I described my sexuality as “stunted.” By that I mean I was in such denial of my queerness for the perceived negative consequences it would bring me that I disengaged myself from any sexual or romantic experiences and feelings for others by putting those desires on hold; I’ll focus on my school, or on my work before I focus on the one issue I never want to address: my sexuality. Only now, at 22, am I beginning to reflect upon and make sense of my sexual development and experience which I previously repressed and refused to consider. I mean experiences from as far back as I can remember. Like when I was five years old and would shut myself in my room, hide behind my bed, take the clothes of my G.I. Joe toys, and play with them naked. Of course, this is not uncommon behavior of a young child whether with action figures or dolls, but it was only just recently that I remembered that I used to do this, too. And now that I can remember, I can reflect and learn from the experience: at just five years old I knew I liked seeing naked bodies even if I didn’t understand why. I also knew that I would get in trouble if my parents saw me taking the clothes off of my toys because it was something I wasn’t supposed to do — I knew there was something wrong with nakedness, what exactly, again, I did not know — which is why I hid inside of my room while I did it. Most critically, I knew at five years old that making naked G.I. Joe action figures fight and kiss was particularly unacceptable; In my five-year-old mind, the fact that both the action figures and I were all boys (insofar as an action figure can have a gender) was what would get me in the most trouble if anyone found out. At five years old, I knew I could not afford to be seen playing with my toys in the ways I wanted but couldn’t, because the way I wanted to play was somehow terribly wrong. And so I hid. I was in the closet, or in this case locked in my room and hidden behind my bed, from the age of five. And only now, as a 22-year-old graduate student and ostensible adult, am I realizing this for the first time.

I will be honest. I am terribly embarrassed to give that example. I perceive that experience as deeply personal and something I want to keep to myself. I’m certain almost everyone reading has memories like this that, despite everyone sharing in the experience, we typically never think to discuss with others. However, in the past I took this too far; I used to be so embarrassed of experiences like this that I would keep them from myself, too. Part of the emotional labor of coming to terms with a repressed sexuality is, for me at least, overcoming the assumption that my experiences are foolish, that needing to take time to make sense of myself testifies to my inadequacy when compared to everyone else who seem so secure in themselves. I will know I have fully come to terms with myself once I am no longer ashamed by my stories. I can still let myself be embarrassed to tell the stories for others, but I must not be ashamed to have them.

I’m almost there. I think I know the last barrier I need to topple before I can reach my best life: I need to tell my parents. I don’t need them to accept it right away or even at all if that’s what it takes, but for my sake, they need to at least know. They are unwittingly responsible for a lot of the self-denial I’ve done growing up, and I want them to understand how hard it has been to undo. I will never forget this one moment: I was riding in the car with my dad at 12 years old, right as I was beginning to feel actual sexual desires and the guilt associated with those feelings. Back then, my thoughts looked something like this:

● For every girl I like, there’s another ten boys I like too. Imagine how much easier everything would be if I just liked girls?

● Everyone, even my closest friends, uses gay as an insult. Why would I ever admit to that?

● Already, my mom has told me she can’t wait to have grandchildren. How will I give her what she wants if I’m not straight?

● Gay people go to Hell. I can’t let that happen to me!

● The year is 2008 and all the adults keep going on about a “Prop 8” that would ban gay marriage. I’ve heard some classmates say they support it, too. I guess being gay really isn’t normal.

In the midst of immature, uninformed thoughts like these, I sat in the passenger seat next to my dad driving to who knows where. I would’ve only just started sitting in the front instead of the back, a marker of my growing up. I remember the street we were driving down when he joked out of the blue that, if I was gay, I need to warn him before I brought anyone home, so he could ready himself.

Me at 12 years old in the sixth grade. Who could have ever known that all of this was going on in this boy’s head?

My mind went blank, my mind went a million miles an hour. Why is he saying this out of nowhere? Is he joking or is he serious? Does he suspect something? I thought I was hiding it so well, how can I put a stop to his suspicions and avoid getting in trouble? So, instead of affirming myself like I didn’t know I wanted so badly, I lied to the both of us. I remember looking out the window, away from my dad, trying not to choke on the following words: “I’m not gay. But if I was, it shouldn’t matter anyways.” The first part is a bald-faced lie. It is indisputable that I have been attracted to people of the same sex my entire life, but that wasn’t yet enough to make it undeniable. The second part was my cry for help. If my dad agreed and said it didn’t matter whether or not I was gay, it would’ve given me the glimmer of hope I needed that, if I did ever decide to get out from behind my bed and open the bedroom door, he would be standing outside waiting for me. But he did the opposite and insisted it did matter if I was gay, jokingly or not I couldn’t tell. I gave an exasperated sigh, laughed, and turned away again; inside I was devastated. So it does matter to him if I’m gay or not, and whether he was sarcastic or serious, he made it clear what he wants me to be, what I’m supposed to be. If I ever leave my room, it will be to an empty house. This is not to criticize or blame my dad for saying what he said, or to examine what heteronormative forces could have led to this particular situation; those are matters for a different piece. Besides, I wouldn’t have reacted to my dad’s probably-joke in this way if I wasn’t already lying to myself. What I want to discuss is why and how I turned to repression and denial to cope with this moment, as well as how I still work to undo that repression and denial.

(By “heteronormative” I mean it actively enforces heterosexuality as the default or the norm, implying any other sexuality is deviant. Let me provide an example: To this day, many relatives ask me, “Do you have a girlfriend?” The question is always asked matter-of-factly as if there’s nothing controversial about it; they just want to know if I’m in a relationship. But what if I have a boyfriend? Or I’m dating someone who is gender nonconforming? Or I never wanted a girlfriend to begin with? In these cases, I cannot respond with a “yes” or “no” because I do not share the question-asker’s assumption that I am seeking a “girlfriend.” The question is loaded; I cannot honestly answer the question the way it is written in the way I am meant. I can honestly say, “No, I do not have a girlfriend,” but if the reason is because I like men, then I am lying when I leave my explanation at that. See how easy it can be to lie about this while seeming to be honest? The question they mean to ask — “Are you in a relationship?” — becomes heteronormative when re-written to say, “Do you have a girlfriend?” because it assumes that I as a cisgender man must be in, seeking, or not presently seeking a relationship with a cisgender woman — it’s only normal. I am confronted by this assumption every time someone asks me if I have a girlfriend, and I am reminded that I am breaking with the norm in terms of who I date, whether or not I answer honestly. Heteronormativity can exert its regulatory force through these sorts of insidious reminders of what is and is not normal. I’m sure you can guess how I used to answer this question.)

Again, these are not uncommon experiences among queer kids growing up in heteronormative households, but understanding this provides cold comfort. By high school I had learned enough to alter my own heteronormative thinking and accept the queerness in others, but I couldn’t yet accept it in myself. I understood, but I could not yet apply that understanding. Even now I have no idea if I was any good at hiding my sexuality back then, or if it was obvious to everyone who looked at me (I know for a fact I’ve let some of this slip to a few friends after too much liquor or drug, so some of you reading this have known bits about all this longer than I have). Truth be told, at some point I stopped trying to lie to my peers and focused my attention on lying to myself. One lie that I was fond of was that it didn’t matter what body parts a person had; I wouldn’t let their equipment stop me from loving them. It’s a beautiful lie because it denies the denial. Put another way, it is a declaration of queerness without any acknowledgement of all my lying about it, and it minimizes the sexual aspect of my identity. It’s okay if me and everyone else thinks I’m queer for some philosophical reason I accept — and have always accepted — wholeheartedly, not because I just like dick.

I said I would never forget the exchange between my father and I, and that’s true now: just as with my G.I. Joes, I repressed that experience for a long time and only now can remember and reflect upon it, grow from it. This exchange took maybe ten seconds of a random car ride, maybe my dad doesn’t even remember it happening, but I now know it has weighed heavily on my mind for over ten years. And just because I didn’t remember it until now doesn’t mean it hasn’t been affecting me until now. Despite being repressed, the fact of this exchange’s repression produced the intensely-rooted self-denial that I still work to undo; like a ghost it has haunted me in myriad ways impossible to ever fully know. The last contradiction I need to address before truly accepting myself is, I’m ashamed to say, between my love for my parents and my well-being. I want to believe that this is all a huge misunderstanding, that the only response I should expect from them is instant acceptance and unconditional love. I’m ashamed to say that I do not necessarily believe this to be the case. And that’s what’s holding me back: I don’t want to do anything to risk the relationship between myself and my parents, or to cause them distress in any way. My emotional labor has been convincing myself that being honest will ultimately strengthen our bond, even if it isn’t instant, and whatever heteronormative forces that discourage queerness will pale in comparison to the power of our love. I also need to build the courage to actually tell them, to actually send them what I’ve written so far. I am totally convinced that being honest is the right thing to do, and that it will work out in the end. And if anyone other than myself is reading this, then that means I’ve built up the courage I need, too. Hopefully after I’ve gotten up from behind my bed and leave my room, my parents and I head straight for the dinner table.

And so, despite the humiliation and red rising up in my cheeks as I write this, allow me to affirm myself: My name is Clinton Barnes. I am sexually and romantically attracted to mostly men, on occasion women, and as well as those who identify with neither gender. I have known that I am queer my entire life, which I also know I have lied about my entire life. I am tired of lying and would like to try something else.