Dear Julia,
Thank you for your last letter, it cheered me – I am amazed mail flows so quickly between Macau and Portugal – it must be the airport. Here’s another secret for you.
When my stepfather left for sea, my brother and I let out a collective sigh – for six months, there was no mowing the lawn twice if I missed a blade of grass or him eating food off the floor if his head hovered too close to the plate at dinnertime. For six months, there would be no whippings for imagined infractions or restrictions for not having been shipshape or squared away. Most welcome was the suspension of humiliating spot inspections of our person or room searches for contraband. Of course, with him away, we’d still play by the rules – we always did – only we wouldn’t have the threat of swift and merciless punishment. Although, mama always threatened us with “getting it,” and we suspected her many letters cataloged our every failure.
Once my stepfather was on deployment and no longer a MARSAT call away, his stern voice didn’t admonish us for our supposed laziness. I did almost everything he did: I mailed the bills, washed the cars, painted and scraped, fixed this, and took care of that. I watched my brother and sister late into the night, waiting for mom to return plastered from her many girls’ nights out. To while away the time, I baked bread or made cakes. I did what had to be done. I wasn’t told what to do; I just did.
After he descended the ladder to shore at Norfolk Navy Yard, the first month was a honeymoon. It was fitting we wore our Sunday best to greet him. As a reward for not flinching when he hugged us, he lavished us with gifts from overseas. My prize was a Royal Navy jack – I hung it over my bed. Despite resenting his return, I wanted nothing more than to please him. I showed him my grades, how well I kept the flower beds clean, kept his shoes shined in his absence, and shared any and everything to get a pat on the back. Praise rarely came. He told me I could do better.
In the second month came the fights and the beatings. I never knew what would set him off, but I’d mind my P’s and Q’s. This was usually the time I disappeared into myself. He treated me like a dumb subordinate who needed to be told how to do what in exact detail. I saw him do the same to seamen under his command, except I doubted fists and belts were used at Captain’s Mast. At this point, he’d go back to calling me my mother’s son, denigrating my roots, or calling me a faggot like the faggot Portagee Uncle Tony. I was far from sullen; I was numb to him.
One evening I made him a double gin and tonic as I often did. He had a magazine out and asked me to take a look. He slurred: look at that guy. My guard was down, and I commented on how handsome a man the model was. He goaded me and agreed with me. Soon we were talking about his profile and lips. I was in a dream state of bliss talking about the model. Suddenly, I felt a crack on my face, and I was on the floor, dazed. My stepfather said, no son of his was a fucking faggot. He gave me a swift kick in my ribs and told me that I need to un-fuck myself. My mother yelled at him, and he said, you have a fag for a son; he’s goddamned queerbait. My nose was broken, but they didn’t take me to the hospital. I told everyone at school I fell down the stairs. After that, everything settled down for a while.
They had division parties at our house, and I recognized many faces from gay bars I visited with my girlfriends. They had me along because they liked to dance and I liked to dance, and no dancing was better at the bars. I acted aloof at the parties, but I knew my parents knew I knew about their friends, and they told me to stop acting squirrelly. Every now and again, they told me I had better not be gay. I was often asked point-blank if I liked girls. I’d blush and be told bullshit. I wasn’t gay; if anything, I was what my mama called a “late bloomer” who never bloomed. My parents decided I was no longer fit to watch my siblings. They began hiring babysitters. These young women were very attractive, and I ended up going to my room confused about all the feelings I was having. On the one hand, I was painfully attracted to these young women who frequented my house; on the other hand, only men in bars showed any interest in me. The thought of men did not feel right, and the thought of women did not feel right, either.
My world was comprised of binary oppositions: there was the usual right or wrong. Sexually this translated into straight or gay. I didn’t fit into either box. I understood it was okay to be wrong if no one caught you, but my dual un-attraction made no sense – I had to choose.
I graduated from high school and spent a long summer watching my parent’s marriage dissolve. The violence reached an uptick, and my confusion only spiraled along with it.
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