Fatso or faggot? I picked fatso first. Why?
I vividly recall a frightful moment when I just turned 13 sitting with my first Buddhist teacher. She noticed I was unusually distracted and wondered what was going on. She was the first person I sensed had a genuine, unconditionally loving interest in my well being. Most souls believe Mothers are concerned about their brood’s well being. For the most part I’d say that was true in my formative years. The missing part in my childhood was the unconditionally loving mother — a derivative of my Mom’s devout Catholic life. The source of my distraction? Being unconditionally loved. Go figure! Right?
Growing up as the youngest of nine in a known Catholic household I did my best to live two lives. Why two lives? Simple. Waking up to two realities that 1) I’m gay. 2) NOT interested in an evil system of corruption, greed, power and control (AKA religion). Living two lives allowed me to live in a house versus being homeless.
As my hormones erupted I became ever-more distracted and withdrawn. Distracted because It seemed like my sex drive had fried my ability to focus. Being keenly aware I could NEVER EVER date guys I found myself drawn to. (Asking a boy on a date not a wise idea all things considered in a predominantly Catholic Iowa town.) To avoid being found-out I started becoming a hermit. Comfort food became my coping tool. Why eating? I logically reasoned being tormented for being a fatso was far less problematic than being beaten for being a faggot. Yes beaten — both by my God-fearing Catholic mother as well as classmates and neighborhood boys. Looking back I now see how I awakened and honed my awareness skills more rapidly in my early teens. Awareness comes in handy to determine what I needed to display for the life I was living from moment to moment.
My public life created and maintained the illusion that I was a good, quiet Catholic boy who grew more husky as years ticked by. Given my biological linage is rife with obesity, Mom (and family) chalked my girth up to family genes. I gained motherly graces by keeping my room clean, grades good and regular alter boy gigs. If my mother had ANY clue I had a TOTAL CRUSH on a new HOT young Priest that arrived one year before I graduated from a Catholic grade school I’m sure I’d be YANKED out of St. Matthews and promptly posted to the local public school! So yes dear ones, while we’re in the middle of a growing tsunami of awareness of Roman Catholic Priests’ role in child abuse — there’s another side to this story. What happens when young boys — like I was — were all too happy to help Father based on the fact they’re totally attracted to them with ever-consuming hormones to boot! (I digress! Maybe that topic will be another Medium story one day.)
During my early days I had a couple neighborhood friends who were also considered quiet since they (like me) show zero interest in sports or other guy stuff. My best childhood friend (Kenny) eventually got me into serious trouble on a hot summer day. Another neighborhood boy (Bart) who wanted to be my friend (but wasn’t because I just didn’t like him) caught me and Kenny fooling around after a long swim in our back yard stand-up pool. (The kind of pool erected when temperatures finally got warm enough to warrant it and torn down when school started in September.) You see it was a rule that we had to change clothes in the garage before coming into the house. Mother was strict in tracking in dirt and water.
On one fateful hot Summer afternoon Kenny and I were changing out of swim suits in the garage. Since the garage was used more for storage it created a private space we could hang out clear of adult eyes. While changing that afternoon we both noticed we had erections. Our hormones got the best of us. We started fooling around. Little did we know we were being watched. It took little time for Bart to run home to tattle on us. In those days every Mother on the block was a set of eyes and ears that rapidly reported back to the grapevine what’s what! When I came inside for dinner I was questioned and summarily spanked for my actions in the garage. Kenny was BANNED at all times — including school time. The cherry on the cake was being grounded for a month. With my extra time I was to pray more about my actions.
Little did dear Mum know I used my spare time deepening my spiritual studies with my Teacher — of which — Mum had ZERO clue about. I also used my prayer time to devise ways Kenny and I could still be friends without incurring Mother’s wrath. I knew all to well Mom was too busy to watch over me all the time. Since Dad died shortly after I turned five I learned early to fend for myself even under the watch of an older brother and sister. With a drop of cleverness and ever-growing manipulative skills I distracted outsiders focus on other people and things so that Kenny and I could continue on our merry way.
My spiritual life was my second life.
I knew I had to hide my training because good Catholic boys must believe in a God who absolutely HATES homosexuals. Fortunately for me my instincts quickly pointed out the flaw in a God who hates something it created. Made no sense to me that a God (who was supposedly unconditionally loving — providing we professed our sins — and repented for those sins) HATED me for being the person I am. I knew I’d be considered both a blasphemer as well as a sinner speaking those ideas so I kept such thoughts private. In a warped logic loop that allows victims of abuse to forgive their abusers I remained silent based on Luke 23:34 Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
I entered into a public junior and senior high school scene as a fatso who was counting down the days to graduation. Graduation was my get-out-of-jail-free card. I kept my planning to move to Minneapolis (a city with a visible gay community) mostly secret. I strategically leaked my second life to trusted friends. For a brief time I had a play-friend (not a boy friend). A straight guy who seemed to like me — like me enough to fool around with. He made it clear we must NEVER EVER be public about our play dates. We had a mutual understanding that any leak would result in disaster. He passed as a good ol American boy based on a string of girlfriends who eventually learned he was simply out for sex and only sex.
Looking back I’ve zero doubts savvy adults with a pinch of awareness knew all too well I was both a fatso and a faggot! Please! Given my passion for Concert Choir and Theatre (eventually a Thespian) it wasn’t a stretch to connect the dots on a kid who never seemed to have a girlfriend. I dodged the girlfriend issue by manipulating a dream Mom had for each of her nine children. Dear Mum had it in her head she’d earn an express pass to Heaven by producing a Catholic Priest or a Nun out of her brood. Every time I was questioned about a potential girlfriend I replied that I was seriously thinking about becoming a Priest. That response earned both praise and respect. It didn’t take long for my dream to matriculate through various grapevines. Girls seemed MORE attracted to me the more I made it clear we were never going to be more than friends. When I decided I wanted to be a Travel Agent I’m not sure if Mom was more upset about a lost dream or the fact I would be moving out of state to become a certified travel agent.
Moving out meant Mom was now officially on her own after 40 years of raising nine children. Yes, Mom married and produced early in life — as a good Catholic woman of the 1930’s should do! I remember zero remorse for Mom’s situation. I spent the better share of my last three years at home slowly ticking off tasks that had to be done so that the house would be in decent enough condition for Mom to enjoy well after my departure. My efforts were amply rewarded with plenty of home cooked meals, delicious birthdays and food-packed holidays. By the time I occupied my Minneapolis dorm room I was well over 250 pounds (on my way to 350 over the next decade). Ah! Dorm life! So many stories, so little time . . . — Any other fat faggots out there who now recognize their girth is born from grief? If so — what’s your story?
