Column: Jeremy Corey-Gruenes, Paths to Peace

One of my favorite types of writing to both read and teach is the personal narrative essay. Good personal narratives share a truth from the author’s life experience that resonates with the reader because even if the reader’s life experience has been completely different than the author’s, simply being human unites them.

The introduction to college writing course I teach begins with one of these essays, and a sample I like to share is Tobias Wolff’s “On Being a Real Westerner.” Wolff grew up in the late 1950s and later served in the Vietnam War. In the essay he recalls a dangerous and selfish routine he had as a child of aiming a loaded rifle from his apartment window at unsuspecting passersby while relishing in his hidden power over them.

Wolff writes, “All my images of myself as I wished to be were images of myself armed. Because I did not know who I was, any image of myself, no matter how grotesque, had a power over me. This much I understand now. But the man can give no help to the boy, not in this matter nor in those that follow. The boy moves always out of reach.”

Truly knowing ourselves and feeling comfortable in our own identities is something we’ve all struggled with at some point, and we’ve all wished we had done something or said something else at different times in our lives, but we can’t go back and change history. We can’t change who we were then.

One of the things I wish I could go back and change in my life is something I did repeatedly in high school. A couple of my friends and I had a running comic bit we used to do in which we’d each assume an exaggerated gay persona. We’d talk with lisps, act overly effeminate, and flirt with one another, spontaneously slipping into these roles whenever there was a receptive audience. We thought we were funny, and our audience generally did too. Well, maybe not the entire audience.

I’m now certain that my gay classmates didn’t appreciate the act at all. I didn’t know at the time which of my classmates were gay. But I now know a number of them were, and they were often witnesses to this “funny” little bit we did. It probably intimidated them and possibly made their blood boil. We were mocking their identities after all.

But 20 years ago small town gay teens had little choice but to react like everyone else, to laugh along with the rest or at the most appear indifferent. Most gay teens were closeted. To be “out” would have definitely meant social isolation, emotional bullying and quite likely physical violence. To openly criticize what my friends and I did would have risked inviting someone to question their sexuality, to make them a target of bullying.

I know now that my behavior was a soft form of bullying and harassment. I say “soft” not to minimize its significance or impact, but because it wasn’t specifically directed at any particular student.

In fact, I never would have acted that way had I known a gay student was present. In my ignorance, I assumed that everyone present was straight because they didn’t exhibit any of the stereotypical characteristics I was mocking. My motivation wasn’t to hurt or isolate gay students, even though I’m sure I did.

At the time I didn’t really understand what my motivation was. What I understand now is that by pretending to be gay in this way I wasn’t just seeking attention and laughter from my peers. My true intent, I think, was to communicate an unspoken message to everyone watching and listening: I’m not gay.

In addition to declaring my heterosexual identity, there was a secondary, unintended, and more harmful message too: Gay people are ridiculous, laughable and somehow less worthy of respect than I am, not because of their personal character but simply because of who they are, because of their identities.

When I met my first openly gay friend in college, and he confided in me how scared he was to come out to his parents because he was convinced they would never speak to him again, I began to understand how ignorant and insensitive I had been in high school.

As I got to know him better, I understood that his identity as a young gay man in no way threatened mine as a young straight man. I understood that being gay isn’t a choice, that it isn’t a defect, that it isn’t wrong or sinful. It’s simply who some people are.

Twenty years ago, when I was in high school, GLBT (gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender) students had little protection in our schools from bullying and discrimination, and no one even discussed the possibility of gay marriage, but that’s changing. Twenty years from now, I believe we will look back at this time in history with the same wonder we do now regarding the civil rights era, thinking, “Can you believe people were denied such rights simply because of their identities?”

Like Tobias Wolff, I can’t go back and change what I did or who I was as a boy. But as a man, I know my identity isn’t shaken or threatened by another’s right to be different than I am, and I take heart in believing social change is on the horizon as more and more of us understand this as well.

 

Jeremy Corey-Gruenes teaches at Albert Lea High School. He lives in Albert Lea with his wife and two young daughters and can be reached at jcorey2@gmail.com.