More than Just a Son

By R. Christopher Longstreet

Phillip Anderson, a former college football player who stands six-feet-eight-inches tall, is appalled after catching his youngest son trying to copy ballet dancers on TV. He is inclined to believe that eight-year-old Brandon is displaying gay tendencies. Since Brandon shows remarkable athletic ability, Phillip encourages him to immerse himself in sports, which should direct him properly into manhood and away from being a “sissy-boy”. Over the years, Brandon develops into a celebrated high school and collegiate football player who goes on the win the Heisman Trophy.
Telling a young boy to “be a man” can take a toll on who he really is and who he may develop into. Many believe what society does to boys before they grow into men is wrong. This new psychological novel delivers an insightful read of the complexities a father discovers and accepts about raising a gay son. All this happens despite his understanding of the homophobic stereotype surrounding an athlete in the world of competitive high school and collegiate football.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528986618

R. Christopher Longstreet

R. Christopher Longstreet is presently living in Sydney, Australia after moving from London, England. Originally from Seattle, Washington, he received an MPS degree from Cornell University.

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About the Author

R. Christopher Longstreet is presently living in Sydney, Australia after moving from London, England. Originally from Seattle, Washington, he received an MPS degree from Cornell University.

Dedication

This book is written for those young persons who are gay and families with such persons who, because of the stigma attached to being gay; a stigma that can become particularly daunting and sometimes seemingly unbearable, face a homophobic element in society that invariably hinders the fulfilment of them becoming proud and content with who they are. For such persons to develop one’s strength of character and self-esteem towards attaining happiness and completeness in their lives, requires a strong belief in oneself, buttressed by love/support from family and close friends.

Copyright Information ©

R. Christopher Longstreet (2021)

The right of R. Christopher Longstreet to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528986601 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528986618 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

I’d like to acknowledge the many LGBT groups in their cause of providing open channels of communication and support they offer the LGBT community. Particular thanks to my dear friends Nicole and Aaron Boucher and family of Longwood, Florida; Mauro Vaccaro and Steffi Maglietti and family of Milan, Italy; Randi and Margo Beatty-Singleton of Salt Lake City, Utah; Edward Rieber-Mohn of Oslo, Norway; Rev. Mark S. Merrill of Macomb, Illinois (And in memory of his late parents John and Catherine Merrill); James Cheeseman of London, UK; Tony and Sylvia Hashani of London, UK; Kim Fagergren of Stockholm, Sweden; Giuseppe Martin and Manuel Mario of Vizio Italian Restaurant in Sydney, Australia; with special thanks to Krittawan (Ken) Prymoon of Sydney, Australia and Bangkok, Thailand; and with appreciation, much love and gratitude particularly to Cody Alexander Skene.

Chapter 1

Standing behind the corner of the wall leading to our living room where I spent many hours as a young child, my father had stood in his shadow, the light in the hallway radiates above his head, watching me mimicking the ballet dancers on the television.

I was fascinated by the dancers.

They appeared to be like birds.

The music swept over them, lifting them up as if they had magical unseen wings, soaring high in the sky, gliding through the air – curling, pitching, sliding effortlessly in the magic of their bodies spinning, floating.

I was bedazzled to think I could do the same, so I pretended I too could fly, caressed by the softness of the music passing through me. Moving step for step enjoined with the dancers, tiptoeing on the perimeter of their exquisiteness.

Suddenly, my father came crashing into the room, took me in between his big arms, lifting me up. I gasped, shocked at the abruptness of his intrusion into my dream world.

His hands locked tightly into my waist, I dangled frozen with fright.

Stop that this instance! Why are you prancing around like some Nellie? No son of mine is going to be a ‘sissy boy’! he bellowed, shaking me as if whatever was making me want to mimic the dancers he could dislodge.

That look in his eyes.

Those cold, steely, round boulders ready to smash out of me what had annoyed him I would never forget.

I was eight years old.

"That’s for girls. You hear me! Do not let me see you carrying on like that again. You should be doing ‘manly’ things as men do and not like them ‘fruities’ prancing around like women. Real men do not do that.

You hear me!

I nodded my head.

What else was I supposed to do?

My father, six seven with huge arms, a big, intimidating head on broad shoulders, once played college football as a defensive lineman.

His voice always boomed.

He never whispered.

Everything about him was powerful and hard.

No! No! No! he commanded. You don’t nod your head. You answer me, boy!

Yes, father. I gurgle, my mouth partially frozen in dread, mind leaking of all sense of what was happening, the suddenness sunk deep into my nerves causing me to begin to piss in my pants. I managed to cut it short instinctively it seemed, for not wanting to cause him further ire.

He stared into my eyes as if he was looking for something only, he knew was there.

The tautness of his hand relaxed, he put me down.

I will never forget the cold, conquering smile come over his face. I trembled as he raised his hand, expecting more abuse. He patted me on my head just as gently as he had harshly lifted me from the floor.

My confusion between the harshness of his anger and tenderness of him would begin to concern me for the next thirteen years.

I attempted to run to my mother, crying and sobbing about what my father had done.

He came after me again.

Snatching me up in one swoop, he hauled me off me into his office den near the front of the house down through the long corridor leading from the kitchen, where my mother nested much of her time during the day.

I struggled to contain the tears, holding my breath to curtail my sobbing.

He placed me in the big leather chair at his desk, spinning it rapidly over and over again. Finally stopping, I disoriented, but not so much the fear inside my belly did not capsize.

He stared at me, gritting his teeth, his face wide with seething anger.

I waited in shock, afraid to move, to think, to even take another breath.

My fear vibrated through me; its weight so heavy I could not feel my legs.

Teetering in my stillness, tilting forward and snapping back, all the while I did not remove my eyes from his face.

What am I going to do with you, little man? he growlingly mumbled.

I— I began to say.

Shhhhh, he interrupted, putting his finger to my mouth pressing firmly against my lips. Speak when you are spoken to. Now just sit there and think about what it feels like not to have your way. My father never let me have my way to go running to my mother when something went wrong and not to my liking. Men do not go running to their mothers to make things right. You are going to learn to be your own man and I am going to be here to see to it that you do so you might as well get use to me doing that. Now you sit right there until you are ready to get out of that chair and act like a man. And I don’t want to see you ever crying and sobbing like a little girl ever again. Do you hear me?

I nodded rapidly. My head jerked at a pace accommodating my fear and my quick reply all in one abrupt motion.

No, don’t nod. I asked you a question.

He yanked me from the chair and twisted me around.

I could not feel my body until the heavy weight of his hand, spanking my butt, sent pain reverberating all through me.

Yes, father, I replied, fighting back the tears not to feed his rage.

The heavy thumping sound of his voice ordered me up to my room.

I took short, hushed breathes, as I lifted myself up the stairs to my room, guided by a childish sense of retreat which borders a child’s understanding of fear and not completely knowing the why of it.

My body petrified, dropped lifelessly onto my bed, my head compressed face down into a pillow.

I thought.

I thought why what I had done caused my father to erupt.

I was confused to understand the wrong of what felt so right.

Chapter 2

My oldest brother, Jack, and my other brother, William, both had graduated from college and both were married.

My only sister was a senior in high school.

I was the youngest by ten years after my sister.

My grandmother, my father’s mother and my Uncle Eugene, my father’s brother, lived in the same neighbourhood, my grandmother several streets to the north and my uncle farther away to the west.

Jack lived in Bellingham and William lived in Portland.

We lived in Bellevue, Washington east of Seattle, just at the top of the hat of a hill overlooking Lake Washington down in the valley. The Puget Sound and the tailing end of the University of Washington lay down into the shore on the other side of the lake south, framing of the city of Seattle ridging into the landscape.

When the sun set on clear days, the view was spectacular from the large bay windows in our living room.

My family seemed attached enough to want to live in proximity of each other. The secrets that hinge them together, like interlocking pieces, sometimes can become rusty, squeak and become so stiff that they have to be soothed, with the genuine compassion for each other, to remain functional. I supposed being in proximity of each other served that purpose.

As a child growing up, I accepted that was a good thing, because learning how to get along with each other, would make learning how to do the same outside of the family, much easier to cope with.

Families are not always what they appear to be, but life, I would begin to understand, is always what it appears to be.

You just have to take the good with the bad and treat them equally the same, my Uncle G at some time in my life once said to me.

My sister had very little to do with me.

The age gap made bridging a close relationship with her tedious for both of us.

Occasionally, she tried to connect with me, but being that she was always too busy being absorbed into boys and fighting with my mother, about what girls could and could not do, we never got too far past hellos and goodbyes.

My father, who I really wanted to take time for me, occupied himself with his business, storming around the house, being angry all the time.

He yelled into the phone, yelled at my mother, yelled at the neighbours, argued with my brothers and my grandmother when he became unstable.

My mother, between household maintenance, my sister and my father, did her best to fill in the emptiness that occupied me most of the time during my early age.

---------------------

Your father is under a lot of stress dear, my mother would say, he has a lot on his mind and he is trying to do the best he can to make things right. When things are right with him, we all will be happier for it. He means well, so don’t think that he doesn’t love you when he yells at you…

Mother, he does more than just yell at me. He slaps me across my head and hurts my arm when he punches it.

Now, dear, certainly your father does not do such things.

He sure does…just like he does to you!

She looked at me; her eyes widen, then squinted, as if she was trying to squeeze the light out of the air. She was looking through me at something familiar only she could see, glowing in plain sight. She exhaled the thought.

Now why would you say something like that? she said.

Because, I heard him yelling at you the other night.

Your father yells when he gets beside himself—

But I saw him hit you just like he hits me!

Child you have such an imagination.

I looked at my mother, undaunted.

I knew that she was lying to me.

You probably were dreaming a nightmare and you thought you saw your father hitting me. I know he has not been himself lately. When fathers, like your dad, act out of control and cannot get a handle on their frustrations, taking some of it out on their children can cause young kids your age, to be frightened and stir up nightmares. I am sure, that is what you must have had, dear.

The bogeyman came to live in my closet when I was five, I believed, and monsters occasionally lurked under my bed. I was not afraid of the dark, having big, wide-eyed nightmares where my father was the monster, had made the presence of the bogeyman now obsolete.

Mother, father scares me so much, I said to her clearly and unfretted by her assumption that I was being delirious.

Now you shouldn’t be thinking that way, Brandon. Your father really loves you and he would never hurt you, she replied.

Then why he yells at me every time I sit with my legs crossed, or help you in the kitchen, when you need help cooking?

O child, that’s just him thinking he needs to make a man out of you. Don’t pay much mind to him when he does that. That’s him being a father to his son…

But I don’t like it, when he won’t let me do things I like to do. I hate him! I scowled.

From the age of about four, I knew my father was a brute.

It was easy for me to discern that.

He was like some angry bear prowling about, and he often times took it out on my mother.

The echo of his voice carried, and my sister and I would huddle together when he was really pissed. It was only during those times that she would allow me into her room.

I think she got the idea that she could argue with my mother from hearing my parents argue; well at least my father argues, she listens passively, and her replies, she voiced in a timid way, so as not to further infuriate him. If she did, all hell broke loose.

Anyway, my sister, I guess, figured she could get her way too, if she went about arguing with my mother, much the same way our father did. She was all talk though, and our mother was quick to dismiss her, despite my sister pretending to be a bitch about whatever she was arguing about.

My sister spent much of her time at her friend’s, or conveniently having to go someplace, because of a school function. Her absence left me alone, and I had to invent ways to isolate myself, from listening to my father be an asshole to my mother.

It took me a while to figure out my father.

Although he was a brute, he also had a very tiny soft side to him.

It was the side I saw when I was a baby and until that awakening at age four.

That was the side of him that I wanted to be around more.

I wanted so much to have that.

---------------------------------

I don’t want you babying him, Janice! my father said – my mother’s face within inches of his.

The pungent smell of liquor from his breathe, came drifting through the keyhole in the door of their bedroom. I had crept up to, and cautiously peaked in with my ears, as delicate as my footsteps had been to get there.

Often times, his loud angry voice, woke me.

I had waited, curled up under my blanket, plugged my ears with my fingers, so I could not hear him arguing with my mother.

He continued.

The curiosity lured me downstairs, to their bedroom door.

My mother, leaned against the wall.

Through the keyhole, I could see my father’s face, hard and snarling.

He poked his finger forcefully into my mother’s chest, as he spoke.

Albert, he is just a child, she said, with just enough fearless strength in her voice to sound convincing, against his heated anger.

That’s right… My child… He’s my son and I’ll not have you make him out of a momma’s boy! he scowled.

He doesn’t know what he is doing. There is no need, for you to be so rough on him.

My father raised his hand, slapped my mother across her face.

My mother shrieked. She caught the volume of her voice, making it a whimper, before it left her mouth. Her eyes dashed toward the door and then upward as if to wonder if their arguing had awakened me.

I saw the concern in her eyes.

My heart fell deep into a darkening sorrow, stirring a slow drip of tears which trickled down my cheeks. I bite down on my lips with clenched teeth, forcing my angst down, into the pit of my stomach.

You don’t tell me how to raise my son. Your job is to raise your daughter and I don’t want you confusing the two! he rattled.

He’s our son and she’s our daughter, just the same as our other two boys. You can wreak havoc with your own life, Albert, but please, spare the child. He is already scared to death of you. What else do you want?

He should be scared of me. I am his father, and just like my father was to me, I’ll see to it that he learns to be, a man. There is enough hurt that life will be putting on him as it is, so being scared of me, isn’t going to be his problem, if I let you keep cuddling him, the way you do.

Jesus Christ, Albert! He is too young to know the difference being a boy and being a man. For God’s sake! Let the boy grow up, before you get into making a man out of him! she pleaded.

Too young! I didn’t like the look in his eyes, when I caught him watching them ballet sissies, dancing on the television. It was, as if, he was in some goddamn trance, and he was enjoying it. I don’t like the way he sits, crossing his legs, and I don’t like the way you have him helping you in the kitchen. If he is old enough to take notice of all that, then, he’s old enough, to come to know, what it takes to be a man.

And what about you? She stared at him unwavering.

What about me…

She twisted her head, adjusting her eyes to his questioning look.

What? he asked.

Every time you get like this, you are not acting like the man I fell in love with… And you talk to me about raising your son to be a man. He sees how you are and he sees how you treat everyone, when you are like this. Don’t think that he doesn’t know. Just the other day, he asked me why, you hit on me, and why you are so mean to him. He’s a boy, and seeing you act like this man you say you are, is confusing him! she stated.

Then all the better to him, to know the difference… I am done talking about this. You hear me… It is done! I know what I am doing for my son. He’ll thank me one day.

I backed away from the door and quietly hurried headed back up to my room.

The tears, that had begun to soak into the collar of my tee shirt, suddenly stopped.

It occurred to me that I could leave this house.

I locked my door when I re-entered my room.

I stood in the dark, looking out of my bedroom window, having my bedroom in the attic seemed appropriate for this reason.

I had wanted to take my bother Jack’s old room, which was next to my parents. My mother had convinced taking William’s bedroom up in the attic, gave me a better view of the stars and the moon at night. I had a fascination with the night sky, and she had bought me a telescope, as well as encouraged my interest in astronomy.

I climbed out of the window to a branch of the big tree, that stood in our backyard running up the side of the house. Staring out into the star filled sky, I wished that I could fly, to leap up into the air, and leave this place.

Chapter 3

My mother knew everything, I thought.

She had the softest hands that made me feel safe, regardless of the disarray my father could cast over our household.

They were the opposite of my father’s hard, cement rock hands.

She had soft eyes too, eyes that twinkled in the dim light when she used to read to me.

I began to read on my own, feeding my imagination, when I was around seven years old. Reading became a world that I enjoyed, as video games most kids my age enjoyed.

Mother had anchored my joy of reading, when she began nurturing my interest with children’s books.

Her presentations were vivid and entertaining, as she added the sound of voices all the characters might make. I became anxious to improve my reading skills so I could create my own theatre as often as I liked.

One particular book I grew fond of was J.R. Tolkien’s, the ‘Hobbit’.

I always imagined myself going on a journey, finding a magic ring that I could use to change my father and make him a good man.

My passion of reading grew, to provide me with solace not only from my father’s inconsistent behaviour, but also, I discovered it was a refuge, where I could create an incredible sense of magic, that made me feel invisible.

-----------------------------------

My mother and I were making a cake in the kitchen one day, and as my mother always did when she was teaching me how to know my way around the kitchen, she’d talk to me about whatever came up in our minds.

I began to tell her about Sally, the little girl next door, my age, we often played ‘Mom and dad’ at her house. A game mimicked how we were going to be when we grew up. I was an easy target for her, because it seemed logical to her that we were destined, to be like her parents when we grew up.

She was my only friend at the time, even though I had the ‘Hobbit’.

We would dress up in her parents’ clothes and pretend. We kissed, our lips pecking at the notion and we hugged, our arms wrapping around each other like loosely tied ribbons on a makeshift present.

We got naked; lay in bed, under the sheets, because she said that is what her parents did at night.

She was a very pushy, aggressive, unyielding little girl who, despite my reluctance, managed to get me to do concede to her commands.

My mind soon became entrenched in adventure unfolding. I began to imagine I was in a story, perhaps from a book she maybe had read or was reading, that her mother may have left around, and she came upon it.

I could not imagine that my parents did that at night, after my dad had yelled at her and hit her as he often did. To think that her parents hugged, kissed and lay together naked every night was farfetched and impossible as far as I was concerned, but I kept thinking about the adventure, the story.

I knew nothing about sex.

I settled into the thought of it, picturing it, become a wish, that my parents could actually be so loving, the way Sally made it out to be, with her parents.

That’s not what little boys should be doing with little girls! my mother erupted.

Sally says that her parents do that all the time, and that they do not yell and scream and fight with each other, like you and dad do, I retorted.

Well, I am sure Sally’s parents have their moments, like I always say to you…

Nobody is perfect, I said, familiar with the saying, as much as the smile she attached to it, when she would say it, even at that age, I had heard her say often, as if it was a religious belief, like one of the many my grandmother could often use, to explain, and make it so, what she was saying.

And that doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t try their best, to be as good as they can, we all should. You do your best, is all I can ask of you. No matter how mean, your father can get, I know he loves both of us, and we should always look for the best in him. He always comes back, to being that good loving caring person, when all is said and done.

I know you say that mom, but you know, it’s hard sometimes.

That I do, son, that I do…but I want you to stop playing grown-ups with Sally. I am not sure if that child understands, thinking her parents are really the nice people she thinks they are. I rather you know who your dad and I are, in the real world, rather than pretend to be people we are not. Can you understand that?

I think I do. It’s like when I read the Hobbit. I know they are not real as real people, even though they feel real, when I am reading about them, and I would really like, to be in the book sometimes, when I want to get away from when my dad is being an asshole…

Brandon! she cried. You watch your language young man! she smiled. Even though he can be an asshole, she added.

We both laughed, shared the lightness of that moment between us, when we both saw, and understood the reason, and the meaning of why, the smile carried no weight for us to burden.

-----------------------------

A week before that kitchen conversation, my father yelled at me for something I had done not to his liking. I did not think what I had done, was any reason to be so mean.

I walked away from him, with my arms folded into my chest, and twisted my ass, like my sister would do when she got mad at him.

My father immediately kicked me and slapped me across my head.

I ran up to my room, locked the door, sat waiting for him to come up, to add to the punishment.

He never came.

I had wanted him to come.

I wanted him to have to kick in the door, because I was not going to open it. Nothing mattered to me at that time, I was so angry, I did not care what he would do to me.

I just did not care.

I took the ‘Code of Honour’ games he brought for my x box, broke them into pieces and threw them out the window.

It happened so fast and I did not feel what I had done, until I saw the pieces float to the ground, disappeared into the dark shadows of the late evening shade, underneath the tree next to the house, perched at my window.

It felt silly of me to have done it. I realised although I was angry, it cost me my favourite game, and it really wasn’t worth destroying, just because I was upset with him.

I did not feel right, acting just like him.

Something inside me, made me aware of that.

I heard my mother coming up the stairs.

She knocked.

I went back to my bed, sat on the edge of it.

Silent.

Alone.

Drifting.

Confused.

Open the door, Brandon, she whispered.

She repeated her pleading, finally I got up to let her in.

You okay?

He kicked me, I said looking up into her face.

She came towards me, standing, looking at the top of my head; she stroked my hair. She always