anarkhos

This is not an easy thread to write, not because of my own misgivings about it, but because of the society that surrounds it. In most cultures there is a strong demarcation between men and women. The first thing anyone asks when someone is born is "Is it a boy or a girl?" Thereafter, most languages have different pronouns and grammatical markers to indicate clearly whether or not a topic of discourse is male or female. Why the nature of what is between one's legs is so fundamentally important to each and every intellectual and social statement is inexplicable, and yet it seems nearly universal within human experience. In fact, when we try to speak or write in a gender free manner, our writing becomes unnatural and difficult.

There was a time when both genders had hard lines drawn between them and there existed a notion both of what it was to be a "real woman" and to be a "real man". In our own society, this line has become blurred with respect to women, but it remains rather solid with respect to men. Women will denounce a man for not being a "real man", but nearly no one denounces a woman, at least in our place and time, for not being a "real woman." Apparently, there are now a large number of beings with penises hanging between their legs who are not "real men" but no beings with vaginae that are not "real women".

Many cultures have specific tests to determine whether a male has become a "real man." There is a culture in Africa where a naked male must cross a dense herd of cows by leaping across their backs to become a "real man". In another culture, a male and a challenger must beat the hell out of each other. Whoever expresses pain or is knocked off of his feat is declared to not be a "real man."

Imagine that you have to pass some test just to "be real!" We have a much more subjective method. People just look at say, "he's a sissy" or "he's a real man."

Ironically, most of the "real men" I have known are cowards. They do what society expects of them exactly because the are afraid of the consequences of being different. They are afraid to cry. They are afraid to express softness and love. They are afraid to admit that they are wrong. If courage is part of being a real man, are these men "real men?"

For two years I lived in a Spanish speaking world with a Caribbean culture. For various reasons, I was more the primary care giver of my daughter than was my wife. When she wasn't in school, my daughter was with me. Most of the women in our complex began to believe I was a single father. I know because they asked me. For some of them, this was a turn-on and I would get propositioned by them in the elevator. For some others, this was a sign that I was somehow less than a man. After all, what kind of man spends most of his time doting over a young girl, taking her places, and caring for her?

Since I'm not a Latino, I asked my wife what these people thought of me. She told me, "they probably think you're gay or something." Choosing social approval never figured into the equation for me. What mattered most to me was (and is) my daughter, so I just had to put up with it, and I'm glad I did.

One interesting effect from all of this was that whenever another child in the neighborhood had a party, their mothers would either telephone me or come to my door to invite my daughter. If my wife answered the door, they would ask to speak with me. They thought of me as my daughter's mother and it was I whom they insisted upon making inquiries about my daughter. This caused some jealousy in the family because some very beautiful women were coming over asking to speak with me and my wife didn't like that one bit.

With that introduction, let's rewind back to when I was a child. Of all of my parents' children, I was the most affectionate. I bonded strongly with my mother (as my daughter has strongly bonded with me). I still think of my mother as my best friend and my daughter thinks of me as her best friend.

When I was a small boy, I often played with my sister and her friends. Sometimes other boys would make fun of me for it. I liked most of the things boys like and girls do not like: I loved electronics, robots, mechanical things, science, cars, and so on, but unlike most boys I did not like competitive sports, violence, and fighting. Clearly, I didn't fit in perfectly with either boys or girls. I was just me and to tell you the truth, I'm fine with that.

However, while most children were fine with me being me, their parents often were not and this stimulated their children to later provoke bullying. I remember this friend I had made on the next street over when I was about five years old. His name was Wayne. We would go over each other's houses and play. We got along very well. One day he told me that his mother really didn't like me. I was shocked and ask, "Why?"

"She says you're a sissy," he answered.

"What's a sissy?" I asked.

"I don't know. She said something like you act a bit like a girl. I really don't care but she doesn't like you," Wayne said with a confused look on his face.

I was very sad about this, but I had other friends so I just accepted it. When I got older, I had this good friend named Harry. Harry and I went to sixth grade together. At that time I had a crush on a girl named Linda. She sat in front of me in school. Harry and I spent a lot of time together and sometimes I would stay over his house and sometimes he would stay over mine. I thought the world of his mother. She was kind, sweet, and friendly.

Years later, when Harry was about to move away to Pennsylvania, he came by my house to say goodbye to me. He told me that I was his best friend and that he would miss me. He hesitated and said, "I have something to ask you."

"What?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Don't take this the wrong way, my mother likes you very much, but she always wondered if you were gay."

I was shocked at the question and felt ill as the words sunk into me. "Why did she think that?" I asked.

"Well, you were always so happy when you came over to visit and she just thought you liked me too much," he said.

I was flabbergasted by this. I replied, truthfully, "I like all my friends a lot. Shouldn't someone be happy when they're with their friends?"

Harry said, with a sad face, "So, you're not gay?"

"No, I'm not!" I replied. "But I will miss you, but only because you're my friend."

After he left, I began to wonder if Harry was gay and was hoping I was too. Well, I wasn't, but I still would have been his friend even if he were.

On several occasions, when I was in elementary school, bullies would target me because of my gentile nature. Whenever a schoolyard attack occurred, children would encircle the pummeling and cheer on the bully. I read in a book on bullying that children do this because they think that this will put them on the bully's side and, consequently, prevent them from becoming a target of the bully. The worst children of all, by and large, when this happened were the girls. For most of them, this was a wonderful spectator sport. They would cheer, "Kill him, kill him, kill him!" It was kind of like the Romans watching the gladiators. After the bloodletting ended, everyone would break away and I would pick myself up off the ground. Often one or two girls would show up and express their regret over the whole thing.

One day, in fifth grade, on a very cold winter's day, I hung my new winter jacket on the rack in the hall outside of my classroom, where all of the children hung their jackets every day. At the end of the day, when it was time to catch the bus to return home, I found my jacket covered with spit and mucus. Several of the bullies had spent some time spewing on it. They were waiting to see me put it on. I did not put it on. I left it there and walked out to the bus in the 20 degrees Fahrenheit air. It was snowing. I boarded the bus and got off at my stop, a five minute walk from home. When I got home, I was frozen and numb. My parents were pissed.

When I was in Junior High School, I had three friends whom I loved very much. One was named Stephen (just like me), another was named Paul, and the third was named Susan. Stephen and I were always hanging around with each other. We were in many of the same classes, and because our last names were similar, we had lockers within a yard of each other. We would sit together in most of our classes. We were both interested in girls. Each of us ended up dating this Susan, a beautiful Italian girl, over the following years. Indeed, between then and when I met my first wife, we basically swapped girlfriends (not like wife-swapping, but in a "since you and she have broken up, do you mind if I ask her out" sense). Though, on one occasion, his girlfriend and I (yet another Susan) skipped school, went into Boston, and somehow ended up making out in Boston Common where I got to "second base" for the first time. I don't know if she ever told him. I've kept my mouth shut about it until now.

Since Stephen and I were nearly always together, some teachers began getting the wrong idea. In particular, there was this teacher whom I will call "Miss C". One day, when Stephen and I entered her class, she said loudly, "you two can sit there!" pointing to two seats next to each other, "since you go together."

We looked shocked and turned red, "What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Oh, I didn't mean it THAT way," she said.

Now, these kinds of statements by adults had a terrible effect on our lives. Bullies began to call me "fagot", "fairy", "queer" and all kinds of anti-gay epithets. I got beat up on an almost hourly basis (no, I'm not exaggerating) for years on end. I got hit over the head with a shovel on one occasion and was knocked out. I was bloodied many times. In one case, I was ganged up upon in the locker room by three boys and got my nose broken. I left the locker room covered from head to toe in blood. Later I learned that the Gym instructor was telling people I was a "fagot" and encouraging boys to beat me up. Why? I guess being a gentle boy means you should die.

Girls bullied me too. One girl, a girl that I liked when she and I were in fourth grade, brought a vile of concentrated perfume to school. As she passed me in the hall, she poured it into my hair. Everyone in the whole hall could smell it. I was so embarrassed that I just turned around, climbed down the stair well, and walked out of school, back to my house, without asking permission to leave.

In junior high, I was probably the top student in science. Naturally, this made me more likely to spend time with the science teachers. In the eight grade I had this teacher named Mr. Merrill. Mr. Merrill pretended to be my friend to my face, but behind my back he told people I was a sissy. I know because he told my brother this. Mr. Merrill had a history of taking boys camping with him. He was in the national guard and invited a couple of boys each year on a camping trip. Someone who went on one of these trips told me that they all had to stay in their underwear in the tents. Combining this with what I am about to recount below, I wonder if he was a pedophile.

Our gym was a typical sized gym, about the size of an indoor basketball court. When we had gym class, a divider was used to divide the girls' side of the gym from the boys' side of the gym. There was a door in the divider that could be opened. The door was shut during gym class.

The gym was two stories tall and on the second story, above the gym, was a window where a coach could look down and watch what was happening in the gym. The window was inside of the coach's office. All of the boys were arranged in a grid and told where to stand. We were to do exercises in unison. I was positioned to be next to that door dividing the two halves of the gym. One of the boys who went camping with Mr. Merrill was positioned behind me. Suddenly, I saw Mr. Merrill the science teacher standing in the window overlooking the gym. Never before and never after did I see any teacher except the gym teacher in that window, so it was very strange to see another teacher there. He waved at me, so I waved back. Exactly at that moment, the boy behind me shorted me (pulled down my shorts) and a girl opened the divider between the gym. Evidently she had been in on it. To this day, I believe the attack was planned by Mr. Merrill. The gym teacher must have been in on it. This is the kind of harassment I went through simply because I am a bit different. I was humiliated and depressed for a long time afterwards.

The same year, my mother was called to a parent-teachers conference by my English teacher (Mrs. Gladen). Mrs. Gladen was a Latina married to a gringo. Gladen had nothing bad to say about me, but she bashed me to my mother for being a "momma's boy" who "couldn't let go of his mother's apron strings."

My mother was outraged and replied, "Of all the children I know, Stephen is the most independent. He takes the buses and trains into Boston all alone! What other kids in this school do that? He is brave. Sure, he doesn't like to fight, but he knows how to stand up and do what he wants to do."

The fact is, my mother was more right than she knew about. I was the only kid in my family who had the courage to travel places on my own. I did lots of things no other kids in the family did. I sailed on the Charles River, alone, at 13 years old. I got there alone (which is a big deal for someone living in the suburbs). I was even at the wheel of an airplane, flying, from time to time at that period of my life. I would hike up mountains with my friends and no parents. Later in my life, I would be the first child to leave the state on his own and live far away. I've never held onto my mother's apron strings. Yes, I think she's my best friend, but I see her less than any of my other siblings.

Nevertheless, since I am not exactly like what society expects me to be, I must be a "momma's boy", a "fagot", a "sissy", or whatever else.

The behavior of girls with regard to fights did not improve between elementary school and Junior High School. In many ways, they just became nastier. I was jumped by a kid on my way home from Junior High and a similar ring of children formed, only older. This time, however, rather than singing "Kill him, kill him, kill him," they chanted, "Fight, fight, nigger and a white, Stephen's the nigger and John's the white!" Being "the nigger" meant you were supposed to lose and everyone should cheer for "the white."

Things were not so easy for girls who were different either. I remember this girl in my seventh grade art class. She was flat chested and, in many ways, very similar to me. We both didn't fit well into the standard categories. Her name was Tracy and I kind of liked her, but being the subject of constant harassment I thought it better for her if I did not get close to her. Several students, both boys and girls, teased her for being flat chested. I don't know if they every beat her up, but she was shunned by boys and girls alike.

She was also in my eighth grade art class were I was blessed with a lesbian art teacher. At that time, being a lesbian was cause for being fired, so the school must have not known that she was a lesbian. As she saw boys in the class harassing me, she went out of her way to defend and help me. She did the same for the girls, but in their case what she did might be called recruitment. One day I heard her telling girls in the class that they didn't need boy friends and that she could tell them more about how to be happy without boy friends if they wanted to learn.

In High School, "Miss C" became my English teacher. She instructed me to sit in the middle row, second seat. Basically, the seat directly behind the seat in front of her desk. She assigned no one to the seat in front of me. When she wasn't correcting papers or taking attendance, she would sit on the table part of the desk directly in front of me. She always wore a miniskirt with semitransparent panties along with a partially see-through top with a lacy bra. Her breasts were very large and she was only about 24 years old. I was fifteen years old and very much interested in the female body, so I had this show every day during English class. She was definitely teasing me and enjoying it. I was shy so it was kind of intimidating, but I can't say I didn't enjoy it. Looking back, I realize that she would have been fired if she were a teacher in our current time (not just for that, but for buying marijuana from students in class). She wasn't allowed to teach there the next year. I don't know what happened, but I'm still grateful for the many views she provided. I hope she enjoyed it as much as I did.

High School was a turning point. The number of friends I had began to grow and many others similar to myself began to congeal into a clique of sorts. I became the president of the German club and I had a lesbian (during the first two years) for a German teacher. I did not learn that she was a lesbian until much later, but nearly all of the kids in my clique signed up for German and she was a delight.

I met a girl named Rosemary when I was in tenth grade and fell in love with her. We had a difficult relationship, but I considered her precious. She was a total tom-boy and my parents began to wonder about my taste in women (this is not to say that they did not like her, they did, but we made an odd pair). Rosemary liked to fix cars, was as tough as nails, and usually hung out with boys. Since I was the subject of so much ridicule, it was difficult for her to openly like me, but I think she knew, deep inside, that she and I were both outsiders in this world and that drew us together. Rosemary was the first girl I kissed. We secretly went to Nantasket beach one day and made out on the sand under a blanket. I took her to the semi-formal dance. Later when some other students gave her a hard time for liking me, she turned on me, for a while, and told them that her mother paid her to go to the dance with me. She had her own issues.

Over the next four years, Rosemary would come in and out of my life. I had the deepest of loves for her and she knew it. She did not like seeing me with other girls and whenever something began to bloom between me and another, she would show up and seduce me. This got old and finally, when I was in college, I decided that I would turn away from her for once and for all. She discovered one summer that I was at home in Massachusetts and ran over to my house, demanding to be let in. I refused to let her in. When she would not go away, I decided to let her in to talk with me. I explained how she had made me suffer and that I was willing to be friends but I could not be a romantic partner with her anymore. She showed up one more time, when she learned I was planning on getting married. She took me for a ride in a car, stopped at a make out place, and began kissing me. I wanted to be with her, but I could not. I was in love with another and she was too late. Several years later she died in a motor bike accident in New Hampshire. I cried inconsolably when I found out about her death. I cried so much that my wife at that time resented me for grieving so much over another woman.

Back to High School. As I mentioned, things began to improve in High School. Since I was dating, and the harassment began to effect other people in my life, I decided that it was time to do something about it. I did not like to fight, but I realized that I had to fight. I was no weakling. I had been on the swim team and I was in great physical shape. My problem was my abhorrence of the idea of hurting anyone.

While eating alone in the High School cafeteria one day during eleventh grade, a boy named John (the same boy mentioned above) began taunting me across the cafeteria in front of all of the students. Perhaps he was on drugs, I don't know, but he began calling me "fagot" over and over again. I tried to ignore him. When time came to exit the cafeteria, he was waiting for me just before the only door I was allowed to exit. He was smaller than me and I knew I was stronger than him, I just hated to fight. There and then I decided that I would put up with it no more. What followed next was far more difficult for me mentally than physically. I had to do what did not come naturally to me. I had to be like a fish walking on dry land. I had to force myself to do something I thought of as unimaginable. I had to take my fist and plunge it at high force into another person's face. As John raised his fists, I punched him with about 50% of my available force and he went flying across the room and crashed into the wall, blood coming out of his nose. I thought to myself, man, that was too easy. If that is what I can do half trying, I could probably kill him if I let him have it all. I flung myself onto him and began punching the shit out of him. A teacher grabbed me and dragged me down to the principal's office. I was told that I was being suspended from school for a few days and that my mother was going to be called. I smiled widely from ear to ear because I knew what would happen next.

The principal, all serious in expression and voice, told my mother that he was very disappointed in me, that I had severely beat up another boy, and that she was to come and take me home as I was suspended from school. It would go down on my permanent record.

I could hear my mother's voice shouting with glee over the telephone, "Wonderful! Tell Stephen I am proud of him! I hope he does it again!" She was laughing and all excited.

The principal put down the telephone and looked at me, "Uh, your mother asked me to tell you she's proud of you."

The principal escorted me to my classroom where I had to retrieve my books. As we walked into the classroom everyone was talking about what had happened. I announced, "Excuse us for the interruption, I need to get my books. I just beat the shit out of John."

The class broke out in smiles. The principal escorted me back to his office where my mother had arrived to take me home. She brought me to the house, gave me a hug, and said, "Enjoy your vacation, have fun!"

Soon I was dating other girls and some of the girls who once gave me a hard time started to befriend me. I was not out of the woods yet, however.

The same year, on my way to visit my friend Paul, a gang of kids stopped me and beat me with two-by-fours. There were too many of them for me to defend myself. I looked at the leader of the group and I told him, "You win now, but mark my words, I'm coming for you."

The next day in school, I asked around to find out where his locker was. I waited near his locker at the end of the day. When he arrived, I grabbed him by the neck, threw him into the lockers, punched him in the gut, and tossed him on the floor. I got on top of him, turned him over, tucked his arms under his body, and began beating him mercilessly to a pulp. A thick throng of students gathered around us. As a teacher worked her way into the circle, I dove into the crowd and escaped. This time, no one told on me. They were too afraid to tell the teacher who beat up the gang leader. No one fucked with me again.

I had countless other experiences like the ones above while growing up, but I did not turn out to be gay. If anything, I like women way too much. I prefer women as friends. I have only had women as lovers. I get along with women better than I get along with men.

I once fancied that perhaps the best way to describe me is as a male lesbian. Of all sorts of people, I get along with lesbians the best. After all, just like a lesbian, I prefer women as friends and as lovers. I even had a lesbian as a girlfriend when I lived in San Diego. That is quite an honor. A woman who prefers women decided to make me her boyfriend (in a sexual way) and our relationship was the third longest of all of the intimate relationships I've had with women over the course of my life.

I reject the idea of "real men" and "real women". There are many dimensions to personality. One dimension is what you prefer to have sex with. On that dimension, I am someone who is attracted exclusively to women. Another dimension is what you prefer to befriend. On that dimension, I lean towards befriending women. Yet another is what is between your legs. For that one, I'm a man. There are many more dimensions and many of them are far more important than these three. I, for one, am not confused about what I like. There is no ambiguity in this for me. Preferring women is not a choice I make, it is my nature. I see no reason to change that. What I would like to change is this notion that all humans fit into one of two clearly defined boxes. Hell, even five boxes are not enough.

Copyright © 2008, Stephen DeVoy. All rights reserved. Copying and republishing is prohibited without prior written permission of the author.