that followed Stonewall."
He grew up in a small town in New England in the 1950's, watching lassie, going to church, getting straight A's at school, a scholar destined for success. But he already had a secret, and his public life with family and friends was already a constant round of ventriloquism as he played the joker and pretended to be the same as everyone else. For Paul Monette was gay.
BECOMING A MAN is about growing up gay, and about the tyranny and self denial of the closet - one man's struggle, for half his life, to come out. From the white-bread…
Sexual desire, acted on or repressed, is either the text or subtext of every gay man's life.
Edmund White treats sex explicitly and with bracing honesty. His frankness—for example, in describing his fumbling, agonized, danger-courting attempts as a kid to find love—recalled my own youthful risks and failures, but freed those memories of shame.
I've read few of White's many books. (Guess I was jealous of his output and acclaim; better I should have emulated his driving curiosity and intelligence.) His recent death, at 85, prompted me to read this narrative of his long, unruly, ceaselessly questing life.
A sharp observer of trends and sub-cultures, White moved among the famous—writers, artists, intellectuals—and descriptions of and dish about them are an extra, but only slightly guilty, pleasure.
No one has been more frank, lucid, rueful and entertaining about growing up gay in Middle America than Edmund White. Best known for his autobiographical novels, starting with A Boy's Own Story, White here takes fiction out of his story and delivers the facts of his life in all their shocking and absorbing verity.
From an adolescence in the 1950s, an era that tried to "cure his homosexuality" but found him "unsalvageable," he emerged into a 1960s society that redesignated his orientation as "acceptable (nearly)." He describes a life touched by psychotherapy in every decade, starting with his flamboyant and…
“Rowdy” Randy Cox, a woman staring down the barrel of retirement, is a curmudgeonly blue-collar butch lesbian who has been single for twenty years and is trying to date again.
At the end of a long, exhausting shift, Randy finds her supervisor, Bryant, pinned and near death at the warehouse…
Kevin Sessums was the kind of kid who just can't hide it. Too exuberant, drawn to fantasy, costume, theatrical gestures.
He might disagree, but to me, he seems never even to have been in the closet. Not that he had it easy. There was family trauma. He was bullied by classmates, targeted by older men. His big extended family of certifiable characters in the small-town South was right out of Flannery O'Connor. He asked himself, at thirteen—and I wish I'd had such guts—"Why not just be what everyone expected I was?" There were Blacks and Civil Rights activism intimately close, and young Kevin was equally no-nonsense about the stupidity of racism.
Spoiler alert: he escaped to a life of arts and culture and queer adulthood in New York.
Mississippi Sissy is the stunning memoir from Kevin Sessums, a celebrity journalist who grew up scaring other children, hiding terrible secrets, pretending to be Arlene Frances and running wild in the South.
As he grew up in Forest, Mississippi, befriended by the family maid, Mattie May, he became a young man who turned the word "sissy" on its head, just as his mother taught him. In Jackson, he is befriended by Eudora Welty and journalist Frank Hains, but when Hains is brutally murdered in his antebellum mansion, Kevin's long road north towards celebrity begins. In his memoir, Kevin Sessums brings…
I never heard a more harrowing story of the closet and coming out.
There was no bullying, rape or damnation to hell in Andrew Tobias' childhood. He was a high-achieving, good-looking son of an affluent family in cosmopolitan New York who came to adulthood in the anything-goes sixties. He realized he was homosexual at age 11—then never allowed himself to tell a soul, or have sex (even with himself) until 23. When he finally, tentatively, began to own being gay, he remained twisted up by stereotypes of masculinity and queerness.
Paradoxically, because he was afraid of it, his saga gives a colorful rendering of gay culture around 1970. (And I happen to know that he eventually found self-acceptance, love, and a prominent, honored role in gay politics.)
The classic account of growing up gay in America. "The best little boy in the world never had wet dreams or masturbated; he always topped his class, honored mom and dad, deferred to elders and excelled in sports . . . . The best little boy in the world was . . . the model IBM exec . . . The best little boy in the world was a closet case who 'never read anything about homosexuality.' . . . John Reid comes out slowly, hilariously, brilliantly. One reads this utterly honest account with the shock of recognition." The New…
“Rowdy” Randy Cox, a woman staring down the barrel of retirement, is a curmudgeonly blue-collar butch lesbian who has been single for twenty years and is trying to date again.
At the end of a long, exhausting shift, Randy finds her supervisor, Bryant, pinned and near death at the warehouse…
"You're always looking for something better," somebody told Jeremy Atherton Lin. His response? "I thought that was the whole point."
When Lin arrived at college, in 1992, HIV was still a death sentence. Newly out, he didn't know, well, how to be gay. So he went out dancing. (I did the gay bars too when I first came out, found a lover at one, and stopped. Lin found a life partner there, too; they've kept dancing.)
This erudite, affecting book merges personal saga with gay history and theory, mapped onto bars in L.A., San Francisco and London (most, due to online dating, now gone). We see evolution in music, dance, costume, even architecture and neighborhoods—and, profoundly, in the blooming and maturing of how queer people see themselves.
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY: The New York Times * NPR * Vogue * Gay Times * Artforum *
“Gay Bar is an absolute tour de force.” –Maggie Nelson
"Atherton Lin has a five-octave, Mariah Carey-esque range for discussing gay sex.” –New York Times Book Review
As gay bars continue to close at an alarming rate, a writer looks back to find out what’s being lost in this indispensable, intimate, and stylish celebration of queer history.
Strobing lights and dark rooms; throbbing house and drag queens on counters; first…
I was sixteen in 1964, growing up fast, if not as fast as I wished. I had friends. I had fun. I smoked Lucky Strikes. I had a car, and drove with abandon.
With my white suburban friends I went into the Black city to see the Motown Revue and hear jazz in smokey clubs. I joined civil rights demonstrations, embarking on an activist path that in a few years placed me in the militant Weather Underground. I had sex with girls, to hide the excruciating, then-unmentionable fact that I am gay. My father was checked out while my mother was dying—and that was another taboo subject. So I pretended I didn't care. I imagined myself to be a worldly proto-adult. But I was a scared kid.
