[ Pride In Horror Month ] - A Personal Essay

Trigger Warning: this post may contain sensitive content for some readers.

It’s 2020.  Things are a lot different today than when I was a teenager.  In some respects, it seems we’ve come a long way.  Same sex marriages exist now, for example.  LGBTQIA+ characters are portrayed positively in books, movies and television.  Yet for all the changes, the specter of intolerance still exists.

I experienced firsthand the pain that comes from hate and intolerance.  I’m not LGBTQIA+, and I wouldn’t presume to equate my experience with the pain and suffering many in that community have endured.  I suffered, nonetheless, and still bear the emotional scars from wounds incurred in my childhood.

Allow me to explain.  Two men that figured in my life were my father and my uncle, Clyde.  Uncle Clyde was my father’s older brother, and the two of them were strikingly different, in looks as well as character and personality.  My uncle was tall, golden-haired, and flamboyantly outgoing.  He always wore a smile.  When Uncle Clyde stepped into a room, it was like everything brightened.  My father, on the other hand, was short, stocky, and swarthy, with a prominent hook nose.  He could be friendly, but had a dangerous temper.  I know; I was on the receiving end of his anger and his fists when I was young.  There were two other differences:  Uncle Clyde was gay, and my father hated that fact.

I don’t know if my father’s intolerance stemmed from outright hate, or from fear leading to hate.  I tend to think the latter.  My dad had a horrible self-image, a factor that contributed to his anger against the world.  Either way, growing up, I was at the mercy of his temper and his frequent rages.  Nothing was ever good enough.  Nothing ever satisfied him.  He looked down on me with anger and scorn as far back as I can remember.  There were good moments, but those were rare.  Most of the time I spent with him consisted of my father expressing his displeasure of me with his words and his fists.

A topic that came up a lot was Uncle Clyde.  My father both loved and despised his brother.  Uncle Clyde was the golden boy who everyone loved.  He was very successful in life.  Most of his income came from real estate holdings, allowing him to spend the bulk of his time on his real passion: directing.  By the time of his death, Uncle Clyde owned a theater company and directed most of the plays performed there.  His love for the craft of acting was contagious, and he inspired many others in that arena.  Those who knew him loved and admired him.  My father loved and admired his brother no less than anyone else.  The fact that Uncle Clyde was gay, however, filled my father with fear and anger.  Anger at his brother for living that lifestyle, fear that, maybe, he also might be gay.

That fear and anger spilled over to me.  My father was angry by nature.  By the time I was ten, I had been beaten, punched, kicked, thrown against walls, and verbally torn down enough that I didn’t have any memories of my father that didn’t involve abuse.  By the time I was a teenager, any love I might have once had for the man was long gone.  One of the triggers that prompted the abuse was the issue of my uncle.  You see, my father was afraid I would be like Uncle Clyde.  Because of that fear, scarcely a week went by that I didn’t get questioned as to whether or not I was gay.

I was a shy kid, at least around people I didn’t know well.  Because of my shyness, I didn’t start dating or outwardly showing interest in girls till I was maybe 15.  My dad didn’t know the reason for my being a late bloomer.  That fact played on his fears, and he took to interrogating me about my life.  I refused to answer.  By that time, the only emotion I felt towards my father was hate and fear.  I wasn’t strong enough to make him stop the abuse.  I wasn’t big or powerful enough to force him off.  I was afraid of his temper and his strength.  But I did have the will to resist.  I couldn’t fight him physically, but that didn’t mean I had to give him what he wanted.  He would ask about my life.  About my friends.  What movies I liked.  What books I read.  Whether or not I was gay.  I refused to answer.  By that time, I’d be damned if I was going to share my life with him.  In response, I just stared straight ahead.  Never at his eyes.  I learned early on that looking him in the eyes brought a swift response from the back of his hand.  I focused on his nose and mouth instead, and I stood there quiet while he railed on.  Eventually he would backhand me or punch me or shove me hard against the wall, then stalk off, and it would be over for the time being.

Time passed.  I graduated high school in 1986 and enlisted in the Army.  I never saw my father again.  Sadly, I never got to see my uncle again either.  He died when I was overseas, stationed in Germany.  I returned to the States in 1992 and learned that Uncle Clyde had passed away two years earlier.  That was another nail in the coffin for the relationship between my father and me.

Time and distance have mostly healed the wounds inflicted on me by my father.  That and many hours of therapy.  My wife and her love were a great factor in my life as well.  I’m a better person today because of her.  Yet, the scars are still there, and I suppose they always will be.

I write this essay in the hopes that those who read it will understand the pain experienced by the victims of intolerance and abuse.  I hope that those reading this essay will be spurred to take a stand against the forces of hatred and intolerance.  In spite of all the changes in society, hatred and bigotry still exist.  We can’t afford to let down our guard.  We can’t afford to assume that all is well.  If we get lazy, those demons will grow stronger and all the good that has been wrought will be undone.  There’s work yet to be done.  I hope that all those reading this will roll up their sleeves and get to work.  Always forward, never back.

By S.D. Vassallo    he/him
Website:  sdvassallo.com
Twitter:  @diovassallo
Bio:  S.D. Vassallo was born and raised in New Orleans, where he learned not to mess with Voodoo. He loves reading, photography, and travel. Thus far, he has journeyed to Central America, Canada, Europe, and a tiny bit of the Middle East.  S.D. currently lives in the Midwest with his wife, son, and two black cats. He is currently working on two novels that he hopes to see published in the next couple of years.