It Gets Better (23 page)

 

Addy:
Build a family . . .

 

Michael:
a support system of people who love the whole you.

 

Gabe:
Friends who love with all the trimmings: support, care, and understanding.

 

Addy:
It gets better.

 

Terence:
If you trust your ability to get through.

 

Addy:
If you trust that, yes, we are out here.

 

Arianna:
We are out here.

 

Michael:
We are out here.

 

Arianna:
People who love.

 

Zach:
Love

 

Maria:
Love.

 

Gabe:
Love.

 

Ray:
Love.

 

Addy:
Love.

 

Peter:
Love.

 

Max:
Love

 

Arianna:
Love in full.

 

Addy:
Love wholly.

 

Arianna:
And people who are waiting to be loved, just like you. Just like all of us.

 

Russell:
It gets better.

BROOKLYN, NY

 

 

 

I
didn't always wear a tuxedo. Or use Layrite (the waxlike pomade responsible for my pompadour). I didn't always have a mustache or dress like a man. Or sing, dance, and tell jokes. I didn't always have a smile on my face. I wasn't always Mr. Showbiz. There was a time when I had only one double chin. I wasn't quite “Murray” then. I was a confused, lonely, androgynous tomboy.

I rarely talk about my childhood, and when I do, I pay someone an hourly rate to listen to me for forty-five minutes. I'm an old-school entertainer who doesn't share my past in public or as part of my act.

What was it like for me as a kid? It wasn't easy. I come from a conservative New England town, an Irish and Italian Catholic family, and a generation where being gay wasn't discussed. There were no resources that I knew about for kids who were different. No Internet. There were no “out” celebrities, gays on television or magazine covers, and certainly no visible gay people in town. Lesbian and transgendered people were invisible. I didn't even know what those words meant.

As far back as I can remember, I've been judged, teased, picked on, and embarrassed in public for my ambiguous gender. I didn't look or act like the other girls. Growing up, I could never just “be.” I was always questioned: Are you a boy or a girl? What's with your voice? Why do you wear boy's clothes? Why don't you have a boyfriend? Why do you have a boy's haircut?

I was taken out of my first-grade class and put in special program to make my voice more feminine. When I'm singing on stage now and accidentally hit a high note, I blame that experience. I'll save the other details—like being forced to wear dresses—for the memoirs.

My body was under constant surveillance. I've been kicked out of bathrooms and locker rooms for being the wrong gender. I still sometimes feel guilty and keep my head down every time I go to a public bathroom.

I didn't set out to wear boy's clothes, have no visible hips, prefer short hair, or be good at sports. It was just what came naturally. I didn't think about it. I didn't think anything was wrong with me until people started asking questions. I didn't see myself as a boy or a girl, and had no idea where that left me. Today in my act I always say in the opening monologue to a confused audience member: “I can read your mind. . . . You're thinking . . . man or a woman? The answer is No.”

Today, people ask me how I “identify.” Do I identify as drag king, queer, lesbian, trans, boi? These days the list of choices is long. But I still don't have an answer for this question. I've never felt my personal identification was contingent on gender. I like to say I'm D. All of the Above. Sammy Davis, Jr. sang it best in his hit song from 1968 “I Gotta Be Me”: I gotta be me, I've gotta be me. What else can I be but what I am.

So how did I survive? I survived by making people laugh. It was my personal defense mechanism. Making people laugh—and getting them to like me—saved my life. Who is going to judge or pick on me, if they're laughing? Comedy has the incredible power to disarm, and little did I know that I'd make a career out of it. I'm still getting people not to judge me, by making them laugh first. Now, instead of the kids in the cafeteria, it's audiences all over the world.

I also survived by leaving my hometown and family at eighteen, which led to more than a fifteen-year estrangement. I eventually made it to New York City and made a home for myself in the downtown queer nightlife scene. A decade ago, I started producing and hosting the Miss LEZ pageant in the Lower East Side because there was so little visibility for lesbians. I wanted to create an event that showcased the diversity of the lesbian scene with an accepting atmosphere in a fun, campy, empowering way through political, yet nonthreatening, entertainment.

The It Gets Better Project has made me feel more connected to the queer community than ever before. I decided to shoot my It Gets Better video live at the ten-year anniversary of the Miss LEZ Pageant.

The positive energy that night, seeing all different kinds of queer people having fun, laughing together, dancing, cheering on the performers, getting along—it gave me goose bumps. My heart was filled with pride, acceptance, and love. It's that feeling that I always wanted as a kid, and the feeling that I want for all queer people and all people who feel they don't belong.

It got better for me because I created my own inclusive community. I want to show young people, and everyone, how much love there is out there. We can coexist. There is strength in numbers. We are each other's family. We don't have to be isolated, not anymore. The proof is in that video. I've come a long way from being that confused kid alone in my room to being Mr. Showbiz on stage. I've turned all that hate into love by way of laughter.

I'm living proof that it gets better. And you can make it better for you, and for other people, too. I hope I get a chance to meet you. I'll start off with a few jokes and a megawatt smile. You'll know right away: I'm on your side. We're in this together.

 

ATLANTA, GA

 

 

 

 

I
come from a big family who lives in a small town—Wichita Falls, Texas. Everybody knew who my family was and who I was; largely because of my grandfather was such a well-known and respected pastor and preacher. It was kind of hard growing up in his shadow. I think everybody sensed from a very young age that I was different, that I was gay even then. I knew it and I think everybody else did, too. I imagine pretending I was Wonder Woman, spinning around at recess in the playground, kind of gave it away. I was ridiculed throughout my school years. But since I had the shelter of such a large family, people didn't mess with me physically. I was called every name in the book, though. And I was taught by my parents everything they felt the Bible had to say about homosexuality. So I learned all of the anti-gay scriptures at a very young age, which created a lot of spiritual turmoil for me.

I was outted when I was twenty-two years old. The woman who outted me proclaimed to be a prophet at a church I was attending at the time. She did it in front of the entire congregation during Bible study. It was one of the most painful experiences in my life.

I lived in fear that God was going to kill me for three years. Eventually, I got to a point where I told God, “If you don't take this away from me, I want you to kill me. I want you to take me out of here because I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't know how to deal with this feeling of conflict.” And God said, “My will for your life is not deliverance but endurance.” God let me know that I was loved, and that before I was put in my mother's womb, he knew exactly who I would be. And he's happy with who I am. And he let me know that my life wasn't an accident, that I'm supposed to be here and I'm supposed to be gay. And that's something I should be proud of. That's something I should be happy about. And it's a beautiful thing, the fact that I am one of the people in this world that shows off God's diversity. God loves diversity. So it is an honor for me. From that moment, I started on a journey to fall in love with myself and try to see the person that God sees when I look in the mirror. Life has just gotten better and better the older I get.

One of the best things that God did for me was put a mentor in my life. Kerry James, who I affectionately call “Mother James,” was dropped into my life at the most difficult time, when I was suicidal. And Kerry has been a mother and a father to me. The things I can't discuss with my parents, I've been able to discuss with him. Having an older role model, who's been there and done that, has made my life so much better. There are a lot of others out there who are willing to be role models and mentors if you just reach out.

After a string of bad relationships, I'm now madly in love with someone who I feel I am going to be with for the rest of my life. I'm happier now than I have ever been. I have a great career and a great ministry where I am able to not just share by testimony but be an encouragement to people. I want you to know that God loves you. You're a beautiful person. Your existence is a wonderful thing. And there's no one else in this world who can do what you have been sent to this earth to do. Your life is precious. And before you decide to take yourself out of here, please go online, seek some help. There are hundreds, thousands even, of affirming churches that will show you the love of God and show you how beautiful you are. There are people and organizations all over the country, all over the world, that can help you get through this. And the best thing about going through this is that you're going
through
it. It is not your final destination.

What's going to keep you strong, and what's going to help you get through it, is learning how to love yourself. Seeing yourself as good enough. Seeing yourself as beautiful enough. And sharing what makes you, you. Falling in love with what makes you unique is going to help you get through this difficult time. Trust me. I've been there. Thousands of other people have been there. There are more people out there like you than you can imagine, and they share your story.

I wish I knew then what I know now, but I'm happy to be able to share it with you. So please, don't give up. Keep your head up; keep fighting. And if you're dealing with violence, report that to the police, to your parents, to your school. If it doesn't go anywhere, continue to go up the chain. Fight back. You deserve to be respected and honored just because you are here. I love you. God loves you. It does get better.

Peace.

BERKELEY, CA

 

 

 

 

I
'm straight, twenty-nine, and live in Oakland, California. I was born in Oakland and have lived in the Bay Area my whole life. In high school, I played baseball and a little football. I was relatively popular, and pretty much a jerk. Most of my friends were of that ilk—jockish, dickish. And while it was relatively diverse where I grew up, I had black friends, Asian friends, Latino friends, white friends; I can't say I had a single gay friend. I was raised by fairly liberal, educated parents, but as far as I knew, I didn't know anybody who was gay. Some drunken nights in high school in front of the 7-Eleven, I was belligerent toward kids I recognized as being in the theater group, screaming “Fag! Faggot!” at them. Every time I see anybody from high school these days, I immediately apologize to them because I probably said or did something that was shitty.