"I’m gay; you understand what I’m telling you, right?”
Originally published on Yahoo 360, October 8, 2006
I have three brothers, one of whom is my eldest brother who died when I was about eight years old. I was very close to him and if I had to say so, although my memories of him have faded somewhat over the years, I’d say he was my favorite brother. I do remember that he was always my protector when I was a little boy. His name was Perry, and he’d always rescue me from the teasing of my older sister (who was 19 years old when I was born); she’d always take my toys away and make me beg for them back. Perry was the oldest of my brothers; he was 17 when I was born, and he was the first of my brothers and sisters to move away from home. After he left, the only time I was under his protection was when he’d come home to join the family for Sunday dinners. We little ones in the family had our own small table in the corner, and even though he was a grown man, he’d always come and sit on the floor at the little table to eat and talk with us.
My next eldest brother is William; he’s named after my father. William is ten years my senior and when our brother, Perry died, William had just graduated from high school; he went on to start college that fall. After his first semester in college, he took my father’s advice and with Father’s help, got a job on the assembly line at Ford’s engine plant at the sprawling Rouge Complex in Dearborn. After getting that high-paying union job in the then booming auto industry here in Detroit, William never looked back at college. William was born with a hearing impediment; because of it, at times he often seemed aloof to the world around him and sometimes seemed disconnected from everything. He was nevertheless, always very kind and good to me and my other brother and sisters. At times, and in some ways, William was like a second father to my little sister and I. Although my dad didn’t believe in allowances, William could be counted on to give us kids a buck for a candy bar or ice cream cone; he would even take us out to buy us school clothes and supplies, and at Christmas, his gifts were the best and the ones my little sister and I looked forward to the most.
Most Saturdays, after my mother’s business began to grow rapidly, my little sister and I would be home with William. He was very generous to us; he’d take us to the movies every week and indulge us in trips to the zoo and to Edgewater Amusement Park. Despite his obvious love for my sister and I, William rarely if ever verbally expressed it. Even in those later years when my parents’ marriage began to fail and horrible things started to happen in our family, he never said much or showed any emotion over it all. Things never seemed to affect him one way or the other… he could sleep through the most violent altercations in our home, even though I knew he heard them. Though I never understood how he could, he’d usually ignore the pleas of my little sister and I for him to intervene in our parents’ fighting.
When I became a grown man, my mother and I would often say to one another that my brother William could be told that we’d all perished in a plane crash and he’d never show any emotion over it. When my mother died, I woke him from his sleep to tell him, and although I could “sense” the pain in his heart, I could not see it on his face as I gazed at him through my own tear-filled eyes; he was as stoic as he ever was that morning. So I always have felt that telling him about me being as I am would probably elicit no surprising responses. With that in mind, I dropped in on him one day a couple of weeks ago, as I do every week. After the usual and perfunctory, “How are you doing?” and “How’s everything at the house?” (I do most of his home maintenance as he was never very “handy” when it came to keeping things in working order in the house), I decided, I would come out to him and tell him the truth of my sexuality and my heart.
It went more or less just as I expected it to… I said, “Will, there’s something I want to tell you about me...” “I’m gay; you understand what I’m telling you, right?” He responded with only, “Yeah.” “Does it matter to you, what I’m telling you? “No.” Then I said, “Well that’s good to hear, brother… I hope your knowing this about me will never change things between us, you know I love you, right?” “Yes.” And with that, after what seemed to be an eternally long silence, I told him that I was going to take off, but I’d come see him again later in the week. He said, “Okay,” and I left. Although it went exactly as I expected, I was still a little surprised that his expressions didn’t change at all. He didn’t smile or chuckle like I thought he might; he just sat there more or less completely emotionless. In that moment, although “he” didn’t seem to feel anything about it, I thought I might cry or even laugh myself… As I sat in silence with him for those few minutes, all I could think about was all the lies and pretenses that I’d gone through over the years to hide the truth of what was in my heart. But with it having been said, now there are two who know for sure, because I’d told them myself, my father, and now my brother, William.
I say there are two “who know for sure,” but I have another brother; his name is Darrell. Darrell is seven years older than me. In thinking back over the years, it seems to me that even from my earliest recollections, there was always some contention between he and I; perhaps it was just sibling rivalry at first, but later it became something much more insidious. He always seemed to resent me, perhaps because I took his place as the baby boy and our mother lavished more attention on me because of it, or perhaps it was because he then saw himself as the “middle-child” and was uncertain of his role in the family. Nevertheless, I’ve always believed he was my father’s favorite son. When we were younger, Darrell got away with things that I thought my father would’ve killed me over… Even today, now that I again have a tenuous relationship with my father, he speaks highly of Darrell all the time.
When Darrell was a teenager, he was very rebellious; he drank, smoked cigarettes and marijuana, stayed out late at night, brought girls home at inappropriate hours, and even talked my dad into letting him wear an afro. I did envy him at times; it seemed that he had so much more freedom than any of the rest of us. When I was telling my father about me, and of all the things that had happened to me as a result of being as I am, I asked him if he knew that I’d tried to kill Darrell once and that he and I were bitter enemies up until about 12 years ago and that we’d never been close before then or since. Of course my father knew nothing of it; he wasn’t around to see it. Although he talked often with Darrell and William, and my sisters, and spent time with them, apparently none of them ever told him about it. So I shared with my father some of that part of my story too.
You might wonder as my father did, why I felt so much hatred for my own brother… As I told my father, it began early on, because for whatever reason, Darrell and I were never close; we never did “brother things” together. One day when I was about ten years old, I came home from school to find him in my room. He’d gone through my things and he was sitting there with the “evidence” he’d found. By this time in my life, I was fully conscious of my same-sex attraction. In investigating my sexual curiosity, I’d cut from magazines and catalogs pictures of men I found handsome, pictures that aroused me. Though they were well hidden amongst the pages of books on my shelf, Darrell had found them, and there they were spread out on my bed. When I saw him and them, I was frozen with fear, and then he spoke.
My brother began a violent tirade that seemed to last the whole afternoon. He pushed me around the room, and he called me “damned faggot,” “sissy,” “punk,” and many other things that I’d heard before, even earlier that day at school. And although I’d been called ugly names before, they never seemed to hurt as much as when I heard them escape so easily from my brother’s lips that day. I was both angry and scared; I felt as if I wanted to kill him for what he was saying and doing to me. Then he told me he was going to tell our parents. I begged him not to, and that only seemed to make him more angry and abusive towards me. He hit me really hard several times, they were punches that would have made a grown man wince, but I tried to take them. But when I’d finally been pushed around and listened to all I could stand, I lunged at him and before I could even lay one blow on him, he pounced on me and was astraddle me on the floor landing punches all over me, one of which caught me in the eye. All I could do was protect my head and face as his man-sized frame held me down and he cursed and punched me. Though it seemed at the time to last forever, it probably went on for far less than a minute.
When he got off me, I tried to catch my breath though I was choking on my own snot and tears as I lay in a heap on the floor. After a few more verbal jabs and a sharp kick to my ribs, he spat on me and walked away. I laid there and cried as silently as I could, wondering if he’d come back and kill me. I was angry, frightened, and hurt; and he was my brother. We were home alone, but in a short while, my mother and little sister would be home. When I’d recovered, I got up and straightened my room and then I sat on the floor in the corner and waited. When I heard my mother and sister come in, I crept to the stairway and listened to hear her conversation with my brother. He didn’t mention any of what had just happened… nothing!
Eventually my mother called for me and I went down to her. When she saw me, I thought surely she’d know I’d been in a fight. She asked about my eye, which by then was pretty black and swollen. Darrell was right there listening to all this, as I lied to my mother and said that I got hit with a ball in gym that day. Out of the corner of my other eye, I saw Darrell snicker, and it took all my resolve not to break down and cry in front of my mother and sister. Mother accepted my explanation and she had my sister bring the cotton balls and witch hazel from the medicine cabinet. My mother made a big cotton patch, soaked it in witch hazel and gave it to me to hold to my eye. I then sat in the kitchen close to my mother as she prepared dinner. Every time my brother passed in the hallway, he looked at me with hate in his eyes and silently mouthed those ugly epitaphs at me again; I was frozen with fear and filled with a terrible anger.
Later that evening at dinner, I sat silently across from Darrell. I had no appetite and in my mind I alternately wished he was dead, or that I was. Whenever I looked up from my plate, his eyes were on me, and without him saying a word, it seemed as if I could hear his thoughts; there was bitterness and anger and hate that I couldn’t understand. I was so sore, my ribs hurt when I breathed and when I swallowed; but I tried hard not to let it show. And as I sat under his hate-filled gaze, I thought a lot about what he’d done to me that afternoon before Mother came home, I recounted in my mind every blow and every cruel cutting word and the sick wetness of his spit on my face. And for some reason, it was then that I remembered what had happened four years before, when he’d actually and literally saved my life.
When I was six and Darrell was thirteen, he, my brother, William, and I were across the street at a neighbor’s pool party. The neighbors had a vicious German Sheppard dog and although it was locked in a pen, somehow it got out. All the children at the party ran for their lives including me. I was the smallest child there and I guess the slowest. The dog tackled me and had me on the ground tearing at my throat. My brother, Darrell came back and wrestled the dog off of me until its owners could restrain it. Then, heroically he picked me up from the ground and carried me home limp in his arms with blood spurting from the deep bites in my throat and chin. As I sat across from him on that day four years later, I wished that he hadn’t saved me, for I wouldn’t have had to endure what he was then doing to me; I think that was perhaps the very first time I wished I were dead. The abuse and maltreatment at the hands of my own brother made everything else that had happened to me in the years before and since pale in comparison. To this day, I’ve not sat at a table directly across from him again… It’s been thirty-two years since Darrell learned my secret.
I didn’t tell my father about how Darrell had beaten me that day, just that he had found those pictures and had taunted me about them. However, I did tell him about how he made life so much more miserable for me afterwards. From that day on, Darrell tortured me in our own home. Whenever we found ourselves alone together, he’d call me names and threaten to tell our parents what he’d found out about me. Even when we weren’t alone, he’d make comments in front of our parents and siblings which were only thinly veiled references to me being gay. And he continued to do what he’d done to me that first day; at times, when we were with other people, he’d look me in the eye and silently mouth those same cruel epitaphs with what seem to be pure hatred in his eyes. When this began at age ten, I didn’t think life could get much worse… I’d be whipped and beaten by my father before school, bullied and tormented by the other children while at school, and then brutalized and tortured at home by my own brother. Life often seemed very bleak indeed.
Although I was a skinny, bony kid up until I was about 12 or 13 years old. I began to seek solace from all that was happening to me with food. Whenever I was depressed, which was all the time, I’d eat… When someone said or did something hurtful to me, I’d eat. Eventually, being on a “sugar-high” was the only time I “thought” I felt good. By the time I was sixteen going on seventeen, when my father left home, I tipped the scales at nearly 350 pounds. Of course, my growing weight problem only made other matters worse for me. It was just more fodder for my tormenters and especially for my brother, Darrell, who was always lean, trim and athletic. After I left school and after my father left home, and things were somewhat more peaceful, I slowly began to lose weight. By the time I was eighteen years old, I weighed about 300 pounds. When I went away to technical college, I lost another one hundred pounds over about six months. When I came home at the holiday, my mother said she wouldn’t have recognized me.
My brother, Darrell would move away from home and back again several times… Each time he moved out, it was like I had been freed from a cage. At least then, home was sometimes a safe place to be. As my father listened to me talk about this, a few tears rolled down his cheeks; he seemed to understand how it made me feel. Although my father knew I hated school as a child, he had only a cursory knowledge of the schooling I’d had since then. He didn’t even know the name of the technical college I attended in Minneapolis. When I graduated, my mother, both sisters, and Darrell came to the commencement. I was surprised to see Darrell there as Mother hadn’t mentioned to me that he was coming. I thought that perhaps now that I was a grown man like him, on the verge of starting my career, Darrell would relent in torturing me as he had for so many years. Much to my surprise, it seemed I was right at first, because that first night when we were together with the family, he was as nice as could be. But finally, when we went to gather my belonging after the graduation ceremonies the next day, I found out nothing had changed.
Mother sent him up to my room to help me bring my boxes downstairs and when we were behind closed doors he gave me a rough shove and said, “Why don’t you stay here with your sissy boyfriend, you faggot bastard…” He was referring to my best friend at school who was a somewhat effeminate young man. My friend and I were close and it showed when we were together at the graduation ceremonies and as we posed for pictures with each other. But, my friend and I were nothing but good friends and our relationship was purely platonic... I was nineteen years old then, I was more or less a grown man and I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to endure any more torture from my brother. I shoved him back twice as hard and he fell against the wall. I grabbed my boxes and headed down the five flights of stairs to my mother’s car. He came down right behind me, and when I looked back, I saw nothing but hate in his eyes… It was the same look I’d seen that day at age ten during that savage beating and in many of the days since. I steeled myself for the 800 mile car ride back home as for most of the trip I sat silently beside him.
With my first real “adult job” came a measure of freedom. I lived at home and Darrell was back at home as well. But now that I had a job and a car, I could escape him and I didn’t have to be at home anymore than I had to. When Darrell was home, I was not. If he came home, I’d leave. Yet, there were still times and occasions when we found ourselves thrust together because of circumstances I couldn’t control; holidays were always such times. My mother loved all her children unconditionally, and at holidays she’d gather us to celebrate together. My brothers and sisters would all be at our family home, along with their significant others, the husbands, and girlfriends, and their children; and I’d be there alone with my mother.
At these holiday gatherings, it was hard enough to see and be happy for my brothers and sisters, including Darrell; they’d be there with their companions and the ones they loved. As for me, I was sad and alone, and the warmth and companionship of the husbands and wives and children was something I felt I’d never know. Yet, at these times, Darrell was as cruel and tormenting as ever… His homophobic comments during family conversations were cutting and his silently mouthed name calling when no one was looking only added to the pain of being alone and unhappy. I would typically stay out of the family groups and off to myself in the kitchen where I was the one who prepared the majority of those family meals. Though there were smiles on everyone else’s face and laughter in the air; listening to what Darrell would say, and catching a glance of his hate-filled stare would kill my appetite and my spirit. After serving the meal, I’d leave and usually just go for a long drive until I thought he would be gone.
Darrell once moved back home after a particularly onerous breakup with one of his girl friends. He was without a car because of it, and my mother asked the unthinkable of me. She asked me to drive him to and from work everyday. Although I wanted to refuse, I couldn’t as I would have had to explain why to my mother, so I agreed to it. For more than two months, I would drive him to work and then return and wait for him to get off after I left my own job, so that I could drive him home again. Instead of expressing any appreciation, on those 15 minute drives, he’d say only the most vicious and cruel things to me. One day as we were on the freeway coming home, after listening to his venomous comments, I sped up to well over 90 miles an hour as I contemplated just aiming the car at a bridge abutment, closing my eyes and letting go of the wheel. And just as I’d steeled my resolve to take us both to hell, and I’d closed my eyes and began to let go of the wheel, he hit me so hard I think I blacked out for a second. I recovered quickly and I swung back at him as I brought the car to a screeching halt on the shoulder nearly loosing control anyway. I laid into him with the fury of both my fists and with all my might and he jumped out of the car. Instead of following behind him, I put the car back in gear and left him there on the side of the freeway about a mile from home.
When I finally came home that night, he wasn’t there and I was glad. The next morning he still wasn’t home, but that afternoon, after I left work, as I had done for weeks, I sat in front of the building where he worked waiting to see if he’d come out. He did come out and he walked right past me, and got into a ragged old car and drove away. We’ve not ridden in a vehicle together since. Even at my mother’s funeral, we didn’t ride together. As I was the officiating minister, I was glad I was expected to drive myself and not have to ride in the “family car” with Darrell and the others. After the incident on the freeway, Darrell and I did a good job of staying out of each other’s way. And afterwards, it wasn’t always me that left when we’d find ourselves together. As often as not, he’d now be the one to leave me in peace. Eventually, Darrell moved away from home again and I found some peace, at home, for a while.
Darrell landed back at home one more time after another breakup with one of his girl friends. Things were much calmer between us this time, but the same hatred on his part and my own resentment simmered in both of us just beneath the surface. Then one day, I came home from work to find him already there. He’d been drinking and was pretty intoxicated. He followed me around the house from room to room, and floor to floor. Finally, he gave me a half-hearted shove as he called me a “fag…” I couldn’t stand anymore and I hit him and I was then in the worst “knockdown-drag-out” fight of my life, with my own brother. By the time, we were both too exhausted to throw another punch, our clothes were ripped, furniture was scattered, the walls were marred, and we were both black and blue with bruises. As I thought surely we’d go our separate ways, I headed upstairs and to my surprise he followed. From the hallway outside my room, from behind my closed door, I could hear him pacing back and forth as he continued his ugly words and almost without thinking about it I had a gun in my hands and was standing at the door. As I listened to him rant and rave on the other side, I became more and more incensed. Finally, I opened the door with every intention of blowing his head off.
When he saw the gun in my hand, he ran down the stairs and I ran behind him firing twice. He made it into the street without having been hit by either shot just as our mother arrived home. On seeing me standing in the doorway with the still smoking gun in my hands, my mother ran to the door asking me what was going on. All I remember saying to her was, “Ask him, I’m gonna kill that bastard!” repeating it over and over. Mother was frantic and was praying aloud and when she reached out to take the gun away from me, I gave it to her. I went back upstairs, packed my bag and left home. Darrell stayed at home for another six months and I slept in a storeroom at work every night. When he left, I came back home. Although Mother asked many times what it was all about, I never answered her. I don’t know if Darrell ever explained it to her or not, but I imagine she had an inkling, even if we never told her.
After that event, although none of us every talked about it openly, Mother and the rest of the family were always careful not to invite Darrell and I to the same place at the same time. The only exception would be Christmas; and even then, he’d come in one door and I’d go out another. Things went on like this between my brother Darrell and me for many years. When I was called to the ministry, I realized that I could not profess my complete love of God while harboring so much ill will towards my own brother. After a great deal of prayer, fasting and supplication, I realized that I could forgive my brother and love him again as I knew I should. Although, I’d been a home owner for a few years at that time, my brother Darrell had never set foot in my home. Just after I was ordained, my mother celebrated her 70th birthday with a party at my house, to which I invited my entire family including my brother Darrell and his wife. I wasn’t sure if he’d come, so I asked my mother to let him know that it was a sincere invitation and that I was hoping to see him.
On my mother’s birthday, as our family gathered at my home to celebrate, everyone had arrived except for Darrell. As I began to suspect he might not come, we started the meal without him. At the end of the meal, just as we were placing the candles on Mother’s cake, the doorbell rang. I went to the door, and my brother Darrell was standing there. He had a hard look in his eyes, but I opened the door and warmly welcomed him into my home. He came in without saying anything, and I showed him into the dining room where all were gathered around my mother. My mother kissed and hugged him and then me too; I guess she was happy to see us together. I invited everyone to the study where the cake was waiting and we all gathered around my mother for a family photo. As we posed, I was standing next to Darrell; I looked him in the eye, leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry, I love you, and I forgive you.” He said nothing and we both turned towards the camera just in time to capture the first and only photo of us together in 20 years.
After the cake and ice cream and presents, everyone began to say their goodbyes to my mother and take their leave. Darrell did the same, and as he turned to leave, he took my hand giving me a firm handshake. As I shook his hand for the first time in memory, I looked into his eyes and I thought I could see into his soul yet again; and for the first time since that day when I was ten years old, I didn’t see any hate there. Although I’d like to say we became close after that day, I can’t. Although I would still avoid being in his presence for too long, neither of us ran away from the other anymore. In the 12 years since then, our relationship has warmed gradually; we can now chat about the weather when we find ourselves together. I’ve never told him, “Yes, I’m gay.” I’m sure he still thinks it, but I will mention it in passing the next time I see him... I’m sure we’ll not discuss it further.
And so, in reality, there are actually three who know about what “was” my secret, my father, and my two brothers. I will tell my sisters next; the younger one will be easy, I think she will understand and love me as she always has. My older sister and her grown children, my nieces and nephew are the ones I wonder and worry about. I am uncertain about what will be their reaction and response, but I will know soon enough.
My next eldest brother is William; he’s named after my father. William is ten years my senior and when our brother, Perry died, William had just graduated from high school; he went on to start college that fall. After his first semester in college, he took my father’s advice and with Father’s help, got a job on the assembly line at Ford’s engine plant at the sprawling Rouge Complex in Dearborn. After getting that high-paying union job in the then booming auto industry here in Detroit, William never looked back at college. William was born with a hearing impediment; because of it, at times he often seemed aloof to the world around him and sometimes seemed disconnected from everything. He was nevertheless, always very kind and good to me and my other brother and sisters. At times, and in some ways, William was like a second father to my little sister and I. Although my dad didn’t believe in allowances, William could be counted on to give us kids a buck for a candy bar or ice cream cone; he would even take us out to buy us school clothes and supplies, and at Christmas, his gifts were the best and the ones my little sister and I looked forward to the most.
Most Saturdays, after my mother’s business began to grow rapidly, my little sister and I would be home with William. He was very generous to us; he’d take us to the movies every week and indulge us in trips to the zoo and to Edgewater Amusement Park. Despite his obvious love for my sister and I, William rarely if ever verbally expressed it. Even in those later years when my parents’ marriage began to fail and horrible things started to happen in our family, he never said much or showed any emotion over it all. Things never seemed to affect him one way or the other… he could sleep through the most violent altercations in our home, even though I knew he heard them. Though I never understood how he could, he’d usually ignore the pleas of my little sister and I for him to intervene in our parents’ fighting.
When I became a grown man, my mother and I would often say to one another that my brother William could be told that we’d all perished in a plane crash and he’d never show any emotion over it. When my mother died, I woke him from his sleep to tell him, and although I could “sense” the pain in his heart, I could not see it on his face as I gazed at him through my own tear-filled eyes; he was as stoic as he ever was that morning. So I always have felt that telling him about me being as I am would probably elicit no surprising responses. With that in mind, I dropped in on him one day a couple of weeks ago, as I do every week. After the usual and perfunctory, “How are you doing?” and “How’s everything at the house?” (I do most of his home maintenance as he was never very “handy” when it came to keeping things in working order in the house), I decided, I would come out to him and tell him the truth of my sexuality and my heart.
It went more or less just as I expected it to… I said, “Will, there’s something I want to tell you about me...” “I’m gay; you understand what I’m telling you, right?” He responded with only, “Yeah.” “Does it matter to you, what I’m telling you? “No.” Then I said, “Well that’s good to hear, brother… I hope your knowing this about me will never change things between us, you know I love you, right?” “Yes.” And with that, after what seemed to be an eternally long silence, I told him that I was going to take off, but I’d come see him again later in the week. He said, “Okay,” and I left. Although it went exactly as I expected, I was still a little surprised that his expressions didn’t change at all. He didn’t smile or chuckle like I thought he might; he just sat there more or less completely emotionless. In that moment, although “he” didn’t seem to feel anything about it, I thought I might cry or even laugh myself… As I sat in silence with him for those few minutes, all I could think about was all the lies and pretenses that I’d gone through over the years to hide the truth of what was in my heart. But with it having been said, now there are two who know for sure, because I’d told them myself, my father, and now my brother, William.
I say there are two “who know for sure,” but I have another brother; his name is Darrell. Darrell is seven years older than me. In thinking back over the years, it seems to me that even from my earliest recollections, there was always some contention between he and I; perhaps it was just sibling rivalry at first, but later it became something much more insidious. He always seemed to resent me, perhaps because I took his place as the baby boy and our mother lavished more attention on me because of it, or perhaps it was because he then saw himself as the “middle-child” and was uncertain of his role in the family. Nevertheless, I’ve always believed he was my father’s favorite son. When we were younger, Darrell got away with things that I thought my father would’ve killed me over… Even today, now that I again have a tenuous relationship with my father, he speaks highly of Darrell all the time.
When Darrell was a teenager, he was very rebellious; he drank, smoked cigarettes and marijuana, stayed out late at night, brought girls home at inappropriate hours, and even talked my dad into letting him wear an afro. I did envy him at times; it seemed that he had so much more freedom than any of the rest of us. When I was telling my father about me, and of all the things that had happened to me as a result of being as I am, I asked him if he knew that I’d tried to kill Darrell once and that he and I were bitter enemies up until about 12 years ago and that we’d never been close before then or since. Of course my father knew nothing of it; he wasn’t around to see it. Although he talked often with Darrell and William, and my sisters, and spent time with them, apparently none of them ever told him about it. So I shared with my father some of that part of my story too.
You might wonder as my father did, why I felt so much hatred for my own brother… As I told my father, it began early on, because for whatever reason, Darrell and I were never close; we never did “brother things” together. One day when I was about ten years old, I came home from school to find him in my room. He’d gone through my things and he was sitting there with the “evidence” he’d found. By this time in my life, I was fully conscious of my same-sex attraction. In investigating my sexual curiosity, I’d cut from magazines and catalogs pictures of men I found handsome, pictures that aroused me. Though they were well hidden amongst the pages of books on my shelf, Darrell had found them, and there they were spread out on my bed. When I saw him and them, I was frozen with fear, and then he spoke.
My brother began a violent tirade that seemed to last the whole afternoon. He pushed me around the room, and he called me “damned faggot,” “sissy,” “punk,” and many other things that I’d heard before, even earlier that day at school. And although I’d been called ugly names before, they never seemed to hurt as much as when I heard them escape so easily from my brother’s lips that day. I was both angry and scared; I felt as if I wanted to kill him for what he was saying and doing to me. Then he told me he was going to tell our parents. I begged him not to, and that only seemed to make him more angry and abusive towards me. He hit me really hard several times, they were punches that would have made a grown man wince, but I tried to take them. But when I’d finally been pushed around and listened to all I could stand, I lunged at him and before I could even lay one blow on him, he pounced on me and was astraddle me on the floor landing punches all over me, one of which caught me in the eye. All I could do was protect my head and face as his man-sized frame held me down and he cursed and punched me. Though it seemed at the time to last forever, it probably went on for far less than a minute.
When he got off me, I tried to catch my breath though I was choking on my own snot and tears as I lay in a heap on the floor. After a few more verbal jabs and a sharp kick to my ribs, he spat on me and walked away. I laid there and cried as silently as I could, wondering if he’d come back and kill me. I was angry, frightened, and hurt; and he was my brother. We were home alone, but in a short while, my mother and little sister would be home. When I’d recovered, I got up and straightened my room and then I sat on the floor in the corner and waited. When I heard my mother and sister come in, I crept to the stairway and listened to hear her conversation with my brother. He didn’t mention any of what had just happened… nothing!
Eventually my mother called for me and I went down to her. When she saw me, I thought surely she’d know I’d been in a fight. She asked about my eye, which by then was pretty black and swollen. Darrell was right there listening to all this, as I lied to my mother and said that I got hit with a ball in gym that day. Out of the corner of my other eye, I saw Darrell snicker, and it took all my resolve not to break down and cry in front of my mother and sister. Mother accepted my explanation and she had my sister bring the cotton balls and witch hazel from the medicine cabinet. My mother made a big cotton patch, soaked it in witch hazel and gave it to me to hold to my eye. I then sat in the kitchen close to my mother as she prepared dinner. Every time my brother passed in the hallway, he looked at me with hate in his eyes and silently mouthed those ugly epitaphs at me again; I was frozen with fear and filled with a terrible anger.
Later that evening at dinner, I sat silently across from Darrell. I had no appetite and in my mind I alternately wished he was dead, or that I was. Whenever I looked up from my plate, his eyes were on me, and without him saying a word, it seemed as if I could hear his thoughts; there was bitterness and anger and hate that I couldn’t understand. I was so sore, my ribs hurt when I breathed and when I swallowed; but I tried hard not to let it show. And as I sat under his hate-filled gaze, I thought a lot about what he’d done to me that afternoon before Mother came home, I recounted in my mind every blow and every cruel cutting word and the sick wetness of his spit on my face. And for some reason, it was then that I remembered what had happened four years before, when he’d actually and literally saved my life.
When I was six and Darrell was thirteen, he, my brother, William, and I were across the street at a neighbor’s pool party. The neighbors had a vicious German Sheppard dog and although it was locked in a pen, somehow it got out. All the children at the party ran for their lives including me. I was the smallest child there and I guess the slowest. The dog tackled me and had me on the ground tearing at my throat. My brother, Darrell came back and wrestled the dog off of me until its owners could restrain it. Then, heroically he picked me up from the ground and carried me home limp in his arms with blood spurting from the deep bites in my throat and chin. As I sat across from him on that day four years later, I wished that he hadn’t saved me, for I wouldn’t have had to endure what he was then doing to me; I think that was perhaps the very first time I wished I were dead. The abuse and maltreatment at the hands of my own brother made everything else that had happened to me in the years before and since pale in comparison. To this day, I’ve not sat at a table directly across from him again… It’s been thirty-two years since Darrell learned my secret.
I didn’t tell my father about how Darrell had beaten me that day, just that he had found those pictures and had taunted me about them. However, I did tell him about how he made life so much more miserable for me afterwards. From that day on, Darrell tortured me in our own home. Whenever we found ourselves alone together, he’d call me names and threaten to tell our parents what he’d found out about me. Even when we weren’t alone, he’d make comments in front of our parents and siblings which were only thinly veiled references to me being gay. And he continued to do what he’d done to me that first day; at times, when we were with other people, he’d look me in the eye and silently mouth those same cruel epitaphs with what seem to be pure hatred in his eyes. When this began at age ten, I didn’t think life could get much worse… I’d be whipped and beaten by my father before school, bullied and tormented by the other children while at school, and then brutalized and tortured at home by my own brother. Life often seemed very bleak indeed.
Although I was a skinny, bony kid up until I was about 12 or 13 years old. I began to seek solace from all that was happening to me with food. Whenever I was depressed, which was all the time, I’d eat… When someone said or did something hurtful to me, I’d eat. Eventually, being on a “sugar-high” was the only time I “thought” I felt good. By the time I was sixteen going on seventeen, when my father left home, I tipped the scales at nearly 350 pounds. Of course, my growing weight problem only made other matters worse for me. It was just more fodder for my tormenters and especially for my brother, Darrell, who was always lean, trim and athletic. After I left school and after my father left home, and things were somewhat more peaceful, I slowly began to lose weight. By the time I was eighteen years old, I weighed about 300 pounds. When I went away to technical college, I lost another one hundred pounds over about six months. When I came home at the holiday, my mother said she wouldn’t have recognized me.
My brother, Darrell would move away from home and back again several times… Each time he moved out, it was like I had been freed from a cage. At least then, home was sometimes a safe place to be. As my father listened to me talk about this, a few tears rolled down his cheeks; he seemed to understand how it made me feel. Although my father knew I hated school as a child, he had only a cursory knowledge of the schooling I’d had since then. He didn’t even know the name of the technical college I attended in Minneapolis. When I graduated, my mother, both sisters, and Darrell came to the commencement. I was surprised to see Darrell there as Mother hadn’t mentioned to me that he was coming. I thought that perhaps now that I was a grown man like him, on the verge of starting my career, Darrell would relent in torturing me as he had for so many years. Much to my surprise, it seemed I was right at first, because that first night when we were together with the family, he was as nice as could be. But finally, when we went to gather my belonging after the graduation ceremonies the next day, I found out nothing had changed.
Mother sent him up to my room to help me bring my boxes downstairs and when we were behind closed doors he gave me a rough shove and said, “Why don’t you stay here with your sissy boyfriend, you faggot bastard…” He was referring to my best friend at school who was a somewhat effeminate young man. My friend and I were close and it showed when we were together at the graduation ceremonies and as we posed for pictures with each other. But, my friend and I were nothing but good friends and our relationship was purely platonic... I was nineteen years old then, I was more or less a grown man and I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to endure any more torture from my brother. I shoved him back twice as hard and he fell against the wall. I grabbed my boxes and headed down the five flights of stairs to my mother’s car. He came down right behind me, and when I looked back, I saw nothing but hate in his eyes… It was the same look I’d seen that day at age ten during that savage beating and in many of the days since. I steeled myself for the 800 mile car ride back home as for most of the trip I sat silently beside him.
With my first real “adult job” came a measure of freedom. I lived at home and Darrell was back at home as well. But now that I had a job and a car, I could escape him and I didn’t have to be at home anymore than I had to. When Darrell was home, I was not. If he came home, I’d leave. Yet, there were still times and occasions when we found ourselves thrust together because of circumstances I couldn’t control; holidays were always such times. My mother loved all her children unconditionally, and at holidays she’d gather us to celebrate together. My brothers and sisters would all be at our family home, along with their significant others, the husbands, and girlfriends, and their children; and I’d be there alone with my mother.
At these holiday gatherings, it was hard enough to see and be happy for my brothers and sisters, including Darrell; they’d be there with their companions and the ones they loved. As for me, I was sad and alone, and the warmth and companionship of the husbands and wives and children was something I felt I’d never know. Yet, at these times, Darrell was as cruel and tormenting as ever… His homophobic comments during family conversations were cutting and his silently mouthed name calling when no one was looking only added to the pain of being alone and unhappy. I would typically stay out of the family groups and off to myself in the kitchen where I was the one who prepared the majority of those family meals. Though there were smiles on everyone else’s face and laughter in the air; listening to what Darrell would say, and catching a glance of his hate-filled stare would kill my appetite and my spirit. After serving the meal, I’d leave and usually just go for a long drive until I thought he would be gone.
Darrell once moved back home after a particularly onerous breakup with one of his girl friends. He was without a car because of it, and my mother asked the unthinkable of me. She asked me to drive him to and from work everyday. Although I wanted to refuse, I couldn’t as I would have had to explain why to my mother, so I agreed to it. For more than two months, I would drive him to work and then return and wait for him to get off after I left my own job, so that I could drive him home again. Instead of expressing any appreciation, on those 15 minute drives, he’d say only the most vicious and cruel things to me. One day as we were on the freeway coming home, after listening to his venomous comments, I sped up to well over 90 miles an hour as I contemplated just aiming the car at a bridge abutment, closing my eyes and letting go of the wheel. And just as I’d steeled my resolve to take us both to hell, and I’d closed my eyes and began to let go of the wheel, he hit me so hard I think I blacked out for a second. I recovered quickly and I swung back at him as I brought the car to a screeching halt on the shoulder nearly loosing control anyway. I laid into him with the fury of both my fists and with all my might and he jumped out of the car. Instead of following behind him, I put the car back in gear and left him there on the side of the freeway about a mile from home.
When I finally came home that night, he wasn’t there and I was glad. The next morning he still wasn’t home, but that afternoon, after I left work, as I had done for weeks, I sat in front of the building where he worked waiting to see if he’d come out. He did come out and he walked right past me, and got into a ragged old car and drove away. We’ve not ridden in a vehicle together since. Even at my mother’s funeral, we didn’t ride together. As I was the officiating minister, I was glad I was expected to drive myself and not have to ride in the “family car” with Darrell and the others. After the incident on the freeway, Darrell and I did a good job of staying out of each other’s way. And afterwards, it wasn’t always me that left when we’d find ourselves together. As often as not, he’d now be the one to leave me in peace. Eventually, Darrell moved away from home again and I found some peace, at home, for a while.
Darrell landed back at home one more time after another breakup with one of his girl friends. Things were much calmer between us this time, but the same hatred on his part and my own resentment simmered in both of us just beneath the surface. Then one day, I came home from work to find him already there. He’d been drinking and was pretty intoxicated. He followed me around the house from room to room, and floor to floor. Finally, he gave me a half-hearted shove as he called me a “fag…” I couldn’t stand anymore and I hit him and I was then in the worst “knockdown-drag-out” fight of my life, with my own brother. By the time, we were both too exhausted to throw another punch, our clothes were ripped, furniture was scattered, the walls were marred, and we were both black and blue with bruises. As I thought surely we’d go our separate ways, I headed upstairs and to my surprise he followed. From the hallway outside my room, from behind my closed door, I could hear him pacing back and forth as he continued his ugly words and almost without thinking about it I had a gun in my hands and was standing at the door. As I listened to him rant and rave on the other side, I became more and more incensed. Finally, I opened the door with every intention of blowing his head off.
When he saw the gun in my hand, he ran down the stairs and I ran behind him firing twice. He made it into the street without having been hit by either shot just as our mother arrived home. On seeing me standing in the doorway with the still smoking gun in my hands, my mother ran to the door asking me what was going on. All I remember saying to her was, “Ask him, I’m gonna kill that bastard!” repeating it over and over. Mother was frantic and was praying aloud and when she reached out to take the gun away from me, I gave it to her. I went back upstairs, packed my bag and left home. Darrell stayed at home for another six months and I slept in a storeroom at work every night. When he left, I came back home. Although Mother asked many times what it was all about, I never answered her. I don’t know if Darrell ever explained it to her or not, but I imagine she had an inkling, even if we never told her.
After that event, although none of us every talked about it openly, Mother and the rest of the family were always careful not to invite Darrell and I to the same place at the same time. The only exception would be Christmas; and even then, he’d come in one door and I’d go out another. Things went on like this between my brother Darrell and me for many years. When I was called to the ministry, I realized that I could not profess my complete love of God while harboring so much ill will towards my own brother. After a great deal of prayer, fasting and supplication, I realized that I could forgive my brother and love him again as I knew I should. Although, I’d been a home owner for a few years at that time, my brother Darrell had never set foot in my home. Just after I was ordained, my mother celebrated her 70th birthday with a party at my house, to which I invited my entire family including my brother Darrell and his wife. I wasn’t sure if he’d come, so I asked my mother to let him know that it was a sincere invitation and that I was hoping to see him.
On my mother’s birthday, as our family gathered at my home to celebrate, everyone had arrived except for Darrell. As I began to suspect he might not come, we started the meal without him. At the end of the meal, just as we were placing the candles on Mother’s cake, the doorbell rang. I went to the door, and my brother Darrell was standing there. He had a hard look in his eyes, but I opened the door and warmly welcomed him into my home. He came in without saying anything, and I showed him into the dining room where all were gathered around my mother. My mother kissed and hugged him and then me too; I guess she was happy to see us together. I invited everyone to the study where the cake was waiting and we all gathered around my mother for a family photo. As we posed, I was standing next to Darrell; I looked him in the eye, leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry, I love you, and I forgive you.” He said nothing and we both turned towards the camera just in time to capture the first and only photo of us together in 20 years.
After the cake and ice cream and presents, everyone began to say their goodbyes to my mother and take their leave. Darrell did the same, and as he turned to leave, he took my hand giving me a firm handshake. As I shook his hand for the first time in memory, I looked into his eyes and I thought I could see into his soul yet again; and for the first time since that day when I was ten years old, I didn’t see any hate there. Although I’d like to say we became close after that day, I can’t. Although I would still avoid being in his presence for too long, neither of us ran away from the other anymore. In the 12 years since then, our relationship has warmed gradually; we can now chat about the weather when we find ourselves together. I’ve never told him, “Yes, I’m gay.” I’m sure he still thinks it, but I will mention it in passing the next time I see him... I’m sure we’ll not discuss it further.
And so, in reality, there are actually three who know about what “was” my secret, my father, and my two brothers. I will tell my sisters next; the younger one will be easy, I think she will understand and love me as she always has. My older sister and her grown children, my nieces and nephew are the ones I wonder and worry about. I am uncertain about what will be their reaction and response, but I will know soon enough.
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