May 25, 2010 § 4 Comments
My name is Jamie and I am nineteen. Actually, it is James, but no one has called me that since I was a baby. My mother had always loved the name James and had no intention of ever letting me go by Jamie or Jimmy or Jim. No, no, no… In early film has my mom correcting her mother when she dared to call me Jamie. “It is James, mother, not Jamie, James.”
So what could have ever happened to change that vehement line with regards to my name, you ask. Well about thirty-six seconds or so after my birth my mom realized what a waste of fresh air my father was. Does that sound harsh? And no, my mother has never said that, but, well, that is my characterization. I look like him, otherwise I would wish with all my might that my paternity could be under debate. No such luck. Anyway, I was about a year and a half when mom met my step dad, James. Well, the two James became a bit of a hassle so I got Jamie as a result, although my step dad (hereafter to be referred to as Dad, cause truth is, I feel sick calling him anything less than the father who has guided me throughout my life and has always been a steadfast support) he still calls me James, but he is the only one. I don’t like the name Jamie, makes me sound like a twelve year old, but the truth is, if anyone called out James I would look over my shoulder for my Dad, so Jamie it is.
My house is a little different than those of my friends. My mom was one of those moms that everyone always came over to my house to hang because she never worried about noise or messes. She introduced my friends to AC/DC and the Beatles. She was not the cool mom… she wasn’t the type of mom where anything goes. For example; my friend Charlie, when he expressed an interest in smoking pot his mom blazed up a doob with him. I mentioned an interest in pot and my mom told me she would beat me with a large stick if she ever caught me with anything like that. BUT when I turned 17 and got my license we signed a contract that if I was ever to drink with the car I could call my parents to get picked up without punishment or reprimand. Twice I have called in on this deal, and truly nothing more was said than at least I have the common sense not to drink and drive.
My mom has this thing about honesty. It was ingrained into me in the cradle that to lie is the worst thing ever. It shows a lack of moral fibre and a lack of trust the familial unit. Anyway, I was about fourteen when I realized I had been lying. Get me, Jamie, the great kid. Don’t get me wrong, I was not perfect. My room was a mess unless forced to pick up my laundry on threat of not going anywhere until it was done, my math grades were always threatening towards failure, and I had the devil’s own temper when it comes to anyone invading my privacy. But over all I was used to being told at least three times a week that I was a “great kid”. But then I realized I had them all fooled, even myself. It was one day I caught myself actually looking at a boy on the city bus and realized that he was very handsome. He had these really incredible lips that looked like they would be soft… Boing! Instant boner. My jaw sagged a bit at the realization that i just popped wood at the wonder of what a boys lips would feel like, presumably on mine. I was one of them… those boys… queer.
Here all along my parents thought they were raising this great kid, and I was turning queer. Of course turning from what, came the question, because I certainly never really thought about girls before. I was convinced that was just a matter of time before I became what the rest of my friends had become within the last year, hormone victims of the highest order. But now I knew, and it was like I had always known, but never really knew, if you know what I mean. I mean, I have talked to my straight friends about this, so I know I am not talking out of my ass… You straight folk, you know you are straight long before the sexual part of your brain kicks in. You know what is attractive, even if you think the opposite sex is dumb and kissing is icky, somehow you know that you will end up with one of them. Well, deep down, once I acknowledged what i was I knew that some part of me had known, even if I didn’t know what I knew. Anyway, I will never major in psychology so I’ll let this part go.
I was scared shit-less. Terrified of my dad’s reaction. After all, he took on yours truly at an early age believing me to be a normal kid. But, no, I invaded his life under false pretenses. And what of my little brother. Would they think I would do something to him? Oh, i had fits of paranoia, self-pity, self-loathing and just plain depression in the months that followed my discovery. But when you have been raised with truth as the moral marker in life, you can’t just bottle things like this in. I imagined they saw inside and were disgusted. In reality they probably wrote off my moodiness as the start of the teenage angst, which was exactly what it was, just not the normal kind by my definition. I finally just had to tell them.