Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (11 page)

Since a ringing phone was a constant at our house, there was no reason to think the call, which came at around three o’clock one afternoon, would be anything significant. Ruthie answered it, as she always did, with a warm and friendly “Hello?” Hearing the voice on the other end of the line, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open with shock. At first, I thought that maybe someone was calling with bad news. Slowly her expression changed, and within a matter of seconds, she was smiling from ear to ear. “Well, how you doin’ girl!” It was Annette’s daughter (my surrogate little sister), Tina, on the other end of the line. It seems that Tina had somehow managed to remember our telephone number and had snuck away to a phone booth to call us. This was truly a gift from God and, despite whatever it would cost her in collect phone calls, Ruthie asked Tina to please continue calling. Though not ideal circumstances, her grandchildren were now back in her life.

Ruthie spent the rest of the day calling friends and family, telling them about the unexpected phone call. I hadn’t seen her that happy and animated in some time. Although initially elated, by the end of the day she seemed physically and emotionally drained. Though it was a happy reunion, Tina’s phone call brought a lot of pain back to the surface. Before going to bed that night we wound up, as we often did, in front of the television. During a commercial break, Ruthie quietly said to me, “Michael, can I ask you a question?” Her voice had taken on a seriousness that always made me a little nervous. “Sure,” I answered, not quite sure what she was about to say. “You won’t ever forget Annette, will you?”

A BABY SISTER

As I said earlier, the reunion between Wally’s birth mother and the man that fathered him didn’t work out. He and Wally’s mother were never able to make a life together, but they were able to make three more children together…three little girls…before he passed away. Shortly after the birth of the youngest girl, Wally’s mother again fell on hard times. Overburdened and unable to sufficiently care for her children, she called Ruthie and asked if she would be willing to keep her youngest child while she got on her feet again. Ruthie agreed. No time limit was set, but the little girl, Lizabeth, ended up staying with us for a few weeks on that first visit. Liz was every bit as cute as Wally. Cuter, actually, being that she was a little girl. She was four years younger than Wally and, in the time that she stayed with us, she completely won our hearts–even Jamesie. When it was time for her to return to her mother, we were all heartsick; we had become so attached to that little girl. It was probably less than a month later that Wally’s mother called and hesitantly asked my parents if they would consider taking Liz as well. She didn’t have to ask twice. I was now a big brother times two! And I couldn’t have been happier about it.

NOT A QUESTION OF CHOICE

I made some major transitions and growth during my high school years. It was the late 1960s and early 1970s–a time of peace, love and personal expression. I welcomed this new era, especially after the turbulent and angry times that preceded it. After all that talk of “revolution,” it was nice to hear people, whether sincere or not, speak of brotherhood and love. Replacing intimidation with fervor, I was now turned on by all that was happening in the world around me and wanted to be a part of it. Having spent most of my life feeling that I was different, I loved the idea of self-acceptance as society’s next big thing. It was as if, overnight, being different wasn’t a bad thing; it was to be embraced. I also felt a deep kinship with the idea of standing up for causes and issues that one believed in; issues that would serve to benefit all of mankind. I still carry these sentiments today, and time hasn’t mellowed the hippie/rebel/love child in me one bit.

While becoming more comfortable in my own skin, and starting to appreciate who I was, there were still areas of my life that I felt could be improved upon. So, I took control and began to make changes. The first thing I tackled was all the extra pounds. After so many years of being overweight, and the baggage that went along with it, I put myself on a diet and lost almost a quarter of my total weight. As I became more secure of myself physically, I became more secure of myself in other ways too. I went from fat to thin, shy to outgoing, and soft to tough (literally and figuratively) in the four years I spent in high school. I also began to come to terms with my sexuality.

I have no doubt that my homosexuality is something that I was born with, a part of my genetic makeup. It’s who I am, who I’ve always been, and who I always will be. Although not necessarily in a sexual way, I remember being attracted to boys as early as kindergarten. By the way, please feel free to substitute your favorite word of choice here. I know how hung-up some people are on semantics. So if gay doesn’t work for you, go with any word that you feel more comfortable with. And for simplicity’s sake let’s agree to define it as “one who finds physical attraction in members of the same sex,“ although it really is so much more than that.

Despite where my penis may have found itself over the years, I have come to realize that I was gay from the day that I was born, and I will be gay until the day that I die–and I have no problem with that. No, not every sexual encounter in my life has been of the same-sex variety. But the fact is, none of the hetero encounters held the same attraction and/or excitement for me that the homo ones did. Interestingly, though most people in our well-adjusted society (sarcasm intended…) equate being gay as solely a sexual issue, nothing could be further from the truth. If I had been born without genitals and never had a single sexual liaison in my life, I would still be gay. If I’d never so much as kissed another man, a very large percentage of my music collection would still be made up of original cast recordings (yes, there is some degree of truth in every stereotype!); I would still have an appreciation for, and seek out, the finer things in life. Being gay is so much more than whom you prefer to have sex with. When people can understand this, and get over their collective adolescent obsession with any and all things sexual, we will have made a large stride toward a better world.

Being questioned about my sexuality was another thing that used to make me extremely uncomfortable. No more. Today when people openly ask me, “Are you gay?” I respond just as crudely with: “Before I answer that question, and I will answer it, I’ll tell you that I know for a fact that people only ask me that particular question for one of two reasons. They either want to use the information against me, or they want to have sex me. May I ask which it is with you?” This response never fails to point out the inappropriateness of the question, leaving the one doing the asking–and not me–uncomfortable and embarrassed.

Unfortunately, my acceptance of my sexuality has done little to bring a satisfying relationship into my life over these many years. Perhaps that can be traced back to the tumultuous relationship, and lack of a legal commitment, that I witnessed between my parents. Or maybe it’s related to my father’s ever-present infidelity. Whatever the reason, I tend to view love and sex as two separate entities. Yes, it would be nice to have the two simultaneously–and I do see that as a goal to strive for. However, it hasn’t worked out that way for me. The times in my life when love and sex have intersected were few and far between. I have had an awful lot of sex without love, and I have loved deeply and intensely where there has been no sex. Do I have to tell you which was more rewarding?

My first homosexual experience, such as it was, was with a male relative just a few years older than me. We ended up having to share a bed one night on an out-of-town trip. Without going into any explicit details, I will tell you this much; it started out with him telling me supposedly true stories of sexual encounters that he’d had with girls, and somehow ended up with us playing with each other’s pee-pees. Is this deviant, sexually perverse behavior? I don’t think so. I see it as nothing more than a typical male rite-of-passage thing, quite common in the development of one’s sexuality no matter how it’s ultimately defined. Nobody was traumatized, and all parties involved had a good time. And in case you’re wondering, today he is married and the father of two adult children. And no, he’s not on the down low. I honestly believe that most of what our society refers to as sexual abuse would cease to exist if people would stop being so repressive about any and all things having to do with sex. Relax people. We, as human beings, are sexual by nature; get over it!

ACCEPTANCE AT LAST

Ah, 1973! The year that I turned seventeen, got skinny, and became socially acceptable. With all the positive changes in my life, I knew that the prospect of having sex–with another person–was now a distinct possibility. In a society that places more importance on how you look, as opposed to who you are as a person, I was starting to feel on top of the world. And though some of the more idealistic among us may argue that point, there’s no disputing the fact that my social status in life grew as my body mass shrank. By the end of that year I also found myself a part of something that had eluded me for most of my formative years: acceptance into that much loathed, yet always desired, social phenomenon known as “the clique.”

I was in my junior year of high school when I began working part-time at a local department store. My love of music and photography, two things I was attracted to, in part, because I could do them alone, helped land me a job as cashier/salesperson in the record and camera department. The part-time employee pool consisted of high school juniors and seniors. The difference was that none of my co-workers knew the fat, nerdy kid that I used to be. They quickly welcomed me into their ranks as if I, like them, had been skinny my entire life.

Most of our social activities outside of work centered around booze, although there was the occasional foray into more serious forms of attitude adjustment, though nothing more serious than marijuana and the occasional pill. Our big thing was throwing impromptu house parties whenever any of our respective parents were away. Despite the fact that a few members of the group had coupled up, we were a “gang.” Cliques have a bad reputation, and deservedly so, but being a part of this group of kids did more for me personally and socially than any of my life experiences up to that point. I experienced a whole new level of friendship with this rowdy bunch. We stood up for each other, covered for each other, and went to bat for each other. I learned an awful lot about life from this group of friends. I learned trust, loyalty, and kinship. I also learned how to perform the Heimlich maneuver, how to conduct oneself in court, and how to kill time while waiting hours for a friend to get an abortion. As you can see, the dramas I was subjected to with my new circle of friends rivaled, and often surpassed, those I experienced at home.

WHO AM I?

Adolescence is the “Sybil” stage of life, a stage that we all go through. It’s all about multiple personalities co-existing inside you, with each one taking its turn at the forefront until you find the one that fits best. I had more personalities “than Carter had pills,” to coin one of Ruthie’s favorite expressions. Often these personalities worked well together, complimenting each other. At other times, the mix was like oil and water. First, we had “normal, straight-laced, do-the-right-thing Michael,” dutiful high school student by day, respected and hard-working department store employee on evenings and weekends. Then there was “after-work Michael,” who loved to party, socialize, and get crazy. This was followed by “artistic, theater-loving, and sensitive Michael” taking secret trips into New York City, seeing Broadway plays and musicals, going to television show tapings, and dreaming of one day having a career on the stage. These personas kept everyone, including me, in the dark about the real Michael. Who was I? And everybody’s perception of me at that time was inaccurate in some way. However, I often thrived on those misperceptions, finding many of them flattering. Especially the one where I was seen as some kind of sexually experienced heterosexual stud.

Being more attractive to people, I gained a large amount of self-confidence. However, inside I was still pretty insecure, especially around other boys my age. I saw that they were much more natural at assuming masculine personas than I was. As a result, I formed more friendships with girls; they were less threatening. To my pleasure, others interpreted this not as a cover for my insecurity and blossoming homosexuality, but as an indication of my self-confidence with the opposite sex. Far be it from me to correct them and burst their bubble! If that’s what they wanted to believe, it was fine with me. I delighted in having the reputation. Of course, at the time, I was still very much a virgin and, to be honest, I was scared to death of actually having sex–with anyone.

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

Often, when I was bored with nothing to do, I would hop a bus alone and venture to New York City and just walk around. I’d spend hours going to parts of the city that I’d not been to before, exploring its many and varied neighborhoods. But no matter what new area I checked out on any given trip, I always ended up back in the theater district. One day while walking past the Ethel Barrymore Theater on 47th street where I had seen my first Broadway show, a taxi pulled up and stopped outside of the stage door. I slowed my walk to see who would be getting out as Inner City, a new musical by my now favorite director, Tom O’Horgan, had just started performances. Who should step out of that cab? None other than Delores Hall! She had just left the cast of Hair to do the show. Seeing me, and recognizing me from my numerous visits to the stage door of Hair just down the block, she smiled and said “Hey, baby, how you doin?”