Telling friends and family you're gay is never simple. For Neil Thornton, it was an exhilarating dance.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler or read on.
The second most common and unanswerable question I'm asked by straight people is, "How long have you known?"
It's tough to pinpoint an exact time, but when I was 13 or 14 I started ripping underwear ads out of Sears catalogues, sneaking peeks at my sister's Chippendales calendar, and looking under “G” for “gay” and "H" for "homosexual" in every card catalogue, encyclopaedia, and psychology book I could find.
The most common question asked by everyone, gay and straight, is, "When did you come out?" It's a subtle variation on the first question, and harder to answer. If "coming out of the closet" is defined as the time when you announce your sexuality to the outside world, then this is the problem: coming out is a continuous process. I have to "come out" every time I meet someone new.
When I was fifteen, my best friend Billy spent the night, and after three painful hours of, “I think I’m…oh never mind,” I told him and he told me, and then we totally failed to even kiss or anything.
The next day my mom (who might have been listening at the door) asked, “Are you?” and I said, “I think I might be,” and tears and fights and psychologist appointments ensued. Billy never got to spend the night again. By the time I turned 16, several more of my friends knew.
However, when people ask “When did you come out?” I usually think of another moment altogether.
In the middle of my junior year of high school, I transferred to The Putney School, a very small progressive co-ed boarding school in southern Vermont, with 140 students, small classes, organic food, and barn chores. Putney students were much more liberal than the students in public schoo. They were also smart, articulate, impetuous, and outspoken to the point of brazen rudeness. Rather than talk behind people's backs, my peers at Putney said everything directly to each other's faces, often with devastating acuity. As soon as I walked on campus, my new-wave clothes and musical tastes, my behavior, my sense of humor, and my beliefs came under constant scrutiny and attack.
I developed an obsessive crush on Geoff, a blond muscle-bound sophomore from Germany, who had the upsetting habit of walking around the dormitory in his underwear.
I went back into the closet, slammed the door, and bolted it shut. Several times, I was confronted with pointed questions about whether or not I was gay, but I said nothing. I barely spoke to my roommate, and tried not to be in the room whenever he was changing. I developed an obsessive crush on Geoff, a blond muscle-bound sophomore from Germany, who had the upsetting habit of walking around the dormitory in his underwear.
I so desperately tried to suppress any effeminate mannerisms that I became unbearably twitchy. The simplest actions, drinking coffee or waving hello, became so impossibly loaded with tiny corrections (watch the wrist! Drop your pinkie!) that my hands shook constantly. Admitting my sexuality might have explained my quirky behavior. As it was, no one knew what to make of me.
The following summer, after two weeks of looking unsuccessfully for a job, I landed in paradise, a small summer-stock theater in rural New York where I was an unpaid apprentice and the youngest person in the company. I was delighted to discover that a good 70 percent of the male cast members were gay and unconcerned with statutory laws. Needless to say, I learned a lot that summer.
I returned to Putney a very different young man. Nobody noticed. Armed with newfound knowledge and experience, I made up my mind to be honest with anyone who asked, but no one did. I stopped trying to hide my effeminate mannerisms and was surprised to discover that I didn't have many anyway, so I adopted a few. I moved from mannerisms into broad hints, even addressing some of the male students as "gorgeous" or "stud." They thought I was just being funny.
But other things were brewing. I wasn’t there, but I heard it started with a handful of boys talking about girls in a dorm room. Most of the discussion centered around the relative physical merits of the girls on campus: attractiveness, breast size, proportions, etc. One thing led to another and someone got the bright idea to try to rate every girl on campus based on looks, vulnerability, and virginal status, and then rate the boys on how far they’d gotten with the girls. They called it the “Girly Game.”
A score sheet was created, printed, distributed to the men on campus, and promptly discovered by some female students.
All hell broke loose.
The girls reacted to the Girly Game with ferocious abandon and fury. No male on campus was safe, including me. We all denied having anything to do with it. Shouting matches broke out during dinner. We sat through endless special assemblies on the dangers of sexism, how rating women based on their appearance was disgusting and degrading. Relationships ended. Several young women shaved their heads in protest.
And then, for a brief moment, I managed to upstage everyone. It happened one night at the "Pit," a small lean-to which served as a smoking area and the axis of the school's rumor mill. It was nine o'clock, an hour before we had to be in our dorms. About five of us sat on the grass next to the hut and talked idly. I don't remember what the actual topic was, but I assume it was sexism, or maybe just sex.
I must have dropped another one of my hints because Erin, one of the more beautiful and fierce young women in the school, turned to me and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Neil," she said. "I have to tell you something. And I don't mean this in a bad way, but we're all so sick of your shit."
I started to protest but she stopped me. "I'm going to ask you two questions, OK? And I want you to promise that you'll tell the fucking truth."
I looked around for support from my peers. They all raised their eyebrows expectantly. "OK," I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I was. "Ask away."
"Question number one: Are you attracted to women?"
"Yeah," I said. "I guess.”
"Okay," Erin continued. "Question number two: Are you attracted to men?"
I should have taken a dramatic pause, but I didn't. Before the words had completely left her mouth I said, "Yes."
No one seemed all that surprised.
Erin smiled. "Thank you," she said, and led everyone in a polite round of applause.
Within seconds, someone asked, "How long have you known?"
I lived in a small dormitory with nine other guys. The dorm, which used to be a private home, was the furthest from campus, a ten minute walk down a dirt road. None of my dorm-mates smoked, so I thought they wouldn't know yet. But in the hour between my confession and my return to the dorm, all nine of them had heard, and apparently from different sources. I was impressed.
At breakfast and at lunch the next day, my sexual orientation was a featured topic of discussion all over the dining hall. I couldn't help but be a little proud to have single-handedly overshadowed the whole "girly game" debacle. After lunch, my English teacher, a gruff, grizzled, and somewhat feared ex-boxer, called me into a private corner.
"Word has it that you're, uh, you know, AC-DC," he said.
"Yeah,” I said. “I am." I half-expected him to tell me that I wasn't, that I was confused, or that it was just a phase.
"Well," he said. "I just wanted you to know that if any of the guys give you any shit... you just come to me. I'll handle it."
"Thank you,” I said, “but everybody's been very cool about it."
More than anything, my classmates seemed to be fascinated. Everyone had a thousand questions, most of which I had no idea how to answer. I was only 17.
And they had been cool, and continued to be so. More than anything, my classmates seemed to be fascinated. Everyone had a thousand questions, most of which I had no idea how to answer. I was only 17, and despite the experiences of the previous summer, I was still relatively naive.
I was forced to return to the library, looking under “G” and “H” again.
I managed to keep a few things secret, particularly my lingering crush on Geoff, the blond German. He and I had become fairly good friends, although he did make a point of telling me he was straight.
Early the next week, during assembly, Gabriel, the head of the social committee, made a special announcement. To the soundtrack of 'Rock Around the Clock', Gabe, in a letterman's jacket and greased hair, bounded onto the stage and announced that the following weekend, the Social Committee would host Putney's first-annual homecoming dance, with a live band and a 50s theme. Ballots for homecoming king and queen were to be cast by Friday afternoon.
Everyone groaned and booed.
I should explain something: The Putney School has no football team, and rather than having a homecoming in the fall, the school hosts an annual Harvest Festival, featuring craft booths, baked goods, Greek harvest pageants, and silly lumberjack-type games.
It's attended by tourists as well as alumni, and the students think it’s obnoxiously quaint. Most of us used the day off to sneak into the woods to get high and drink beer with locals and recent graduates.
The homecoming dance, one week before Harvest Festival, promised to be a huge failure. Nobody had heard of the band, nobody felt like dressing up, nobody ever went to dances anyway, and so nobody planned to go. I certainly didn't.
Of course, one insightful young woman with a shaved head brought up the fact that we had just spent the past few weeks hashing out the inherent dangers of social institutions like beauty pageants and prom queens. In public schools, homecoming kings and queens were elected primarily on the merits of physical attractiveness. How could we elect a homecoming king and queen in the wake of the Girly Game scandal?
During one dinner, I was busy picking chunks of tofu out of my salad, listening to yet another discussion of these same issues, when I idly remarked, "Then maybe I should run for homecoming queen."
My table exploded with laughter. People from the table next to us leaned over and asked, "What's so funny?"
"Neil's running for homecoming queen!"
I suppose you could call it a word-of-mouth campaign.
At Saturday's lunch, the day of the dance, Gabriel called me aside. "Neil. I really hope you're not offended by this, but I tallied up the ballots and," he trailed off, looking at the floor, trying to find the words. "You won by a fucking landslide," he said.
After we stopped laughing, Gabriel, bless his heart, offered to give the crown to my female runner-up, who had received all of six votes.
I thought about it for half a second, and shrugged. No one was going to show up anyway. "What the hell," I said. "It'll be something to tell the grandkids."
I spent the evening shaving, showering, spiking my hair, and getting dressed. I wore (remember, this was 1987) a crisp oversized white shirt, a silver bolo-tie, a paisley vest, and black pleated pants. I even dusted off my suede boots for the occasion. A voice in my head kept shouting, "You're insane. Don’t go. You’re never going to live this down, especially dressed like that." The voice wouldn't shut up, so I shut it up with a paper cup full of cheap vodka and hiked across the cow pasture to the main campus.
Much to my surprise and terror, the assembly hall was packed. Most of the student body and faculty had shown up to see what would happen. Many were wearing the ragged jeans and sweaters they had worn that day, but some had raided the Salvation Army in town, and were dressed in poorly-fitted, garish tuxedos and prom dresses--many with work boots and ski caps.
The band wasn't half-bad, so I danced with a couple of girls, who now regarded me as "safe.” The time crept by interminably. The longer I was there, the more I began to think that this was all a very bad idea. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. I looked for Gabriel, hoping I could take him up on his offer, but he was nowhere to be found.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!" He held up two envelopes. Cheers, whistles, and applause filled the assembly hall.
The moment finally arrived. Gabriel appeared out of nowhere, took the stage, and borrowed a microphone from the band. "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!" He held up two envelopes. Cheers, whistles, and applause filled the assembly hall.
The drummer struck a quiet drum-roll. Oh shit, I thought. Here we go.
"Your 1987 homecoming king is . . ." He opened up the first envelope. "Geoff Goodmansen!"
I hadn't considered this possibility--the one person in the whole school I had a crush on was going to be the king. My face went cold. Geoff walked onto the stage, waved and blew kisses to the cheering crowd, and bowed his head to accept the cardboard and glitter crown. I wanted to bolt.
It'll be okay, I told myself. All I have to do is go up there, accept my crown, and it'll all be over.
When the applause died down a little bit, Gabriel held up the second envelope. Before he could say anything, everyone started cheering. He had to shout into the microphone to be heard. "And, by an unexpected landslide, your 1987 homecoming queen is . . ." He pretended to fumble with the envelope for a few seconds. I could already feel hands on my back, pushing me toward the stage. "Neil Thornton!"
The roar that went up was deafening, and it got louder when I hit the stage. The band was thunderstruck. Gabriel put the cardboard crown on my head and locked me in a bear hug.
Geoff also gave me a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and took my hand in his as we waved to the audience. It's almost over, I thought. Try not to fall down.
Gabriel quieted the crowd. "And now ladies and gentlemen, it's time for a very special…spotlight dance." He handed the microphone back to the lead singer, who was nearly crippled with laughter.
What? What!? Geoff started to lead me by the hand off the stage. As the opening chords were played, I turned to Gabriel and shouted above the music: "What fucking spotlight dance motherfucker?" Gabriel just smiled, waved, and pretended not to hear me.
I allowed myself to be led, mortified, into the center of the room. The band started into a slow country song called "Give Him a Chance." For Geoff's sake, I tried to keep him at arm's length as we danced, but it was too stiff and awkward for both of us.
Finally, Geoff said "Oh come here," pulled me to his chest, wrapped his arms around my waist, and rested his head on my shoulder. I closed my eyes and hugged him back. I knew it was all in fun, but it was kind of nice. My head was swimming so much I could barely hear the song, or even the cheers and wolf-whistles of the crowd. There I was, dancing a slow song with my arms around the cutest guy in school. What could be better than that?
But what happened next was better than that. After a few verses, the novelty of watching two men dance together wore off. Two guys broke out of the crowd, clutched each other melodramatically, and began an awkward waltz. Not to be outdone, two girls entered the circle, and then two more guys joined in. My bearded history teacher grabbed the lacrosse coach and started to tango. A few moments later, the entire school, including some of the faculty, was dancing in same-sex couples.
Laughing, joking, arguing over who would lead, switching partners, stepping on toes, dipping and spinning each other, the students and faculty of the Putney School danced around us, boy-boy and girl-girl, having a grand time, relishing in a moment that couldn't have happened anywhere else.
Many years, three cities, and four serious boyfriends later, I've managed to "come out" to almost everyone I know. But even now, I sometimes find my voice faltering a little as I insert the word "gay" or “boyfriend” into a conversation for the first time.
On the other hand, after that night, after donning a cardboard and glitter tiara adorned with the word "Queen," and after a hundred straight people stepped into my universe for the length of one song, throwing me their version of the perfect coming out party... after that, telling one more person doesn't seem like such a big deal.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Tane Williams
This content is brought to you with funding support from NZ On Air.
