Last week David and I were perusing the shelves at Ken Sanders, and I ended up taking home, among other titles, Paul Monette’s Becoming a Man. The book chronicles the author’s struggles in the closet while coming of age in the late 50s, and while laced with a numbing amount of naked self-loathing, the clarity of Monett’s observations are bracing. He manages to put such a fine point on my own adolescent experiences that I actually gasped when reading them. The following cuts particularly close to the bone:
I keep coming back to this passage as I process the events of this weekend’s Pride celebration, but that’s a topic for another entry.