Born This Way (12 page)

My stepfather used to refer to me as
mariconcito
behind my mom's back. That's Spanish slang for “little faggot,” and at this age,
I was probably just beginning to understand that it was not a good thing.

My mom was responsible for dressing me up in these cutesy little outfits. This teddy bear was my best friend, and I didn't go anywhere without him. I'm pretty sure everyone picked up on my effeminate ways. Sadly, the religious influence and machismo of my Latino culture made me out to be deserving of much abuse. Nonetheless, I grew up to become a successful writer and turned all of that childhood adversity into fodder for art.

I would encourage queer youth to embrace whatever creative talents they may have and express themselves through music, painting, literature, or whatever gets them through.
Sometimes those of us who have been emotionally crippled are capable of creating great art and contributing to the inspiration of others.
Even if you create it just for yourself, it's great for letting go of hurt and moving on in life.

My folks lovingly tolerated my fascination with Dracula. All that Vaseline in my hair was pretty hard to wash out, but it was worth it! I certainly wasn't conscious of it at the time, but there was something about this dark, hypnotic, dominating masculine figure that must have struck a chord with me. Dracula routinely wreaked havoc on normal society, and even if he was destroyed in the end, he was just doing what came naturally to him. Was he appealing to me because I innately knew I was different as well?
My Dracula obsession branded me a weirdo,
which was good preparation for becoming comfortable with my own difference. I got a head start in accepting my own outsider status, and I found it empowering to be considered a bit of a freak among my peers.

I always felt like a fabulous fish out of water
in my hometown. This picture fairly screams “gay.” It was taken in the days of disco, when I enjoyed playing with dolls, banging on the piano, and looking like a young, gay version of Hugh Hefner. If I'd known when this photo was taken, I would have told myself that everything would be okay once I grew up and moved away! There was a lot of the world out there to see. And after I saw some of it,
I got to appreciate where I came from,
as well as who I am and have always been.

As a little girl, I didn't really mind if you were a boy or a girl.
I just wanted you to love me!
Honestly,
it wasn't until a few years ago that I really realized I was queer.
Now, I call myself an art fag, a lezzie, a dyke, and straight. But the truth is, labels don't matter.

I've been a music junkie since before I could walk.
The 45-rpm single of Shirley Ellis's “The Clapping Song” shaped me.
There are family stories of me hoisting myself up to the stereo so I could stare at the records spinning around and around. I was encouraged to be creative, and
I'm sure my parents suspected I was different.
Unfortunately, I spent most of my teenage years distancing myself from them, because I simply didn't know how to communicate the cravings that my body and mind were manifesting.

I started to come out in college. At the same time,
I was drawn to the alternative music and culture of the era.
I obsessed about bands like the Smiths, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kate Bush, and The B-52s, devouring magazines like
Trouser Press
and
After Dark
, road-tripping from our tidy suburb to classic Manhattan dance clubs like the Ritz, Pyramid, Boy Bar, Save the Robots, and Danceteria. My house-music cherry was popped at the legendary Paradise Garage.

If only I could go back and tell the young me not to worry so much about what everyone else thinks about him.
I would tell little Bill to embrace his inner joy and that it's okay to celebrate, feel free, and love unconditionally!

Other children often asked me, “Are you a girl or a boy?”

Granted, it was the 1970s and clothes were a bit more flamboyant, but I had a boy's haircut, a boy's name, and I wore white tube socks, for God's sake!
“Girlboy”
and
“Fruit Loop”
were just two of the nicknames I accrued in my early years.

One summer day we went to a family reunion. I wore a sleeveless blue terry-cloth T-shirt with matching shorts. I thought it to be a “safe” and “butch” choice, since I always wore it with sneakers and tube socks, not my beloved flip-flops. (I'll have you know I wore flip-flops back when no boy would be caught dead in flip-flops! You're welcome!) We arrived at Aunt Anna and Uncle Adam's home, and just as Aunt Anna started making the family reintroductions, Uncle Adam, who had been ogling me from behind his Coke-bottle spectacles, pointed at me and asked,
“And who is this lovely young lady?”
Beat … beat … awkward silence … polite laughter. Sweet Aunt Anna did her best to cover for him: “Oh, Uncle Adam, he's as blind as a bat.” Yeah, well, was the old man so blind he couldn't see my tube socks?!?