Bill 1

CW: sexual assault

Bill 1

Scene I: Notes from the basement

The basement of my family home was a scary place: lots of spiders, spiky green webs, the occasional gondola snake slithering through a hole in the foundation; the eternal dark fruit cellar (the shelves were lined with Campbell's soup and canned tomatoes), dirt from outside yard work and a weekly coat of dust from the clothes dryer; my dad's workbench, a stack of corrugated steel and an oil stove. This is my least favorite Saturday chore: cleaning up the mess, dusting and daddy legs.

As creepy as it is to me, here I am, hiding in the men's underwear section of a recently abandoned Sears catalog. I was looking through old comic books and was fascinated by the ads for Charles Atlas' dynamic tension program. I think it had more to do with the picture of Atlas than the promise of me not getting kicked in the face by bullies on the beach.

ACTOR'S NOTES: Why do I know I have to hide in the basement to watch that stuff? Why do I already understand that looking at pictures of men is wrong and sinful, worthy of shame and guilt? Mom and Dad, will you teach me that? Is it Father Aronofsky? Family, friends and neighbors? Everyone? Did you know that over the years, I began a lifelong spiral from shame to anger and sadness? The shame sets in, its roots fast and deep.

Scene II: Oil City

I often accompanied my parents to Aunt Dooley and Uncle George's house in Oil City. The drive is a bit long, but I'm always so excited: Aunt Dolly is the best cook. Dinner is always great, inevitably homemade pie and ice cream. Afterwards, I usually walk with my uncle to see his garden. He is a kind and gentle man.

I was happy this time because none of my seven brothers and sisters showed up. My uncle and aunt (and apple pie) mostly myself. So excited! While my aunt and parents were in the kitchen putting the whole dinner together, my uncle and I were watching a news show on TV - I think 60 Minutes. The announcer introduces the next segment, titled "Gay." I was completely captivated and horrified by the initial images I saw on television. My uncle's head perked up. Did he notice my interest? He made a voice, calling for my parents: Arnie and Anna Mae! There is a program on TV about gay people. I don't think you'd want young Arnie watching this, would you? Dad called me immediately and I blushed, my face turned red.

Actor's Notes: This is the first time I've ever referred to "gay" as the name "gay", which is how long I can remember feeling otherwise. This was also when I learned that being gay was so bad that my parents didn't want me to have any discussion about it. Uncle George, I know this was not your intention, but your and my father's reactions make me feel ashamed, embarrassed, and scared. You know what made me realize who I am is scary? Something I have to hide and never talk about with my family? It made me realize that if my family found out the truth about me, I would be shunned and not loved. Alone.

Scene III: Yellow school bus

I hate taking the bus to school. All those bumps and vibrations seemed to cause a rise in my pants on the ride to and from Baden-Pernodior. I always have a satchel on my lap to hide it, even if my face is beet red. The bus was also where I tried to avoid Chris and other potential bullies, keeping my eyes lowered and minding my own business. One day - the same day the metal shop teacher with the entire class asked me if the kid sitting next to me was a boy or a girl? - I'm going to take the bus out of school and see there aren't any bullies today. I found a seat in the back where pretty girls and cool kids sat. The girls seemed to like me and we were joking and laughing.

As the bus pulled out it screeched to a halt, the doors opened and Chris kept going. shit. Chris walked backwards down the aisle; I looked up, terrified to see him looking at me. What is your fagot doing in your seat? I stood up and moved and he pushed me back into my seat. You're not sitting here anymore, I understand whether I'm on the bus or not, Fagot? The bus was deadly silent, except for the pounding in my ears, which was as loud as my screams of humiliation. I look at the girls I just laughed at, begging them with my eyes to get help, to do anything. there is nothing. I stood up in the silence and shuffled toward the front of the bus. I know some kids stared at me and some didn't. I sat in an empty seat, even though I really wanted to open the bus door and jump onto the highway.

Cast Notes: Chris, why are you humiliating me in front of my kids? Are you doing this to look tough in front of girls? You know how it was like sticking a knife in my gut and having to ride the bus every day for the rest of my school year terrified me? Do you know how much I hate you from then on? And you, my temporary girlfriend - how can you speak for me? You, bus driver, where the hell are you?

Scene IV: Movie Night

It was a muggy summer night and I was hiding among the thorns on the hillside between our house and my next-door neighbor’s house. I can see the road from here; I'm waiting for Bob to come home. He showed me several porn magazines in his garage earlier today and he told me to come back this evening when his dad would be drinking beers at the American Legion. My stomach was tied in knots as I watched his car drive me through the brambles, then turn onto his driveway, a few doors further away. I got up, brushed off my shorts, and walked to his house. The lights are on in the garage where he does electronics repair work. I called his name and he waved at me, closing the garage door.

The garage was hot and reeked of ozone and oil. Bob pulled some pornographic magazines from a stash hidden in the fallen ceiling. He showed me a couple with a man and a woman, then a couple with just the man. He told me he wanted to show me something in the house, and I followed him with nervous anticipation. He grabbed an 8mm movie projector from his bedroom and placed it on the kitchen table. Weird. He started the movie - some kind of erotic western - and I sat there watching, unable to move or speak. He reached out from the chair and placed his hand on my crotch. He started rubbing and squeezing. Still can't (don't want to?) move. He unbuttoned my shorts, pulled my dick out, stoked it for a moment, then got down on his knees and put it in his mouth. He asked me, is this your first blowjob? Me, yes .

We ended up in his fluffy bedroom. He took off his pants and underwear and asked me to suck him. I reluctantly, resisted, wanted. I was scared for one second that his father was going to go. We both cum. He hides the projector and we return to the garage. He starts talking about everyday things, like what just happened versus eating breakfast, going out, or doing homework. I was 13 and Bob was in his thirties. I went home feeling guilty, ashamed, relieved, and confused. Most have different feelings.

Over the next few years I returned to his garage many times. Sometimes it's alcohol and porn magazines, sometimes it's sex (with or without movies). Sometimes, there's a mean boy on the street with us. It's always the same confusing feeling, wanting it and hating it at the same time. But that's all I have.

Cast Notes: Bob- You've been dead for a long time, so I can't tell you directly how you screwed up my life. But you did it. I could use mentors and guides to help me understand my sexuality, but you are not interested in that. Just as much kindness and devotion as you pretend, you are using me. You took my sexual awakening and turned it into something dirty and hidden. Sex and sexuality are forever tainted. For most of my adult life, I did not have an intimate relationship. You gave me herpes - the scarlet color stuck to my breasts for the rest of my life. I grieve every day for what you stole from me.

Scene V: At the Ashram

The Jesuit Resort is an imposing but beautiful brownstone tucked away among acres of woodlands and manicured gardens in rural central Pennsylvania. The rug runners on the hardwood floors, the soft, dim lighting in all rooms, the abundance of candles in the chapel, the silence, the uninteresting smell of Murphy's Oil soap - all combine to create the perfect environment for prayer and meditation.

That’s why I’m here: praying for my decision to enter the priesthood and to feel God’s welcoming embrace. Finally, I will be in a community where I will be accepted, protected, and loved unconditionally. My whole future life rests in the mercy of God.

It’s been two days since the retreat and I feel a strong ball of emotion in my gut. Incredible sadness, anxiety and panic, a sense of utter loneliness, an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness. Finally, I told the retreat leader - a feeling I have, usually the brain, of a Jesuit. Then the words "I think I'm gay" spilled out of my own mouth. The pastor did not pass negative judgment. Instead, he encouraged me to stay in the ashram and meditate on my feelings. But the unyielding assault on emotion was too much for me. On day three, I walked away from the retreat and the future of the entire program.

Actor's Notes: While I'm not sure God exists, I'm pissed that He/She/It has brought me to the point where I'm ready to take care of it for the entire future, my life. Then it pulled the rug out from under me. The loss of my carefully planned and secure future saddened and angered me. After all, I work hard and pray harder. I was a good Catholic boy. Maybe it's all set-up; gullible, I hope. It seems like all this praying and following rules is bullshit. I gave up trusting anything; trusting anyone.

Scene VI: Family Secret

It's time, I decided. I told several of my sisters that I was gay. Of course, this started an avalanche between them, and soon all the siblings knew about it. Reactions to my revelations were mixed as I had individual conversations by phone or letter. Two of my sisters reached out with understanding and support - they already had gay friends. One of them cried in shame, remembering how she had used the word "sissy" to mock me. Some of them feel trapped between what I want to accept and what their "beliefs" tell them about gay people. Over the years, a few (at least a little) have come.

I contacted my parents in a letter. I want to say too much to them all at once. I want to get it right. When my siblings heard the letter was from Narlot, a couple checked my oldest brother (who lives near my parents) who checked the mailbox every day and intercepted the letter so my parents never saw it. He refused.

I got a call from my parents. My mother is crying. My father sounded disappointed and sad. We talked briefly and agreed to talk later. My dad said he loved me, but added that I just thought the gay lifestyle was a dead way to live . My mother cried. A few years later, after my dad passed away, I tried to continue talking to my mom about it. It always turns into her crying and saying she's worried about me. And, she said she loved me. My sisters urged my mom to reach out to her sister or best friend to talk about how she was feeling. She never did. So ashamed.

Cast Notes: All my adult life I have been waiting to hear from my parents and siblings: We love you, Arnie, our gay son/brother. I'm devastated that my parents will never be able to say these words, and never will, because both of them are dead. I grieve the lost opportunity to work harder with them. Some of my brothers and sisters cannot reconcile their “faith.” I'm tired of hearing their different versions of "love the sinner, hate the sin." Tired of them embracing preachers, media hosts and politicians who demonize LGBTQ people and then don't understand why I find this crazy. I'm tired of fighting for their acceptance. Tired and sad.

Scene VII: Side Death

After I came out, I moved to Washington, D.C. - the big city. I discovered new friends, community, a variety of people, culture, and ideas beyond my small-town imagination. I find joy, freedom, wonder, acceptance; anxiety, fear and shame in riding. I also discovered death.

This was the early days of HIV/AIDS and I was working as an office assistant in a medical practice for infectious diseases. Every workday young men and occasionally women come into the office after a trip to the emergency room for pneumonia, a dermatologist encountering a strange red rash, or their primary care doctor suffering from unexplained fatigue and night sweats. They were told they had AIDS. Sometimes it’s gay couples. Diagnose simultaneously, or one after the other. I don't recall coming in with their family members of origin (but it probably happened hundreds of times).

The waiting room is filled with both newly diagnosed men and men with Kaposi's sarcoma spots. People with sunken, wasted faces. Treatment is multiple pills of this drug, taken several times a day. Some people also try heard homeopathic remedies, such as kelp baths, to absorb the relentless, relentless viruses that have turned their immune systems into biological artillery factories. They come every two weeks for monitoring and blood work; I've become friendly with most of them, friends. Most often, within a year or so, the young man withers and dies before my eyes. Some people hang on until a new treatment gives them a fighting chance.

Several close friends were diagnosed - most (though not all) late enough in the epidemic to benefit from new treatments. Despite not following all the safe gender rules, I somehow escaped the infection. luck. A roll of dice.

I'm not sure how many acquaintances and friends died during this period, from the late eighties to the mid-nineties. Too much; too much mourning. I compartmentalized my life - trying to stay emotionally detached from death and loss. But death and loss are always around the corner from the dance floor. There's always a side room hidden somewhere. I had to ignore them to survive; I became a master.

Cast Notes: What selfless universal force gave life to this plague virus and then stood aside while it tortured and killed millions of women, children, and men? Some ideas of justice and salvation they knew: God, of course, punishing and purging the ranks of His worthy children of unclean homosexuals. Mothers and children are innocent victims - unfortunate casualties in a holy war. Every country and culture has come up with its own irrational reasons to explain the insanity of AIDS. I developed techniques for keeping anger and sadness at bay - and suffered the consequences.

act 2

Scenario I: Island/Present and Future

So, thirty years of life events - approaching sixty, retirement, the death of my mother - triggered in me the urge to dig up my past traumas and act out the grief. Despite (mostly) years of therapy and taking antidepressants, I was forced to navigate a sea of ​​toxic clumsiness that clogged my emotional engine and kept me from achieving my dreams: dreams of happiness, dreams of longevity in intimate relationships, dreams of writing wisely and wonderful stories to share with the world, feeling safe and loved. Reclaim yourself with trust and faith.

I attended a month-long residential trauma recovery program. I continued to invest in therapy and medication. I increased my exercise and weight loss regimen. I recovered from online refuges, AA meetings, and yoga classes. I cut back on my drinking (a little, anyway). I took several writing and other creative courses. I share my experiences with close friends and family. I did all of these things intentionally to help my heart, mind, and body process the grief wrapped up in my anger.

I learned a few things along the way.

My past experiences were / painful and painful and shaped many of my better qualities. I have great empathy for others and a strong aversion to putting others down based on first impressions. I don't know what burdens others bring from the past or present; I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. I try to be friendly and welcoming and don't crave conflict. I recognize the importance of community, whether it's the LGBTQ community, the recovery community, or the community of my chosen family. These are my own favorite character traits.

I also discovered that there is no real beginning or end to working through past trauma. This work will continue until I die. I will never completely remove the sadness from my soul. Some past wounds never fully heal. I would feel the loss and see the scars.

But, it's a big one, but I retain hope, sometimes dim, sometimes stronger - gradually more and more full life. A life I wish to share with others. I'm not sure what sustains that hope. I think it's because of the people in and out of my life whose faith and love for me kept me afloat during the dark times. Plus, on this trip, my fellow travelers had shared stories of how, despite trauma, many people I felt I could never tolerate survived and thrived. Finally, perhaps, at my core, my belief in and love for myself is something I often fail to see clearly through demeaning self-talk and emotional rejection. Whatever the reason, hope stubbornly remains, and I'm grateful for that.