LGBTQ Literature is a Readers and Book Lovers series dedicated to discussing literature that has made an impact on the lives of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer people. From fiction to contemporary nonfiction to history and everything in between, any literature that touches on LGBTQ themes is welcome in this series. LGBTQ Literature posts on the last Sunday of every month at 7:30 PM EST. If you are interested in writing for the series, please send a message to Chrislove.
Good evening, faithful LGBTQ Literature readers. This month’s offering is going to be different from my usual fare. I’ve been playing around with the idea for this diary for a while, and this month seemed like an ideal time to do it. Tonight’s diary will be a little “lighter” (compared with my deep dives into academic books, at least) and a lot more introspective about what LGBTQ literature means to me. I hope you’ll jump into the comments with your own thoughts and experiences, as well.
I’ve been thinking lately about this series and why it’s important to me. I believe strongly that queer representation is of the utmost importance in all forms of media, from television to film to literature. A large part of the reason I think representation is so important is because all of these media play formative roles in the development of young LGBTQ people. That being said, if you asked me what role literature about LGBTQ people played in my development, my first answer (without thinking about it) might be, “None.” And it’s true, I wasn’t reading Giovanni’s Room when I was 14. For that matter, I wasn’t reading anything at that age that centered on gay relationships that I could relate to or see myself in—hence my initial reaction to that hypothetical question. But, of course, it’s simply not true that literature about LGBTQ people played no role in my development as a gay person. It’s just that most of the literature I was exposed to offered negative depictions of gay relationships, which obviously had (and probably continue to have) enormous implications for my own coming-out process.
I was raised in a very religious environment. I don’t even know if “very religious environment” is adequate to describe the fundamentalist borderline-cult I was raised in (whatever comes to mind when you read that, it’s probably worse than you think), but suffice it to say that everything I knew about homosexuality came from the church. I knew that gay people were wicked, I knew that they were sexually promiscuous, I knew that they were predators, I knew that they were sinners bound for hell. I knew that homosexuality could potentially be cured through God. And that’s about it. This was the 90s, and there were more positive portrayals of gay people on TV and in print by that point, but I wasn’t exposed to any of them. For years, it was beaten into my brain that “turning gay” was one of the worst things that could happen to me, a fate worse than just about any other.
When I entered puberty and began to realize that my sexual attention was almost exclusively turned to the boys around me, I entered a long period of constant anxiety and panic. I remember one moment that really drove it home to me that I was different than my male friends. On a Boy Scout camping trip, one of my friends brought some porn to pass around (don’t tell me you’re surprised Boy Scouts were passing porn around), and I remember looking at it and not only not feeling what others around me appeared to be feeling, but being repulsed by what I saw. It was clear that the nightmare scenario of “turning gay” was becoming my reality.
We didn’t have the Internet yet, or I might have gone there first. I had the library, though. And that’s where I went to find answers about what I was feeling, although I didn’t know where to even look. I ended up looking for books on puberty and “changing bodies” and what-not, and I’d immediately go to the index to look for “homosexuality.” A number of books told me that homosexual feelings could potentially be a passing phase. And that became the hope I latched on to—this was all just a phase. It would pass. I even set “deadlines” for myself. This will pass by the time I turn 14. This will pass by the time I turn 15. This will pass by the time I turn 16. Of course, the deadlines kept moving, because, well, it just wouldn’t pass.
For a few years (again, before we got the Internet), books became the primary way I explored who I was. I remember going to Waldenbooks in our local mall. I had a ritual that nobody could know about. My first destination was the photography section, where I’d located a few books with tasteful male nudes. I’d find a secluded corner of the bookstore and stare at them, trying to imprint them on my brain for later. Then, I’d go to another section of the store to read about homosexuality. But again, I didn’t really know where to look, and I ended up going to places with which I was familiar. So I went to the Christian section, and I recognized the name Dr. James Dobson, so I’d open the book and go to the index, and then read what Dobson had to say about homosexuality. So yes, to recap, my Waldenbooks ritual was getting myself excited, and then reinforcing the idea that I was a sinner bound for hell. It is just occurring to me as I type these words that this very early intermingling of sexual pleasure and shame about homosexuality probably helps explain a lot about the years that followed.
The Internet, of course, changed everything for me. Not only could I read more material about homosexuality from different perspectives (at least, different from James Dobson’s perspective), but this was also the heyday of chat platforms like AOL Instant Messenger (AIM), where I spent an enormous amount of time talking to people I’d met on various Internet forums. One person I met—and became very good online friends with—was a boy about my age from Ontario named Ryan. We were already good AIM friends when he told me he was gay. And not only was he gay, but he did not appear to have any kind of shame about it—no fear of hell, no religious parents suppressing him, no church to worry about. He was open about it. It was so strange to me, almost unthinkable. My initial reaction to his coming-out was to tell him that I’d still be his friend, but I did not approve of his lifestyle. He said he understood, and we continued to be friends. It wasn’t long after that, however, that I started confessing some of my own feelings to Ryan. We talked a lot about it—he was a safe person with whom I could be completely honest. He told me about his own process of accepting himself, coming out, and living as an openly gay kid in Canada. He validated my feelings and pushed me to accept that this wasn’t a “phase” from which I’d someday emerge. Ryan and I had a falling-out (about something completely unrelated), and even though we “made up” afterward, things were never the same. I remember his first name, but not his last, and I have no way of checking on him or telling him how important he was to me in those formative years.
By the time I was about to go to college, I’d accepted that I was gay. But even then, that acceptance came with a heavy dose of shame—and a belief that I would go to hell for it. By now, my “acceptance” of myself came with the caveat that one day, in the distant future, I would repent and seek “help” for my homosexuality.
And then, one day, I stumbled across a book. It was a used book in Ollie’s Bargain Outlet, of all places. This was in rural Pennsylvania, where I think I was convinced gay people (other than myself) didn’t even exist, much less books about gay people. But there it was, on the shelf. Chris Nutter’s The Way Out: The Gay Man’s Guide to Freedom No Matter if You’re in Denial, Closeted, Half In, Half Out, Just Out or Been Around the Block (what a fucking title). It was a sign, or a gift from God (or maybe Satan). I knew that I had to have this book. I picked it up, carefully, checking to see who was around. I walked toward the checkout, scoping out which cashier looked “safe” enough. These were things I worried about back then—as if a cashier was going to look at the book, look at me, and yell, “Found the faggot!” Well, of course, that didn’t happen, but I walked out of the store in kind of an adrenaline rush.
I think it took me all of one day to read the book cover to cover. I don’t have the book anymore, so I’m working from memory here, but I believe Nutter is a gay man originally from the South (Alabama, I think). He moved to New York City as a young man and became a bartender at a gay club. He was very fit and attractive, and he fucked constantly (I could not relate to this part of the book). But he was unhappy with himself, and much of the book is about how to “free” oneself from various constraints placed on gay people and learn to truly accept oneself. I don’t remember much else about the book, except that it was revolutionary to me. This was the first book I’d ever read that spoke of homosexuality in a positive way. It was the first book that told me that what I felt was normal, not sinful (Nutter himself is a spiritual guy, I remember correctly), and there was nothing to “fix.” I could accept that I wasn’t going to change and that it was okay. I wasn’t sick, there wasn’t a vengeful God waiting to send me to eternal damnation, I can love myself for who I am. These ideas almost sound quaint today, but they were radical to me back then.
Not long after I picked up this book, I found another one on a bookstore shelf: John Boswell’s classic Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century. This was back when I was still trying to reconcile my Christianity (which I have since abandoned) with my homosexuality, and this book—although it was too heavy for me to read cover-to-cover back then—also changed my life. Church intolerance of homosexuality wasn’t inevitable or unchanging, and it didn’t have to be that way. I could be gay and Christian. I could be gay and believe in a loving God, not a maniacally homophobic God. Again, these were radical ideas to me. Boswell’s book, I believe, also put me on the path toward studying LGBTQ history, although it would take a few more years for that interest to crystallize.
So yes, literature about LGBTQ people and “LGBTQ literature” have shaped me into who I am today, both for better and for worse. Queer representation is important. Positive depictions of queerness are important. Not just “important,” but potentially life-saving. At the end of the day, I think that’s what this series is ultimately about at its core, even if we don’t say it explicitly most of the time.
I don’t know if this has been interesting to anybody but myself, but it was cathartic for me to write. I’d be interested to read in the comments about your own thoughts and experiences with LGBTQ literature. And, if you’d like, you can even write a diary about it! Because guess what—we’re always looking for LGBTQ Literature writers. Let me know if you’re interested in contributing on any of the below dates. This is an important series, and I’d it to remain alive with diverse perspectives. See you next month.
LGBTQ Literature Schedule (2021):
If you are interested in taking any of the following dates, please comment below or send a message to Chrislove. We’re always looking for new writers, and anything related to LGBTQ literature is welcome!
January 31: Chrislove
February 28: Chrislove
March 28 April 4: Chrislove
April 25: rserven
May 30: Chrislove
June 27: OPEN
July 25: OPEN
August 29: OPEN
September 26: OPEN
October 31: OPEN
November 28: OPEN
December 26: OPEN
READERS & BOOK LOVERS SERIES SCHEDULE
