Summer of 1985

In the summer of 1985, I was 19 years old and had just finished my freshman year of college. I had done well despite my intense anxiety and social phobia. Maybe because I had looked forward to it for so long, or maybe because I was determined to make it work. I made good grades, and I discovered that I loved my classes. My high school teachers were not all that knowledgeable or scholarly, but my professors at WVU… They knew their stuff. I took a history class on ancient Western Civilization, and it turned out it was taught by an Egyptologist who could read hieroglyphics, and Latin and Greek. He had traveled extensively all over the Mediterranean region. So when he talked about ancient Greece, for instance, he’d include his personal impressions and experiences of the various cities and scenes of important battles. I was seriously impressed.

I also discovered Morgantown’s clandestine gay community which centered around a dive bar, The Double Decker, on High Street, not far from the downtown campus and within walking distance of my dorm. I spent many Friday and Saturday nights there. I made a few gay friends. I danced with a few boys, and fooled around with some, too. I started therapy, and I was lucky enough to be assigned a kind and gentle psychologist who happened to specialize in the effects of homophobia on young gay, lesbian and bi people. She became an important person in my life for a number of years.

Because I didn’t care for dorm food, and because I had been walking all over campus and Morgantown, I had slimmed down considerably. I was getting noticed. Guys at the bar were paying attention to me despite the fact that I was overtly shy and not the easiest person to approach.

The year didn’t end on a high note, though. I went home with a boy who had been drinking a bit too much. He was kind of direct and surly with me, but I overlooked this because I thought he was cute, and I thought of myself as lucky for the chance to be with him. It turned into a date rape type of situation.

Looking back now, it probably wasn’t a good idea to live with my parents that summer, but I didn’t have any money, and I lacked the social skills to arrange to have an adventure with a friend and share expenses. However, that is exactly what I should have done.

Oak Hill, my hometown in southern West Virginia, was a major culture shock after a year at college. I had changed, my attitude and expectations had changed, but Oak Hill was the same confining place it had always been. I went back to work at McDonalds, and I went back in the closet. While my young, straight coworkers parties and dated, I kept my distance for fear that someone would discover my secret.

I used the money I earned to buy some pretty clothes. I remember an oversized pink t-shirt and a pair of Madras short shorts with strips of pastel colors such as yellow, pink and turquoise. I also got a spiky haircut. I was a teenage gay boy dressed up to have a good time, but I was stuck back in my hometown.

Soon after I got home, I realized my mother was sick again. She had schizophrenia, and it went untreated all while I was growing up, but she was finally diagnosed and began receiving treatment in the spring of my senior year of high school. I was so thankful and relieved to learn that her illness could be treated, and like the young, hopeful thing that I was back then, I assumed that all the drama was finally over. It was such a huge disappointed to learn that we had only been given a reprieve.

I think that summer was the pinnacle of my youth. I had one year of college behind me, and I knew I liked it, and I knew I could hack it. I was as fit and trim as I would ever be. My confidence in myself was the highest that it has ever been. I felt reasonably attractive. I could have had more fun that summer than I had ever had. I should have been with boys like myself. I should have been able to party, hang out with friends, get lucky a few times, and maybe even have a summer romance. Instead, I went backward.