I am a gay man, and that means I do not like the sound of my own voice.

I do not know when my voice diverged markedly enough from that of other children to be noteworthy, but to say that it’s “always” been like that would be intellectually dishonest. Also, all children sound gay. When you’re 3, you’re allowed to talk about how soft rose petals are, really romance the idea, and everyone’s going to be cool with it. What I’m saying is it’s too early to assume your 4-year-old nephew’s love of butterflies means you’ll have a solid Broadway show companion into your golden years.

I grew up a cerebral, effeminate child in a farm town in Northern California. You may assume when I say “Northern California,” I mean the vineyard and lesbian-sous-chef-laden lands of the Napa Valley. I do not.

I am from the Sacramento Valley. My home, Sutter County, produces more peaches than the state of Georgia, but not a lot of empathy or curiosity. In this rugged valley of hypermasculine farmers and construction workers, my passion — kindness, reading and charmingly draped garments — were not a seamless fit.

By the fourth grade, I learned that there was something about me that made me audibly different from the other boys my age. I could not mask it, I could not change it, I could not fight so well that I could earn the respect of my classmates. My voice evoked rage and disgust from my peers and teachers. I kept it hidden and tried to fit into a role that did not fit me. I played football, I tried to date girls. None of it worked, so I became quiet, very quiet, for a long time.