Speaking Out: LGBTQ Youth Stand Up

By Steve Berman

Speaking Out features stories for and about LGBT and Q teens by fresh voices and noted authors in the field of young adult literature. These are inspiring stories of overcoming adversity (against intolerance and homophobia) and experiencing life after "coming out." Queer teens need tales of what might happen next in their lives, and editor Steve Berman showcases a diversity of events, challenges, and, especially, triumphs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781602826021

Steve Berman

Author of over a hundred short stories, editor of numerous queer and weird anthologies, and small press publisher living in western Massachusetts.

Book preview

If I ever encounter a time machine, I want to have this book on hand.

I’m daydreaming as I type this—the look on a fifteen-year-old Steve’s face as future (or is that present? damn, time travel plays havoc with adjectives and tenses) me hands him an anthology of stories, all showcasing the self-esteem every LGBT kid needs. No, deserves. I’d probably be all mumbly-mouth, telling teenage Steve to read this story first…no, that story. Well, I’d recommend he avoid the intro or else the entire space-time continuum might collapse around New Jersey (a risk in any era, let me tell you). That fifteen-year-old me would be able to face high school, then college, then his twenties without much of the fear of being alone, being different, being gay. He would know that the voice he used to entertain himself with odd stories could be heard by many who understood the daily trials (harassment by bullies, hiding from parents and straight friends).

Voices are meant to be heard.

Such are the thoughts stirring in my head as I read the authors’ stories. I want to have read them ages ago, to have grown up with them, as so many kids grow up with fairy tales (which are all so boringly hetero). Not that I believe the stories in Speaking Out are cautionary tales like Red Riding Hood or Hansel & Gretel. I’d like to think of them as incautionary—the authors you’ll discover when you turn the page want you to be brash and assured no matter what your gender or sexual identity. These are new tales for a new era.

My hope is that by the time you set this book down, you’ll be encouraged to speak up, to speak out. In 1987, six gay activists in New York began promoting AIDS awareness with the slogan SILENCE = DEATH. But silence also means bullying and seclusion, inurement and loneliness.

Those of you who have come out, be heard. Those of you who know someone who is LGBT, let them be heard (and if you only suspect they are queer, listen harder). Those of you who are peering out from the closet, trust your voice. Be heard.

All of us involved in Speaking Out are ready not only to tell our stories but to listen to yours.

Steve Berman

Spring 2011

Rigoberto González is the author of eight books of poetry and prose, including the YA novel The Mariposa Club. The editor of Camino del Sol: Fifteen Years of Latina and Latino Writing and the recipient of Guggenheim and NEA fellowships, winner of the American Book Award, and The Poetry Center Book Award, he writes a Latino book column for the El Paso Times of Texas. He is contributing editor for Poets and Writers Magazine, on the Board of Directors of the National Book Critics Circle, and is Associate Professor of English at Rutgers–Newark, State University of New Jersey.

Whenever I travel and give readings or presentations, I always make sure my audience knows that there’s an out and proud gay Latino in front of them. Even if it’s obvious to many, I still speak openly about ethnicity and sexuality, because I discovered that modeling this courage gives permission to others to do so. This was something I learned when I was a shy closeted college kid, still embarrassed by my Mexican heritage, and especially by my name! But I kept running into people—presenters on stage—unafraid and confident about where they stood: As an out lesbian…; For gay men like me…; My queer Chicano community…; My beautiful black gay brothers… I don’t remember these people’s names, but their strength made it possible for me to be strong, which is why I keep my message gay-positive. I never know who’s in the audience, waiting for an opportunity to become visible. The last time this happened was in Decatur, Georgia. At the end of the presentation, a teenager came up to me and asked in a timid voice: Excuse me, Mr. González. Could you recommend some books about people like us? People like us need to keep spreading the word.

Lucky P

Rigoberto González

Nemecio and Paloma. The names click together, royal and golden, like an emperor sitting next to his empress. Like Maximiliano and Carlota, the two rulers of Papi’s Mexico. Like Romeo and Juliet, the two lovers of Mami’s Shakespeare. Except that Papi’s rulers and Mami’s lovers all die in the end, their glory cut short by worlds that don’t allow the richness of their names to soar. The burden of the double weight always brings such couples down.

Nemecio and Paloma. I am in love with their names as much as I am in love with each of them. My name is Pedro Pérez, common and everyday as a name like Bob or Fred. In fact, that’s who I’m named after—Fred Flintstone, Pedro Picapiedra in Spanish, because Papi identified with Fred’s big flat feet, the same big flat feet that got him rejected from the military. So he pursued his other passion, operating heavy machinery, bulldozers and such, breaking ground and gravel just like Fred Flintstone, minus the slide down a dinosaur’s back at the end of the workday.

So there I am, sitting at my desk designing a heart large enough to fit the elaborate handwriting I use when I write the names of my two crushes, Nemecio and Paloma, leaving myself out because I don’t feel there’s room for a cartoon character name like mine. How comic: Pedro Picapiedra and Nemecio, Pedro Picapiedra and Paloma. Nemecio and Paloma. Much neater. The match is more dignified, like Maximiliano and Carlota, like Romeo and Juliet.

Are you with us, Pedro?

I must look startled because my classmates begin to laugh. And it seems unfair to be shaken out of a daydream only to wake up in a vulgar high school geometry class with poor old Ms. Kaneko standing over me, probably wondering if this time she should tell my mother, one of the English teachers at the school.

Ms. Kaneko, taking pity, walks back to the chalkboard and finishes her lesson while I slip back into the fantasy of fitting my two loves into a single heart.

*

As soon as the dismissal bell rings, I bolt from my seat before Ms. Kaneko has time to stop me. I hear her utter the two plain syllables of my name, but they’re drowned out by the scuffle of bodies because this is the last class period of the day.

Pedro! I hear my name again, more clearly this time because it isn’t old Ms. Kaneko saying it but Nemecio as he walks out of the remedial math class across the hall.

Not only can Nemecio stop me in my tracks, he can stop my breath. He’s as elegant as his name, with curly dark hair and long thin feet inside long narrow shoes that remind me each time I see him that I have inherited my father’s features—thin hair, big flat feet.

Are you headed home? he asks. He smiles at me and I want to knock my head against the lockers.

No, I shouldn’t be headed home because I’m on the yearbook committee, and my task is to make sure everyone’s names are spelled correctly. If this were a typical California high school with names like Tiffany Smith and Lewis Johnson, it wouldn’t be too big of a deal. But we have names like Nemecio Villaseñor and Paloma Manríquez, names so proud of their tildes and accent marks that they have to be checked and double-checked before the yearbook goes to press.

Yes, I’m headed home, I say, and in my head I calculate how late I will be after I rush back to the school as soon as Nemecio and I part ways.

Cool, he says. He smiles, and I’m pleased that this pleases him.

As we walk side by side through the hall, I feel the jealous eyes on me and it makes me feel superior. Nemecio has chosen me again to be his companion from the front steps of the school to the corner of Third and Ralston. That’s six city blocks of walking on air. He doesn’t ask me every day, but at least once a week he lets me cling to him like a static-heavy sock on a shirt, hoping perhaps that my mother, looking out her classroom on the second floor, will see us together. Or that my father, getting out of work at that hour, might drive by and raise his eyebrows in approval. Or that I will somehow remember to mention Nemecio’s name at dinner. I walked home from school with Nemecio this afternoon. You know him, right? He wants that summer job at the construction company. Or maybe, just maybe, he actually wants to spend time with me. Why should that not be a possibility?

If I could wave a wand I would grant Nemecio’s wish and have him in my life past the school year and into the summer months so that Papi will utter his name in the house and it will be as if his breath spread the scent of Nemecio’s cologne.

I take a long slow whiff and nearly faint from the manliness of it.

Are you all right? Nemecio asks.

I clear my throat. Yes. Allergies.

I get those, too, once in a while, he says.

I want to hug him for lying. But instead I hug my books, just like a schoolgirl. And I grin, suddenly wishing that there were more people to bump into during our short walk, or that more people would step out of their houses or look out their windows. I want more witnesses to my stroll in a state of bliss.

Nemecio stops and looks over at me and says, You’re in a good mood today.

I blush and shrug at the same time. I am? I say.

Yes, he says. This time I smile.

Care to share? he asks, and he mirrors my smile. He has done this before, and that’s where it usually ends. But today he goes one step further. He reaches over and flicks his finger gently on my chin.

Did he just touch me? I must be standing there too wide-eyed for words, so Nemecio decides to move on.

Well, I’ll see you on Saturday for Spanish tutoring, Nemecio says. Say hello to your father for me.

Okay, I say, a little too faintly. I watch him walk away until he turns the corner and I can no longer hold on to the sight of his snug pair of jeans. And then it’s like a spell is broken because I have to hightail it back to my second love, Paloma.

*

Where have you been, Pedro? Paloma says. She’s got her reading glasses on and a pen sticks out of her gorgeous brown hair, right where the ear is hidden.

Small emergency, I say. But I’m here now.

Fine.

She picks up a clipboard with a list of names, a few rows crossed out already. When she hands it to me I catch the scent of her perfume. I suspect she dabs it on her wrist like my mother does when she and Papi go out to a wedding or to a social function put on by the construction company. The smell ropes me in each time Paloma comes near me.

When I start on my task, I realize there are five more people in the room, each one under Paloma’s supervision. How easily I forget that anyone else exists when I’m around her. It’s strange. When I’m with Nemecio I want everyone to notice. When I’m with Paloma I make everyone disappear.

By the way, staff, Paloma announces. We’re our own team at the Senioritis Games.

The rest of the group groans. I’m excited because I’m only a junior but will be allowed to play since I am part of the yearbook committee.

Now, now, she says, and I want to throw myself at her feet because she commands such authority and respect. We have to model school spirit. We don’t have to win or anything, but we all have to participate. Pedro, since you’re the only one who didn’t roll his eyes at my announcement, you can be my co-captain. She winks at me.

I blush. And something inside me wants to stand up and take a bow, but everyone’s moved on, including Paloma, who adjusts her glasses as she looks down on the table to compare two photographs. I purse my lips and look down at my list of names. Andrea. Lorenzo. Sara. Luis. None of them as interesting to consider as Paloma. Or Nemecio.

*

Walking to the corner of Third and Ralston for the second time is lonely. It’s not yet spring, so the afternoon temperature drops and I wish I had remembered a sweater or a hoodie. And without Nemecio by my side I feel slightly vulnerable. Once I walked with Paloma, who usually drives to class, but that one week it was in the shop she had to walk just like the rest of us who lived nearby.

You walking my way? she asked.

Toward the mall?

She nodded. My ride’s there. Linette, my sister. She works at the nail salon.

That was the most personal information I had ever gathered about her at one time, and I still hold on to it dearly.

I can walk you all the way to the mall, I offered, feeling protective.

You don’t have to, she said. But thank you. That would be nice.

Unlike the times I walked next to Nemecio, who was mostly smiles and very little chitchat, Paloma laughed and swung her head about as she talked about this and that, a disposition so different from the times she was acting as the head of the yearbook committee. But the real surprise came when we reached the parking lot of the mall.

You are such a sweetheart, Pedro, she said. And then she leaned down to kiss me on the cheek.

I still carry that kiss, even when I’m walking next to Nemecio. At night, I place pillows on both sides of me and I fantasize that I’m sleeping between them and that when I toss in my sleep I sometimes throw my arm to my left, and then switch to the right, neglecting no one, comforting all.

*

At dinner, Papi and Mami make eyes at each other all evening, which means that they will be up in their room that night having sex. They used to call it trying to make a baby, but since no other baby has been made since I was born sixteen years ago, they’re now resigned to the fact that they do it because they like it. But it’s much more special because we’re married, Mami explained to me once. And I rolled my eyes at her.

I can take care of the cleanup tonight, I offer. And Mami giggles.

Papi gets up and tries to touch Mami’s behind and she gets all shy and proper all of a sudden.

Artemio, stop it! she says, giggling some more as she swats his hand.

Oh, for crying out loud, I say. Would you two just go up to your room already!

This time Papi laughs. Don’t worry, son. Your time will come.

The condescending tone annoys me. Thankfully, they have left me alone about it, but I know they still think I’m confused, that I haven’t figured out if I am gay or straight, as if those were the only choices. Papi probably hopes that I’ll turn out straight because I’m the only child and what a shame it would be if I didn’t have a son to inflict our legacy of thin hair and big flat Flintstone feet. Mami probably hopes that I’ll turn out gay because that will mean I will never leave her side the way Johnny Méndez never left his mami after her husband died. He cooks for her and wheels her out to the porch when the sun is shining and he tells her every chance he gets how beautiful she looks even though she’s an old woman with very little hair and bad teeth.

What’s in a choice, anyway, except loss? I don’t want to lose either Nemecio or Paloma. Well, okay, they aren’t really mine, but they bring something out in me that makes me feel I’m alive. Why would I want to let go of half of what gives me pleasure?

When the groaning and moaning noises start to get a little loud upstairs I walk over to the couch, reach for the remote control, and turn the television on. Artemio and Maribel. I’ll let them have their dance on their side of the house as long as I can have mine.

The phone rings and I roll my eyes at that, blushing a little because it’s not as if the phone will notice.

Hello? I say.

Pedro, it’s me, Adam says in his unmistakable high-pitched voice.

What’s up?

What you doing? he says, his voice lilting.

Watching TV. I quickly add, But you can’t come over because my parents are having sex.

Oh, I hate that, he says, which sounds like a strange thing to say because he’s been wanting to have sex with me since we were in junior high. We weren’t friends then because the black kids and the Latino kids didn’t really mix, but everything changed in high school because of sports and the dozens of clubs.

You hate that my parents have sex? I ask, just to toy with him.

He squeals. No, dummy, I hate that I can’t come over. I’m bored out of my mind.

Like me, Adam is an only child, and this is one of the many parallels in our stories.

Maybe I can come over there, I say.

Not tonight, he says. My mother’s church group is here organizing some picnic, and you know she doesn’t let me bring anyone up to my room.

I shake my head. I wish I could tell Adam’s mother that nothing’s going on between us, but she probably wouldn’t believe me. Her son is effeminate, therefore he messes around with boys. The truth is I’m not sure he’s messed around with anyone. No one from around here anyway, and certainly not since we became friends a few years ago. He would have bragged about it.

Hey, he says. I saw you walking with Nemecio.

I grin. Really? Isn’t he hot?

Too hot for words, Adam says. He’s not gay, is he?

There we go. Labels, labels, labels. But it’s an argument we’ve had too many times before, so I let it go. I don’t know, I say simply and sigh.

He’s still yummy, he says. You know who else is yummy?

I half pay attention to Adam rattle on about this guy and that guy as I surf the television. One thing is swirling your impossible loves in your head, another is actually talking about them. It can get uninteresting fast.

I’ll tell you who else is yummy, I say.

Who? Adam says, perking up.

Paloma, I say.

Who?

Paloma, the head of the yearbook committee. She’s cute, she’s hot.

The pause that follows tells me Adam’s making a face. Behind me, Artemio and Maribel walk by in their bathrobes.

Who’s on the phone? Mami asks.

Adam, I say.

Hey, Adam! Papi calls out.

Your parents are done, I see, Adam says.

Yes, but I still can’t play. I want to crack open the Spanish textbook, I say.

That’s right, you’re tutoring the hottie! Woof! Woof!

I’m annoyed at how Adam refuses to acknowledge my sexuality, so I tell him I have to get off the phone.

Maybe I’ll come over tomorrow and get some tutoring myself, he says. I want to master my lips in Spanish, if you know what I mean.

Talk later, Adam, I say, and hang up.

You’re still tutoring that tall lanky kid who wants to work at the construction company? Papi asks. He sits down on the recliner and opens up a bottle of beer.

Yeah, are you going to hire him? I ask.

Don’t know yet, my father says. It depends on our budget. Besides, he’s a bit on the scrawny side, isn’t he?

My mouth drops open. These are hardly the adjectives I’ve been using.

Nemecio is a very healthy-looking young man, Mami offers from the kitchen. And I’m glad he’s getting the help he needs for school.

He needs to pass a Spanish language class to graduate, I say.

He doesn’t know Spanish? Papi says.

I sigh. Nope.

With a name like Nemecio? Papi says. Wow.

Mami comes over with a glass of wine in her hand. Now, now, Artemio. Don’t get all Mexican militant on the kid. Blame the parents for that one.

A shame, that’s all, Papi says, and he turns to the TV.

Paloma says the same thing, I say.

Paloma? Papi says. Pretty name.

She’s also the smartest young woman in the school, Mami adds. Our valedictorian, in fact.

I beam with pride and try to hide it by changing the subject. "She says it bugs her when people don’t know what her name means. She said one time a girl thought it meant pigeon instead of dove."

We all laugh at that and I know Paloma would have appreciated that in this household we all know how beautiful and special her name is.

I like her, I say. It’s an admission that breaks up the laughter. My father’s the one who doesn’t miss the opportunity to steer things his way. My mother squints, looking suspiciously at me.

Really? He puts his beer down. Have you told her?

But now I’m at a loss. Instead of answering the question, I look down at the remote control in my hands. I try to swallow, but there’s something caught in my throat.

I’m sure that Paloma knows that Pedro appreciates her very much. Mami reaches over to tousle my hair and I move away.

That’s not what I mean, I say. I like her. As in, I think about her all the time and when she’s near me my entire body goes warm.

Papi is about to smile, probably thrilled that he won some kind of wager with my mother, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction either. So I quickly add, It’s the same with Nemecio.

Papi’s face grows serious. The three of us sit there unsure of what to say next. If anything, I seem to have confirmed that I’m still confused. But it’s not confusion I feel, it’s exhilaration. Since junior high they have been trying to get me to come out, either as gay or straight. They don’t ask directly but through a series of leading questions to which I give noncommittal answers because I know what they are up to. I’m not stupid. And tonight I came out all right, as neither gay or straight.

Well, Papi finally says. And I want him to say the right thing for once, like, That’s wonderful. Maybe you will find the love of your life, male or female. But instead he says, You know you can’t have two relationships at one time. It gets a little messy.

Artemio, Mami says, throwing one hand up in the air.

What? he says, unaware of how dumb that comment sounded.

I’m not looking for two relationships at once, I say. That’s not how it works.

It?