homo homeboy

I’ve been hiding inside of myself. 

In 2022, I turned 31, and my son turned one. I quietly celebrated my shop couchdate’s two year anniversary. I started doing vinyl listening parties at the shop, which had been a dream for years. And I hated myself.

I had digested all the racism, all the homophobia, all the hatred the world had spoon-fed me. I had known so little love that I was desperate for any that I could get.

And that’s such a horrible place to be. In all my relationships (friendships, romantic, business) I would prioritize the other person, instead of myself, scared that otherwise they wouldn’t love me. I hid so many sides of myself, scared they weren’t deserving of love. My gentle side, or my soft side, or my gay side.

Through others I was a slave to myself. My own critiques, my own insecurities, my own hatred. My own shame of being queer.

But where did it all start? 

I’ll start with one of my first memories - I’m standing naked in my bed, leaning against the rails. I’m 3 years old and crying like a newborn baby. The room is dark but there is a little bit of light. I’m not sure if it’s from the window or the other room. A tall bearded man is leaving the room, and I’m screaming for my mom, but no one comes.

“I would rather be anywhere else but here.”

My mom was a sex worker and a drug addict. I don’t know which came first, but I always came third. We’ve never talked about it, and I don’t know how much she knew about what was happening, but she had to know enough. To stop it. To change something. To protect me. And she didn’t.

So as a small child I was molested over and over again by strange men that I didn’t know. I don’t know how many times it happened. I don’t remember everything that they did, but they left me shattered. Broken into bits and strewn across the floor. And little baby Emu, somehow, picked up all the pieces he could find, nestled them in his arms, and kept on moving. That’s where I’m coming from.

That’s where I started. Crying and naked and helpless.

Who could ever love me? How could someone so broken, so damaged, deserve love? As I started to construct the world back around me, I was missing key pieces. Love. Support. Safety. What did love look like? How did it feel to be safe? To be taken care of? Through doting on others I tried to make up for what I didn’t have. If I could blow you up with lovebombing then you would be in pieces like me.

When I was suffering, I felt at home. Sacrifice and crying and hurting - a home where I don’t have a voice and somehow I thought I was being loved. So I never learned how to say “love me,” just “I love you.” I never felt like I deserved to receive much back, and I didn’t. The small amount of “love” I did was completely conditional. Of course I came to take that as normal. Of course I learned to build relationships off that. Off of not being supported. Off of being abused. Off of locking away the vulnerable parts of myself, so they wouldn’t be hurt. So they would never be hurt ever again.

As a brown man, going out into the world every day felt like war. Against the color of my skin, against the way I dressed, the way I spoke, against the shape of my nose. Against who I loved. I built up complex defenses, especially from feeling helpless. Machismo, aggressiveness, control, all weapons that made me feel safe on the battlefield. Tattoos, gold chains, fresh dickies, all armor that shielded me. Drugs and sex and drinking all hid the battle weariness. Hid my shame from liking women and men. Hid my fear of being helpless. If I don’t let you in you can’t hurt me. I created a world where I was by myself.

Page from Joey Terrill’s 1980’s chicano-centric queer publication Homeboy Beautiful via USC Libraries archive

Being helpless triggered a wave of memories starting from being 3 years old and spiraling through so many moments growing up - wanting to feel pretty - being punked on for wearing girl’s pants - crying on the floor by myself after getting jumped by a gang for wearing the wrong color - feeling completely isolated for being myself - I would rather be anywhere else but here.

So with the hidden sides, came the shutting off. If I’m not here, you can’t hurt me. Being alone was better than being hurt. Being emotionally unavailable was better than being emotionally wrecked. But the truth always reveals itself. The truth came out, but I stayed in the closet. It came out in reading Running with Scissors alone under my desk during lunchtime at school so no one would know how much I could relate. It came out in midnight car rides, in moonlit living rooms, outside of bars at 3am. It came out in deleted text messages, and burned love letters, and hasty showers. It came out in hidden pictures, in cheating, in self hatred.

In 2023, I turned 32. My son is going to be 2 years old. And I learned how to love myself. My gentle side, my soft side, my gay side. In my relationships I’m establishing firm boundaries and stating my needs. I’m putting down my weapons. I’m taking off my armor. I’m learning how to say “love me.” I might get hurt, but at least I’m here.

Before I just never felt safe enough to be myself. Whether thats as a soft brown man, or a creative one, or a homo one. Even right now, writing this, my heart rate is going up. My chest is getting tight, and I can feel the fear swell in my eyes. I still carry a lot of shame around being queer, but this time I’m not alone. I have myself

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