Lots of Questions, No Answers
Story by: Anonymous
My best friend while I was growing up was Jeffrey. We were inseparable for years. We met through our church, but because our families were so involved in the community, we saw each other at least once every week; maybe twice or more, if we could convince our parents to let us have a sleepover. It helped that my older brother was best friends with his older brother Tyler, because that meant we didn’t always have to be the ones asking our parents.
Jeffrey was the kind of kid that every kid wants to be. He was fast, good at sports, good-looking, funny. All the girls at his school loved him, which meant he always had the coolest girlfriend (and just having a girlfriend would have made him cool enough). I was always shocked that someone like Jeffrey wanted to be my friend. So, we stuck together like glue.
Sleepovers at Jeffrey’s house were my favorite. Our house was bigger, but at his house we could stay up late, watch movies, play video games, and play kickball or whiffle-ball in his backyard. On one particular weekend, kickball was the sport of choice. When it was Jeffrey’s turn to kick, he stepped up to the plate and kicked a home run, farther than I had ever been able to kick the ball. As he rounded the bases, I thought about how athletic he was, how funny he was, how good-looking he was, and how much I wanted to be around him all the time.
And then I thought to myself, Am I gay?
It was a fleeting thought. It lasted for five, maybe ten seconds before the game kept going. But when I went home, that thought returned. And it would return not just when I saw Jeffrey, but with every close male friendship I made throughout high school and college. I found (and still find) myself drawn toward funny, athletic, good-looking guys, and even though I felt confident that I was straight, that question was always in the back of my mind; sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shout.
I grew up in a church and with a theology that was non-affirming. I didn’t have the language to call anything “queer,” let alone the theological space to even entertain the idea that I might be anything other than “straight.” And to be honest, I hadn’t even thought to consider that moment in Jeffrey’s backyard as a queer experience until I took this class. I don’t know what this story means for me. Moreover, it feels like a point of supreme privilege to passively reflect on an experience from my childhood for a 500-word writing assignment and decide what it means without dealing with any of the trauma my queer friends and classmates have gone through. But I’m wrestling with how to understand my own story, my desire for men, and what it means to call oneself “queer.”