After Daphne left in a huff, dragging Kayla by the hand out the door, and after Lindsay also left in a huff, dragging Gus by the hand out the door, and after some confused people left gaping and scratching their heads out the door, Justin did something Brian never would have expected, not even after the drive to Altoona. He declared in an even voice, "Let's go downtown. There's an open mic."
Brian stared in silence. But he followed after Justin threw on his coat and marched resolutely out the door.
Justin appeared fine on the drive there, even composed enough to give directions. Then he marched resolutely to the door of the café and inside and, after locating the clip board, confidently wrote his name down.
Then when the man with the mike called Justin's name, and FIRST, Justin marched right up to the stage. Resolutely.
What happened after he arrived, after he started speaking, that was another story.
Justin had not prepared anything. And he was terrified. He had been trembling indiscernibly since before Daphne left. That trembling intensified on the drive and in the café until it was observable. That discernibility occurred THE moment Justin's hand touched the metal of the mike. But he couldn't back down. Today he had done something enormous, and that evolution, that step forward had to be inaugurated, commemorated by another change. He was becoming Justin-Fucking-Taylor … right the fuck now.
The trembling of Justin's body entered Justin's voice and remained there the whole time. His mouth grew dry, at times so dry that he had to pause and swallow a few times before he could make his voice audible again. And he never once made eye contact with anyone, not Brian, not a single audience member, looking instead at the floor just in front of the stage. But his voice held the appropriate emotion, and the trembling actually fed into his performance.
"Growing up knowing there's something wrong with you, something quote-unquote abnormal, quote-unquote aberrant, warps you.
You come to believe that what you want, what you need, what you like is bad, so you accept what you don't want, what you don't need, what you don't like – you accept that THAT is the price of admission to the normal, happy, straight world all of your friends and family inhabit.
You say yes.
You say yes when you very much want to say no.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Surely, they, those normal, happy, straight people, know what's best for you, they know better than you. Surely, following their guidance, you can be normal, happy, and straight, too. Right?
Surely, all that you've ever wanted – home, love, family, safety, joy – surely all these things require that you follow that guidance. Right?
I mean, you're a man. Or you want to be a man. Growing up male, you're trying to LEARN to be a man. But people who take it in the ass aren't men. Right?
The receptive function, that's for women. ONLY women. Isn't it?
And men can't love. They can't offer comfort or support. Because they're socialized to think only of themselves. Because they have to be in the world and compete and that requires a certain coldness, a thicker skin. Right?
But women, they're socialized differently. They're taught to think of others before themselves and to create a home. They have to be emotional and able to help others, men and children, deal with their own emotions. So they CAN love men. Support men. Help them deal with complicated, confusing FEELINGS. But other men can't. Right?
Men are lone wolves. They venture out into the world, ambitious, cold, and independent. Women reside more in the domestic world. They socialize in ways men don't. They're helpful, warm, and dependent. They cooperate. Women NEED to help men negotiate complex, confusing relationships. Like parent-child relationships. Other men can't do that. Right?
If men can't love, nurture, or support other men, how can they do that for children? Women have wombs. They have breasts. They can grow and breast feed children. Surely, they can and should serve as the primary caregivers for their sons and daughters. NOT men. Right?
The animal world, the rest of the animal world, doesn't fool itself into believing any other paradigm will work. That's proof positive that men should be out hunting while the women stay home and raise babies. That men CAN'T raise babies. Right?
Art and creative writing, particularly of the romantic variety, are stupid. Not what REAL men do. Because art and romance novels involve the DREADED feelings, which real men don't have. Right?
Growing up knowing there was something wrong with me, something abnormal, something aberrant, warped me.
I said yes. All the time.
I came to believe that gay men aren't REAL men, that gay men can't love other men, that gay men can't be supportive partners, that only women can be good parents, and that artistically inclined men aren't real men.
I said yes to all that hate. To all that bullshit.
I only came out because the first time, the only time, I had sex my girlfriend, who was also my best friend, the person I loved the most in the world, I had to imagine a male friend to get an erection. I came out because I couldn't marry her, as we'd planned, if I had to lie to her and for a lifetime. It wasn't fair.
I knew that.
I didn't come out for me. I came out for her. That cost me everything.
And then, she left, taking the child I never knew about with her.
After the fallout, when I had no friends or family left, I dated a man, but I still had internalized my list of things men, REAL men, couldn't do, shouldn't be expected, shouldn't be ALLOWED to do. So I picked someone, unconsciously, who would reinforce all the fears my parents had instilled.
I said yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
I didn't demand home, love, family, safety, or joy because I didn't feel I had the right to. After all, I wasn't NORMAL. I wasn't STRAIGHT.
A few months ago, a couple decades too late maybe, I learned a powerful word. And I started to say that word. At first, softly. Uncertainly. Infrequently. Then that whisper … became a roar.
NO.
NO, Daphne, NO, Mikey. Men, all men, can be in love and create a home.
NO, Daphne, NO Mom. Men, all men, can be good, no superlative, parents. Two gay penguins adopted a baby, and I can, too, if I want. Or I can help raise the child, Daphne, you neglected to tell me about until long after she could walk. I can certainly do better than my mother, who said goodbye to me forever in the hospital while I lay there brain damaged and recovering from being in a coma. Where were HER much-lauded EMOTIONS? Where was her SUPPORT?
NO, Dad, getting fucked and writing romance stories didn't make me less of a man. Isn't part of that taking responsibility and gaining recognition … success? I do all that, and better than you. I plan to take care of my child, unlike you. And people in France, the Philippines, Germany, Australia, and elsewhere no my name. No one outside the Pitts will ever know yours.
No, Ethan. Men, all men, can and should make their partners feel joy. No one is quote-unquote lucky to have anyone. No one should show gratitude every day, unreciprocated gratitude, because the partner claims that person could never be loved by anyone else.
No.
No.
No.
No.
No.
And one more thing, FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU, Mom and Dad. FUCK YOU, Daphne. FUCK YOU, Chris. FUCK YOU, Ethan. FUCK YOU, Mikey.
FUCK YOU."
Justin finally looked up, prompted by the sound of a different roar. Everyone in the first two rows (20 people) had jumped to their feet clapping and yelling. They were yelling "Justin."
Justin's eyes filled with confused tears.