{"id":176445274,"date":"2014-11-03T02:15:32","date_gmt":"2014-11-03T08:15:32","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/kalamu.com\/neogriot\/?p=176445274"},"modified":"2014-11-03T02:15:32","modified_gmt":"2014-11-03T08:15:32","slug":"pov-charles-blow-up-from-pain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/kalamu.com\/neogriot\/2014\/11\/03\/pov-charles-blow-up-from-pain\/","title":{"rendered":"POV: Charles Blow – Up From Pain"},"content":{"rendered":"

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\"nytimes<\/a><\/p>\n

SEPT. 19, 2014<\/p>\n

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Up From Pain<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/h1>\n

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By\u00a0CHARLES M. BLOW<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"graphic<\/a>

graphic by John Gall<\/strong><\/span><\/p><\/div>\n

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I WAS away at college doing much of nothing, just pushing back against sorrow as it pressed down. My mother called. She told me someone wanted to speak to me. There was a silence on the line, and then words: \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, boy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It was an older cousin, whom I\u2019ll call Chester. He was at my mother\u2019s house, our house. It had been years since I had heard that voice. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, boy?\u201d as if nothing had ever happened, as if everything was buried and forgotten. But betrayal doesn\u2019t work that way. Even when it\u2019s buried, it doesn\u2019t stay buried. It\u2019s still alive down there, scratching its way back to the surface.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t recall saying anything or even hanging up. I flung myself down the stairs of the apartment, wearing only pajama pants and a T-shirt. I burst out of the door and bolted to the car.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was engulfed in an irrepressible rage. Everything in me was churning and pumping and boiling. All reason and restraint were lost to it. I was about to do something I wouldn\u2019t be able to undo. Bullets and blood and death. I gave myself over to the idea.<\/span><\/p>\n

The scene from the night when I was 7 years old kept replaying in my mind: waking up to him pushed up behind me, his arms locked around me, my underwear down around my thighs. The weight of the guilt and grieving that followed. The years of the bullying designed to keep me from telling \u2014 and the years of questioning my role in his betrayal.<\/span><\/p>\n

I jumped in the car, grabbed the gun from under the car seat. It was a .22 with a long black barrel and a wooden grip, the gun my mother had insisted I take with me to college, \u201cjust in case.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The ridges of the gas pedal pressed into the flesh of my foot as I raced down Interstate 20 toward my mother\u2019s house, 25 miles away. I had driven this lonely stretch of north Louisiana road from Grambling State to my hometown, Gibsland, a hundred times. It had never gone so slowly; I had never driven so fast.<\/span><\/p>\n

Bawling and with the heat of my anguish being released into the winter air, I reviewed my simple plan: walk into the house, find Chester, and shoot him in the head as many times as possible. No arguing. No explanation. Done.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then I thought about who I was now, and who I could be. Seeing him in a pool of his own blood might finally liberate me from my past, but it would also destroy my future.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had to make a choice: drive forward on the broad road toward the unspeakable or take the narrow highway exit. I don\u2019t know which chose, my head or my hand, but I exited and drove through my college campus, thinking about all that I had accomplished. Me. With my own mind and grit. I had reinvented and improved myself. I was a man \u2014 a man with a future. I couldn\u2019t continue to live my life through the eyes of a 7-year-old boy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"Charles<\/a>

Charles Blow, 2014 \/ photo by Chad Batka for The New York Times<\/strong><\/span><\/p><\/div>\n

That night, I forced myself to come to terms with some things. Chester had done damage, but he didn\u2019t deserve to die for what he had done, and I deserved to live in spite of it.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had to stop hating Chester to start loving myself. Forgiveness was freedom. I simply had to let go of my past so that I could step into my future.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yes, the mark that Chester\u2019s betrayal had left on my life was likely to be permanent, but blaming him for the whole of the difference in my emerging sense of sexual identity, while convenient, was most likely not completely accurate. Abusers don\u2019t necessarily make children different, but rather, they are diabolically gifted at detecting difference, often before the child can see it in him or herself. It is possible that Chester glimpsed a light in me, and that moved the darkness in him.<\/span><\/p>\n

In addition to being attracted to women, I could also be attracted to men. There it was, all of it. That possibility of male attraction was such a simple little harmless idea, but I had allowed it to consume and almost ruin my life. The attraction and my futile attempts to \u201cfix it\u201d had cost me my dreams. The anguish, combined with a lifetime of watching hotheads brandishing cold steel, had put me within minutes of killing a man.<\/span><\/p>\n

My world had told me that there was nothing worse than not being all of one way, that any other way was the same as being dead, but my world had lied. I was very much alive. There was no hierarchy of humanity. There was no one way to be, or even two, but many. And no one could strip me of my value and dignity, because no one had bestowed them. These things came into the world with me.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had done what the world had signaled I must: hidden the thorn in my flesh, held \u201cthe demon\u201d at bay, kept the covenant, borne the weight of my crooked cross. But concealment makes the soul a swamp. Confession is how you drain it.<\/span><\/p>\n

DARING to step into oneself is the bravest, strangest, most natural, most terrifying thing a person can do, because when you cease to wrap yourself in artifice you are naked, and when you are naked you are vulnerable.<\/span><\/p>\n

But vulnerability is the leading edge of truth. Being willing to sacrifice a false life is the only way to live a true one.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had to stop romanticizing the man I might have been and be the man that I was, not by neatly fitting into other people\u2019s definitions of masculinity or constructs of sexuality, but by being uniquely me \u2014 made in the image of God, nurtured by the bosom of nature, and forged in the fire of life.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had spent my whole life trying to fit in, but it would take the rest of my life to realize that some men are just meant to stand out. I would have to learn to simply relax and be: complex, betwixt and between, and absolutely all right.<\/span><\/p>\n

I would slowly learn to allow myself to follow attraction and curiosity wherever they might lead. I would grant myself latitude to explore the whole of me so that I could find the edges of me.<\/span><\/p>\n

That would include attempts at male intimacy.<\/span><\/p>\n

The first time I tried ended disastrously. I had worked up the nerve to go to a gay bar, thinking that if male intimacy was something my body wanted, I might as well know it.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a world apart from the one I knew. Instead of feeling a sense of belonging, I felt apart. The bar was brimming with sameness \u2014 not the locker room, frat house kind I was familiar with, full of ego-measuring and distance-keeping, but a different and disorienting kind. I was the object of considerable attention. I was young and tall and fit and new. I was being watched. I knew it, and I liked it. So I sat alone at the end of the bar and took long sips of my drink as I soaked up pensive admiration.<\/span><\/p>\n

Soon a man sidled up to me and began making small talk. He was unremarkable in appearance and seemed slightly older than me. He said he was a shoe importer. He sounded smart and seemed kind, and he smiled a lot. He invited me to his apartment for more drinks. I said, \u201cWhy not?\u201d In my mind, the moment I had walked through the door of the bar, I had passed the point of no return.<\/span><\/p>\n

When we arrived at his place, he poured a glass of wine, but I was too nervous to drink it. He talked more about his business and showed me shoe samples \u2014 ugly, rough-cut sandals that I couldn\u2019t imagine anyone with even a dash of style deigning to wear.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then, without warning, the mood shifted. The man disrobed, walked toward his bedroom, and beckoned me to follow. But the sight of him naked caused whatever attraction I might have had to collapse. His body looked sculpted, the way a body looks after years of proper eating and unstinting exercise, but I wasn\u2019t drawn to it. My body went limp and cold.<\/span><\/p>\n

I could in no way imagine us intertwined. I found the idea of it all immensely unsettling. I was surprised by my reaction \u2014 embarrassed by it \u2014 but my feeling was unambiguous: I wasn\u2019t interested. So I grabbed my jacket, and ran out of the apartment.<\/span><\/p>\n

I figured then that if I could indeed go both ways, one way didn\u2019t quite prefer to go all the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

I would come to know what the world called people like me: bisexuals. The hated ones. The bastard breed. The \u201ctragic mulattos\u201d of sexual identity. Dishonest and dishonorable. Scandal-prone and disease-ridden. Nothing nice.<\/span><\/p>\n

And while the word \u201cbisexual\u201d was technically correct, I would only slowly come to use it to refer to myself, in part because of the derisive connotations. But, in addition, it would seem to me woefully inadequate and impressionistically inaccurate. It reduced a range of identities, unbelievably wide and splendidly varied, in which same-gender attraction presented itself in graduated measures, from a pinch to a pound, to a single expression. To me it seemed too narrowly drawn in the collective consciousness, suggesting an identity fixed precisely in the middle between straight and gay, giving equal weight to each, bearing no resemblance to what I felt.<\/span><\/p>\n

In me, the attraction to men would never be equal to the attraction to women \u2014 for men, it was often closer to the pinch \u2014 but it would always be in flux. Whenever someone got up the gumption to ask me outright, \u201cWhat are you?\u201d I\u2019d reply with something coy: \u201cComplicated.\u201d It would take many years before the word \u201cbisexual\u201d would roll off my tongue and not get stuck in my throat. I would have to learn that the designation wasn\u2019t only about sexual histories or current practice, but capacity.<\/span><\/p>\n

Few people would be open to the idea of men like me even existing, in any incarnation. Even the otherwise egalitarian would have no qualms about raising questions and casting doubt. Many could conceive of bisexuality only in the way it existed for most people willing to admit to it: as a transitory identity \u2014 a pit stop or a hiding place \u2014 and not a permanent one. Whatever the case, folks would never truly understand me, nor I them.<\/span><\/p>\n

To me, their limits on attraction would seem overly broad and arbitrary. To them, I would be a man who walked up to the water\u2019s edge and put only one foot in, out of fear or confusion or indecision. I would be the kind of man who wanted it all \u2014 clinging to the normative while nodding to difference.<\/span><\/p>\n

But that\u2019s not the way it works within me. I wasn\u2019t moving; the same-gender attraction was. Sometimes it withdrew from me almost completely, and at others it lapped up to my knees. I wasn\u2019t making a choice; I was subject to the tide.<\/span><\/p>\n

I wouldn\u2019t always get things right. I wouldn\u2019t always find the courage to tell people the whole truth about myself, or do so before their love had already reached through my secret and touched my shame, but at least I learned to move in the right direction. I wouldn\u2019t lay the weight of my shame down all at once, but a bit at a time over many years, like forks of hay pitched from the back of a pickup truck, until the bales dwindled and the load was made light.<\/span><\/p>\n

I would get married fresh out of college \u2014 to my college sweetheart, the love of my young life \u2014 after we both stopped pretending there was any other we would rather be with. I confessed, though not as soon as either of us would have preferred, to her my past and my proclivities, as fully as I understood them at the time, including the story of my encounter with the shoe importer. We figured that our love was greater than my complexity. We had three beautiful children \u2014 first a boy and then girl-boy twins \u2014 in rapid succession, but the marriage didn\u2019t survive the seventh year. Still, the marriage confirmed for me that extended fidelity was in fact possible, not by denying part of my nature, but by submitting the whole of my heart. Monogamy was a choice. That was a side I could pick.<\/span><\/p>\n

AFTER my wife and I split, I decided to give male intimacy another try. The male attraction was still there, running alongside the female one \u2014 not equal, but there. I assumed my first failure might have been the result of youth and nerves and a mixed match. But now, again, my body sometimes failed to respond. Other times I was able to engage more fully, but almost always with the aid of copious amounts of alcohol, which left me barely able to remember the encounters and often wanting to forget them. This felt fraudulent to me, and opportunistic, and dangerous.<\/span><\/p>\n

Still, no matter how much I drank, no matter how altered my consciousness, I couldn\u2019t completely rid myself of the unease of being intimately close to another man\u2019s body, hard and hairy and muscular and broad at the shoulders, more stem than flower \u2014 too much like my own.<\/span><\/p>\n

In those moments I was acutely aware that I missed the tug of the female form, the primary sensation and the peripheral ones. The look of soft features and the feel of soft skin. The graceful slopes of supple curves. The sweet smells. The giggles. The thing in me that yearned for those sensory cues from a woman wouldn\u2019t quietly accept a substitute.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had to accept a counterintuitive fact: my female attraction was fully formed \u2014 I could make love and fall in love \u2014 but my male attraction had no such terminus. To the degree that I felt male attraction, it was frustrated. In that arena, I possessed no desire to submit and little to conquer. For years I worried that the barrier was some version of self-loathing, a denial. But eventually I concluded that the continual questioning and my attempts to circumvent the barrier were their own form of loathing and self-flagellation.<\/span><\/p>\n

I would hold myself open to evolution on this point, but I would stop trying to force it. I would settle, over time, into the acceptance that my attractions, though fluid, were simply lopsided. Only with that acceptance would I truly feel free.<\/span><\/p>\n