34 Years Queer–Appreciating the Journey
It’s my birthday. I’ve survived another year around the sun; 365 days of experiences that have shaped me, beaten me down and inspired me to be introspective and discerning with how (and with whom) I spend my time. August has always been a bittersweet month. For those of you who look for understanding among the stars, I’m a Virgo/Leo cusp. For those who don’t, I’m a thoughtful, anxiety-driven creative who spends equal time alone–telling myself I should probably be out among the living–and out attempting to be social, while (probably) fighting against my inner monologue telling me I should have just gone home and taken a bath, instead. Unless I’m drunk. If I’m drunk, all bets are off… and, likely, so are my clothes.
Benchmark holidays (New Years Eve, anniversaries and birthdays) serve as new beginnings for a lot of people. As much as I talk shit about the influx of ready-to-do-better-gym-goers every January, I’m guilty of “making a change” whenever August 24th rolls around. Sometimes it’s just easier to reset when there’s a special day and a special reason to serve as the genesis of a do-better year.
This is one of my least favorite pictures. I was on anti-depressants and incredibly sad. This is my college graduation party. 2009.
Moving to Chicago was the best thing I ever did. Looking back on pictures of myself before 2012 isn’t necessarily easy. I was Ricky then, too, but not the Ricky I am today. Not the Ricky I wanted to be and not the person I knew I was supposed to be. Almost 8 years in the city has changed me. It’s opened me and given me courage. It’s scared the hell out of me. It’s helped me grow.
I was always different. I knew that… I just didn’t know what that meant until I KNEW what that meant. But, for me, I realized I was gay when I was 16; having lived in a broken home while (for the most part) feeling incredibly isolated from my parents for the 7 years prior. Coming out in Moraine, Ohio is difficult enough. Doing so in 2001, added an entirely different level of shame and embarrassment and fear that, sometimes, is easier to file away and forget. But it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fun.
well, We’re obviously on a journey here. also, I have no idea where my eyebrows are. 2004.
There’s no rulebook for a 10-year-old boy that explains how to handle being called “FAG!” almost daily, but that’s what happened. From the time I started 6th grade at Van Buren Middle School in Kettering, Ohio, until I graduated from Kettering Fairmont High School in 2003, I was called some form of the F-word, almost daily. If I remember correctly, the first thing I got called was a “homo.” That was followed by “feminist,” (which I, admittedly, didn’t know what that was and, clearly, neither did they), which quickly gave way to “fag,” “Ricky looks like a girl,” “gay,” etc. etc. etc. You can imagine my confusion surrounding the constant berating because these people–these bullies–apparently saw something in me that I wasn’t even able (or was unwilling) to see. I was still spending most of time in my room, clicking between AOL chatrooms trying to understand why I got a hard-on every time I heard “You’ve Got Mail!” while spending 5 solid minutes downloading scanner-sized dick pics from what’s-his-name in DAYTONM4M.
Every new semester was terrifying. Every new schedule caused an immeasurable amount of anxiety because I didn’t know who would be there, F-word ready. I learned alternate ways to get to class to avoid being made fun of in the halls and I even dropped out of certain classes in an attempt to get in and get out with as few blows to my delicate self-confidence as possible. I’m not trying to paint a woe-is-me picture nor am I catastrophizing the experiences to earn pity or respect. I’m mostly trying to understand, myself, what I have survived to remind myself what I can survive. I survived daily ridicule in school and (later) at work for approximately a decade. And at 17… school, work and home were pretty much all I had.
I wanted to fit in for a long time. looking back, Even after I came out, I wasn’t out. Clearly. 2005.
The worst thing I ever did was allow myself to internalize what people said and alter who I was in an attempt to prove them wrong. I talked myself into and out of things to better fit the image of a “good son,” and a “good man.” Don’t get me wrong, I was always a little more say-somethin’ than I was a conventional young adult but, looking back, I’m able to better realize exactly how much I denied about myself and fought against becoming who I, ultimately, needed to be. I didn’t go to the Aveda Institute because that was too gay. I went to UD because I was going to be a professional. I wanted to be anything, except what people expected of me.
I was displaced. I was sad.
One of the first professional photos I had taken in chicago. Photography by Kevin Weinstein. 2012.
My time is Chicago has changed me. The once bootcut-wearing caterpillar has morphed into a dangly-earring wearing, eyelash-curling queer actor, you couldn’t have made 15-year-old me believe I would ever be. I remember thinking I was going to marry a woman and have kids by 28. Now, I’m hoping to find a non-abusive relationship with a non-alcoholic dude that I can eventually marry for health insurance. I’m not built for a 9-to-5 so, let’s face it–he sure as shit better be. Chicago giveth and it taketh away. I’m more aware than I’ve ever been… but maybe a little worn down by the realization of how much time I wasted pretending and fighting against the current. I’m not even a good swimmer. Sometimes, I wish I would have had more time. I wish I would have been strong enough to leave Ohio sooner. Maybe I’d be more woke. Maybe I’d feel like more of a monster. I’d, at least, have purged my closet sooner.
I’ll wrap it up because I’m sure the majority of folks haven’t even made it this far and those of you who have, are probably asking yourself, “What the fuck am I reading and why did he take the time to write this?” I actually don’t know how to respond to that, because I don’t really know why I wrote this. I sat down with the intention to write about a completely different experience but, in the end, this is my blog. As much as I created it for a certain purpose, it’s mine because it’s me. FOXIEHEART is my outlet and how I emote and attempt to connect with and entertain the small percentage of the world whose interest I’ve managed to pique. Plus, it’s my fucking birthday and I pay $144 a year for this website… so I think that’s worthy of a moment of reflection.
Street photography shoot by Edgar wang. 2015.
I’m sometimes jealous of the decade-younger LGBTQQIAA+ community in the city because I wish I would have been as strong as they are. I wish I would have had a different coming-out experience and I wish I wouldn’t have spent so much time afraid of myself. But, in the words of Brandy, “If you’re not yourself, who are you?” If I hadn’t gone through what I went through, who would I be? If I hadn’t been bullied into occasional solitude, would I be strong enough to share my experience? Would I even have an experience worth sharing? Another bittersweet, birthday revelation, I suppose. I am strong… but I’m strong because I’ve lived a life that was less-than-perfect. I’ve lived a life that changed me because I’ve lived a life that’s fucking real.
It took me longer than expected to be comfortable enough to walk around in my short-shorts, and even longer to accept that I deserved a freshly blown-out balayage. But, that’s who I am. Whatever “it” is, that is who he is, she is and they are. Nobody’s journey is the same, but the end goal is–people just want to be who they are, and everybody deserves to be respected for living their truth. That’s a lesson I’ve learned in Chicago and one I carry with me when I visit my hometown. You can take the girl out of the trailer-park, but you better teach her a lesson in respect so she can fully appreciate the journey.
“London fog” shoot by John Towner. 2015.
Headshot & Lifestyle shoot by felipe jimenez. 2016.
I’m not proud of everything I’ve done. In fact, I’m not proud of a lot of things I’ve done. I didn’t write this to share a well-kept secret to success and I know this post isn’t for everyone…but I’m hoping it’s for someone; even if that someone is me. Maybe it’s just a “Dear, Diary,” I can come back to on my 44th birthday and re-visit the night I sat in my bed, on a humid Chicago evening in August and wrote, simply because I wanted to. My hope is that this blog reaches someone who cares enough to read about a not-so-ideal, coming-of-age experience. Maybe they don’t understand themselves and will, after skimming through this page, feel that their experiences aren’t so isolating. Being alone is one thing; being lonely is–very much–another.
In closing, it’s my birthday. I’m 34. I’m a queer man and I’m not perfect, but I do feel (mostly) proud of who I am. It’s a colorful story…so thank you, Dayton, for giving me a humble beginning, and Chicago, for helping me write some of the best chapters in my one-man show. I promised you 5 years, and I’m glad we’ve made it 8.
Now… if I can just figure out how to grow pecs. Maybe in January. I hear that shit’s really good for January.