How did you know you were gay?
I didn't.
My earliest memory that I recall perceiving a difference between me and the rest of the boys was in kindergarten. It was during a rehearsal for my graduation dance; each couple had been assigned, and I was not feeling it. No, I did not want to dance with a boy; and I definitely did not want to be a girl. I just knew that the girl-boy situation was not my cup of tea. But I was five years old, I did not pay attention to such things; all I wanted to do was color books and come up with different uses for my cars and trucks that Grandma had bought me every year on January sixth.
I grew up as an only child; yes, I do have another siblings, but they lived with my Mother (and that's a story I'll tell you later). It was just Grandma and myself in the household, so any theory regarding too much female influence is out of the question; sure Grandma was there all along, but she raised seven other males and they all are as straight as they can be. In Mexico, mid-nineties, kids would gather in the street to play all evening, so I did have interaction with other boys, and we played games that boys played. But I always prefered the company of girls; I felt more comfortable. And that's the very first time when someone else pointed out my scarlet letter: MARICON.
I remember the boy that said it. And I remember that the rest of the kids giggled, maybe in embarrassment for me, or maybe out of fear because that boy was older and mean, or maybe they also agreed and were glad that someone finally said it. So I walked away. There was a fence in between my house and me, so I had to walk around it all while being laughed at, and told that I was no longer welcome to play with them. I remember that moment very clear, and I also remember the shame blurring my sight, burning down my cheeks. So if you ask me now the question at the very top of this entry, I can give you a more specific answer: I knew I was gay when someone called me a faggot, even before I knew myself what was going on. I knew I was gay when someone put shame on my name before I could figure it out myself. I knew I was different, I wasn't an idiot, but I just couldn't come up with a word to identify how I was feeling inside. I knew I was more sensitive and delicate than other boys, and I had heard grown ups whisper as soon as Grandma and I walked past them; but it wasn't an issue for me nor for Grandma. Until that evening when my world came crashing down at the sound of that word, and the echo of their laughter.
MARICON. PUTO. MANO CHUECA. I knew the meaning of these words at five years old. I had seen and heard them all before used on the town homosexuals. And I was ashamed and terrified to be called any of those names. I hated every single one of those words. I was five years old and each word stung me, bruised me, scarred me. Even though I knew I wasn't a slut (puto), and that my hand was not limp (mano chueca) and it had nothing to do with my being gay, I was still a maricon (faggot) in their eyes --because that's what they heard from their parents, from their family, from the friends, and other people around.
Now, tell me how did you know you were heterosexual?
I grew up as an only child; yes, I do have another siblings, but they lived with my Mother (and that's a story I'll tell you later). It was just Grandma and myself in the household, so any theory regarding too much female influence is out of the question; sure Grandma was there all along, but she raised seven other males and they all are as straight as they can be. In Mexico, mid-nineties, kids would gather in the street to play all evening, so I did have interaction with other boys, and we played games that boys played. But I always prefered the company of girls; I felt more comfortable. And that's the very first time when someone else pointed out my scarlet letter: MARICON.
I remember the boy that said it. And I remember that the rest of the kids giggled, maybe in embarrassment for me, or maybe out of fear because that boy was older and mean, or maybe they also agreed and were glad that someone finally said it. So I walked away. There was a fence in between my house and me, so I had to walk around it all while being laughed at, and told that I was no longer welcome to play with them. I remember that moment very clear, and I also remember the shame blurring my sight, burning down my cheeks. So if you ask me now the question at the very top of this entry, I can give you a more specific answer: I knew I was gay when someone called me a faggot, even before I knew myself what was going on. I knew I was gay when someone put shame on my name before I could figure it out myself. I knew I was different, I wasn't an idiot, but I just couldn't come up with a word to identify how I was feeling inside. I knew I was more sensitive and delicate than other boys, and I had heard grown ups whisper as soon as Grandma and I walked past them; but it wasn't an issue for me nor for Grandma. Until that evening when my world came crashing down at the sound of that word, and the echo of their laughter.
MARICON. PUTO. MANO CHUECA. I knew the meaning of these words at five years old. I had seen and heard them all before used on the town homosexuals. And I was ashamed and terrified to be called any of those names. I hated every single one of those words. I was five years old and each word stung me, bruised me, scarred me. Even though I knew I wasn't a slut (puto), and that my hand was not limp (mano chueca) and it had nothing to do with my being gay, I was still a maricon (faggot) in their eyes --because that's what they heard from their parents, from their family, from the friends, and other people around.Now, tell me how did you know you were heterosexual?