By Anonymous

Names have been changed

The bell rings and I walk down the hall, down the stairs, through the front door, and then I am outside.

Instantly, everything has to change. I have to walk slower and calmer, with a limp like my leg hurts and like I own the school block, like I don’t care about anything. I have to put more bass in my voice and talk in slang like, “What’s up, son?” and, “What it do?” and, “Nah, man.”

I have to pull down my pants below my waist and open my coat to show off my name brand shirt. Most of all, I have to change my body language. I have to use my hands more and speak in a thug way, nice and slow, kind of similar to my new walk. I do this in the train station and on the bus, until I get home where I can stop acting like a thug.

Because that’s what home is supposed to be—a place where you can relax and be your normal self.

Only that’s not really true in my case. Because when I let my guard down after a long day of putting up this front, the people I live with, the people who are supposed to be my family, laugh at me and criticize and humiliate me. And that means I have nowhere to go to be myself.

Where’s the Love?

I’ve been in foster care my whole life, and my whole life I’ve been searching for love and care and a home where I’m accepted for who I am.

Only once did I live in a foster home where I was accepted. My foster mother’s name was Ms. Barnes, and she treated me like one of her own kids. She showed me respect, love, and care. She gave me money and she bought me anything I wanted. I could tell she loved me because of the way she treated me. She put words into actions.

But after I left Ms. Barnes’s house, I never felt that kind of love again from any of the families I lived with. Since last August, when I was almost 17, I’ve lived in a new foster home, where I am judged and teased because I am gay.

I first knew I was gay when I was 13 years old. But I wasn’t ready for the world to know. People would ask me if I was gay—my friends, my foster parents, my biological family, and teachers and students at school. I would give the same answer: “NO.” I was planning to take that secret to my grave because I was so terrified of the way I would be treated by everyone, including my biological family. But I think they already knew, because the way I presented myself was feminine.

Coming Out

In the beginning, things were all right in my new foster home. My new foster mom, Karen, treated me OK. Karen asked me if I was gay, and I told her that same lie: “NO.” But I finally got tired of hiding in my own house, so one day I sat down and told her I was gay.

It was no shock to her; she already knew, but she was just waiting for it to come out of my mouth, just like everyone else who knew me.

Now that I am out of the closet, though, I feel like going back in. People have been harassing me and calling me names. But I can’t hide what’s inside anymore. It’s eating me up.

Things Get Ugly

One day Karen and I had a disagreement. After that, we started to grow apart, and problems added up until one day things got completely out of control. I saw a side of Karen that hurt me very much.

It happened the day I had an altercation with Karen’s 12-year-old son, William. He took my camera and I pushed him. Karen overheard the commotion and asked William who hit him. He pointed to me.

Karen said, “This big-ass faggot keep touching my son!” Then she looked at me and said, “I am going to get someone to whip your ass!”

Karen continued yelling at me. As her voice grew louder, people started to gather around; she had a lot of company over that day. I felt embarrassed and scared and finally thought, “I don’t have to take this. Get up and leave.”

So I did. As I started down the stairs, I heard people saying, “What’s wrong with that boy? Is he crazy?” It made me furious. It felt like everyone was ganging up on me and trying to put me down.

That’s when Karen started to call me all sorts of names, and then others started to see that that was allowed. Even the new foster kids in the house, Ricardo and Ellie, seemed to get the message that the way Karen was acting toward me was OK and they started to joke and call me cruel names.

So Much More to Me

Since that day, life in Karen’s house has been really hard for me. My foster family says that they accept that I am gay, but the way they act toward me and joke on me is very harsh. They say they don’t like the way I dress, the way I talk, and even my personality. They look at me and only see “gay,” which they clearly don’t approve of.

There is so much more to me: I am loving, kind, sharing, and a good person to hang out with. But they’d rather say things like, “Your pants are too tight. You dress like a girl but you’re a boy, and boys don’t dress like that.”

I don’t stick up for myself because I want them to accept me. This makes me very sad and depressed. Don’t I have the right to be me? Why do I have to change myself for them? After all, I am me, and part of me is being gay—that’s not a choice.

I’m seeking approval from a new family, trying to figure out how to fit in with them because I fear rejection. But how do I fit in with them when they don’t accept me as I am? Sure, when they need something from me, they talk sweet. If they need me to run errands, suddenly their tone is kind, but only just long enough for me to do them a favor.

I Should Feel Protected

I wish they could be in my shoes to understand what it feels like to wake up every day wondering what today’s failure is going to be. Waking up with nothing but negative thoughts about myself and expecting the worst in every situation.

At school people pick on me because of my sexuality and the way I dress and talk. In the streets it’s a little more personal; they beat me up and call me all types of names like faggot, gay boy, tight pants, and it just goes on. At home they pick on me but say that the teasing and name-calling is just their way of joking around.

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