Texas, 1995

A hot, cloudless sky rains down unfiltered sunshine on a small town in the Hill Country. The black asphalt of the quiet, backwoods streets bubbles into liquid tar. Birdsong, frogsong, and creeksong are all silent. Every living thing clings to the shadows of the oak trees. Water is a myth. The rusty thermometer nailed to the brickstone wall, with an even rustier nail, reads 106 Fahrenheit. Somewhere in a living room, the air-conditioned oasis, with the window blinds sealed shut and the ceiling fan on its highest speed, a young boy no more than five years old is asked whether he has a girlfriend yet. At five years of age, this demi-toddler doesn’t even know the concept of romance, attraction, or sex. Unfortunately, this is the all-too-common reality for most young Texan boys growing up in the deserts, valleys, and drought-brown hills of Southern Texas. Their grandparents, parents, church leaders, teachers, and mentors relentlessly hammer away on toxic heteromasculinity. The boy has just recently mastered single-digit numerals, yet is required to have a full-fledged romantic relationship with a female girl. Six years later, the boy would realize he was gay, but it was too late. The shame, religious persecution, and malicious social engineering from trusted family members has already taken its toll in the form of guilt-ridden anxiety, PTSD, religious-sourced phobias, a life-long battle with addictions of various sorts, and enough self-doubt and self-hate to power a coastal city.

The little boy was me, and I’m sure many other little gay boys, gay girls, and queer folx who grew up in Texas, or other conservative strongholds, have similar stories. The expectations of heteronormativity is abruptly placed on our shoulders at a stunningly young age. But this isn’t about toxic Texas masculinity; it’s about country music. Country music is the lifeblood of Texan culture. From Garth Brooks, to Tim McGraw, to George Strait, country music is the cultural glue that binds together people of all demographics in Texas — as long as you’re straight.

The cowboy hats, the big buckled belts, and the expensive leather boots are the trademark costume of a social club that rewards men with acceptance, clout, and uniformity within a highly condensed bubble of group-ordained mythology. As RuPaul says, “Everyone is born naked and the rest is drag.” The typical accouterments of country cowboy Western wear is the drag shtick of Budweiser-drinking, chest-pounding, male country music fans. Owning a truck is mandatory. Hunting, fishing, and BBQ are all mandatory. Heterosexuality is, indeed, extremely mandatory.

You can imagine, as a young gay boy in Texas, country music and all of its leather-bound, smoke-stained luxuries were unattainable to me. It was an exclusive club: membership was free, but invisible, collective contracts must be signed and followed. You must be this straight to ride this ride. What became engendered in my psyche was an obvious conclusion: I hated country. I hated everything it represented or supplied. The rewards were not mine, therefore it was not worth my time. That resentment festered into a hatred of Texas as a whole, hatred of family members and friends, and ultimately hatred of myself on a very subconscious level.

I was an outlaw.