“Growing up gay and Black in rural conservative East Texas presented its many challenges, however, L’Enfant Terrible is an intimate memoir about a young man and his personal journey through life, the many challenges we all face, spiritual growth, love, heartbreak, with many moments of enlightenment. Set in New York over the course of two years, embark on one man’s experience as he comes to know the higher truth about life and happiness.”
Available now for e-book purchase at: Amazon.com.
Introduction to L’Enfant Terrible:
L’Enfant Terrible, the first thing I imagine you’re thinking is, “What the hell does that mean?”
enfant terrible:
n.
1
a: a child whose inopportune remarks cause embarrassment
b: a person known for shocking remarks or outrageous behavior
2
: a usually young and successful person who is strikingly unorthodox, innovative, or avant-garde
[French: enfant, child + terrible, frightful.]
Although I prefer the latter, without a doubt, I have embodied all aspects of this definition at some point in my life. It is also worth noting that I am a Francophile, so it seemed apt for the title of my book.
Over the past two years, this book has been my personal journey. As I navigated through life as a post graduate, New York City transplant, and ventured through numerous woes of love, heartbreak, many triumphs, and countless moments of enlightenment—this book has been my lifeline.
I commenced writing this book at the age of 22, which is when I really started to embrace living authentically and celebrating my true self. Anyone who knows me knows how candid I can be—even painfully so at times—and it is with such honesty that I composed the 24 memoirs of this book.
Now, at age 24, the journey that has been this book has come to a close, however, the experiences and memories of these past two years will last a lifetime. This book has transformed me beyond measure and is one of the things I am most proud of in my life.
So, here’s to L’Enfant Terrible, a book that is unabashedly honest, at times provocative, but in the end showcases the rawness in humanity that unites us all. I invite you into my world and I hope you enjoy your stay in it.
Thoughts from a Former Suicidal Gay Teen
For the longest time, I’ve felt compelled to share my story. For one, with the numerous suicides we have witnessed in this country, that alone is a big enough reason to share my story. Although, I feel my experiences of being not only a gay man, but also a black man, have had particular consequences that not every person faces; and unfortunately for other individuals like me: their voices are oftentimes silenced or lost forever.
As I have made the monumental feat of graduating college, I have felt a heightened sense of awareness of who I am. I am using this piece to share my story, unearth the memories I have stowed away in the back of my mind, and bring closure to the boy that I used to be, and give way to the man I have always dreamed of becoming. So, this is my story.
My name is George or “Bubba”, as my friends and family call me back home in Whitehouse, Texas—my hometown. Growing up as a child in Whitehouse was nice, given that I was a child; I was completely ignorant of things like race, racism, homosexuality, and homophobia. As a child, I basically knew for certain only the following limited things: I loved to dance, sing, and perform, I had a ridiculous obsession with Hot Wheels miniature cars, and ever since watching Stuart Little for the first time, I knew I wanted to one day live in New York City.
At times, I often look back on those moments of childhood ignorance with longing: to live a life where you are too young to understand what it means to be disenfranchised because of the color of your skin or your sexual orientation—the predispositions that I had absolutely no control over—now sounds like a utopia. I can definitely say growing up not only gay, but black in the Deep South carried particular adversity, both of which have been defining characteristics that have highly influenced in molding the man I am today.
I’ll never forget the moment when my rose-tinted perspective of reality quickly changed. I was 12 years old, in the 6th grade, and this moment happened in the library, of all places. I was eagerly browsing through the “Non-Fiction” section, as I loved to read books about different countries and cultures. Even from a young age, I was intrigued by the life and reality outside the confines of East Texas, and I knew I wanted to one day explore it.
There was a little blonde girl next to me, and for some reason the librarian called her to the front desk. “Sarah! Get over here, right now!” Given the tone of the woman’s voice, I knew something was wrong. Being perplexed of the situation and curious as to what was happening, I said, “Yeah Sarah, get over there,” in a joking manner. Sarah was not too pleased, at all. I saw her eyes become enraged, I felt hate for the first time as she barked at me: “Don’t talk to me, you nigger!”
Being only 12, with no prior experience to racism, I had absolutely no clue what to do. I stood there shell-shocked, my stomach turned, and all I could do was hold back tears while she walked away. What I find most fascinating is that before this incident, I didn’t have the most precise knowledge of the meaning of that word; but due to the circumstance, this white girl barking that word to me in the manner in which she did, communicated more to me than any definition ever could. For the first time, my rose-tinted reality became strictly black and white. I felt for the first time, what it meant to be different, a feeling I would soon endure for the rest of my life.
As I matriculated into junior high to the 7th grade, life only preceded to get worse. Now being 13, I started to go through puberty and began to realize that I had a sexual attraction towards men. Ever since I can remember, I have always had a fondness of men. I would oftentimes have dreams of being with men in an intimate setting, but when I became a teenager, these sentiments started to take on a sexualized manner.
Even though I was unaware of what “gay” was at this age, I knew what it meant to like the same sex. I had a very clear understanding, due to my conservative town and growing up in a Baptist church, that it was absolutely not tolerated. Given that the members of my family were devout Christians, I knew that these feelings could never be exposed. I began to live a double-life; I would play the role of being heterosexual or “normal” like everyone else, while deep down inside I was well aware that I was different.
I’ll never forget the defining moment when I realized what “gay” was and its meaning for me. My sisters and I were sitting in the living room in front of the television, and a commercial featuring a very attractive man came on. Without thinking, I let it slip: “He’s cute!” I said, not realizing the gravity of what I had just said aloud. My sister looked at me, with a twisted mouth of disgust and said: “What are you, gay?” given the circumstances, I finally connected the meaning of “gay” and its relation to me; I realized that I was the person that my sister found repulsive. Hastily trying to save the situation, I swore up and down I wasn’t gay and my sister let the situation pass. This was the first of numerous pathetic attempts, of trying to make the world, and also myself, believe I was heterosexual.
When I got to the 8th grade, this dark period of my life from 13 to 14 years of age, hit its peak. I’ve never had a personal experience with bullying in the conventional sense; I was actually fairly popular and liked throughout my time in grade school. Yet, I was teased constantly. Every day, and yes, I mean literally every day—from junior high until I graduated high school—I was called “white boy” or told I was “acting white”.
As I was black and was in band, choir, and theatre, played tennis, soccer, and cross-country, I was teased incessantly because I didn’t fit the stereotype of the black male that people wanted me to be. In addition to the racial comments, the teasing also was physical throughout 8th grade; I’ve always had a stocky build and so this was often used for the butt of their jokes. However, the thing that drove me mad, above everything else, was the insistent speculation of my sexual orientation.
Being called “white boy”, I could take. Being made fun of for being overweight, I could handle. But the thought of anyone finding out the fact that I was gay was something I would not tolerate. The fact is I was never bullied by another individual, like many other kids. Yet, the light teasing that I received every day was just enough hatred for me to internalize, and in time I started to believe the things being said about me, and I became my own bully.
I would beat myself up for my stocky build; I would have an identity crisis because I couldn’t understand where a black boy fit in with this white town. Ultimately, I gave the most hatred I had inside me towards my sexuality. I felt my being gay was the true root of all of of my pain and suffering, and I couldn’t understand why God would make me in a form that was so hated by the society in which I lived.
Due to the constant fear and self-loathing I lived with that whole year, I oftentimes considered what it would be like to no longer have to experience this mental anguish and torture every day. At the age of 14, while others would be reading in English class, I would scheme of ways to kill myself in the most convenient and painless ways possible.
I had various methods compiled by the end of the year. My reality during 8th grade was so haunting that I had to take life day by day. Some days, I wouldn’t be teased as much, and it would be a good day; while others would be worse, and those methods of suicide became more of an appealing option. The slightest remark, comment, or joke made at my expense was enough to plunge me into a cesspool of self-doubt and hatred for the rest of the day.
The main reasons why I contemplated suicide for so long was due to the isolation I felt. Growing up in a small town of 7,000 people, none of which seemed to be like myself, I felt like no one understood me; there was no one that I had enough confidence in which to confide. There were no school administrators that were available. I didn’t have friends that I trusted which such a sensitive matter. And my family was not an option, as I felt they were fiercely religious; but even more than that because homophobia is a staple in the black community.
The lack of acceptance for gays penetrates past religion and the intolerance is part of the society. I felt completely helpless. For years on end, I felt like I was at the edge of a cliff and I had no one to turn to for help. During this time, there was no “It Gets Better” campaign. The Trevor Project hotline existed but due to the remote isolation of my town, I didn’t even know such a thing was available. Although, the biggest reason why I felt suicide was the only option, was due to this simple fact: I couldn’t understand how a gay black man could fit in a white conservative heteronormative society. So at times, I just felt that I would be better off dead.
Throughout this time, I am honestly astonished that I never jumped off of that cliff, as I so desperately wanted to do. The strength I had to get through those years was not of my own. I found God, and I truly do believe it is through a divine intervention, that I am still alive today.
Fortunately, when I finally arrived to high school, life surprisingly took a turn for the better. For the first time in years, I actually had optimism. For the first time in a long time, I was hopeful about my future. In high school, I was able to escape the petty atmosphere from my class mates, and I was able to find more like-minded people. None of which were gay, but they were more accepting of me than others had been. I became more involved in student organizations and I actually felt like I was a part of something; but more importantly, I felt like my life finally had reason and purpose.
One of the most defining moments of my teenage years was when I went to New York City for the very first time. I always fantasized what life was like in the Big Apple. I romanticized the city of being an oasis of tolerance, acceptance, and self-expression that was unheard of in a small town like Whitehouse.
It was the summer of 2008, I was 17, and my mom surprised me with tickets to New York; especially since I would be applying to NYU in the fall. That summer changed my life. We were only there for six days, but it only took an hour to have my world turned upside down. Throughout the week, we explored the city as tourists do, but the last two days I was allowed to roam the city on my own.
Being in the city that I loved, getting lost in its grid of never ending avenues, I felt at peace, like this truly was the place where I belonged. Coincidentally, I happened to be there the week of the NYC Gay Pride parade. I’ll never forget the feeling of being in that atmosphere. Seeing people expressing themselves in their truest manner, without hesitation; the unwavering feeling of camaraderie that I felt being around people like me for the first time was as if I was in a parallel universe.
I was flabbergasted to realize that such a different reality existed for people in Texas, compared to those living in New York. For the first time, I felt acceptance. Not just for being gay, but for all aspects of who I was. The black man, the gay man, I was treated like an individual and I wasn’t homogenized based on my race or what people expected me to be.
Eventually I graduated high school, and I ended up going to college in Dallas, Texas, rather than NYU. Nevertheless, college was another major turning point in my life for the better. I was given more freedom to be myself. I could express myself—even still with some degree of limitation—much more than I could back home in East Texas. Also, I was finally able to befriend people who were openly gay. I had the opportunity to attend LGBT meetings, and I was finally given the opportunity to come to terms with myself, without the fear of social persecution.
The most life changing event of my entire life thus far was my junior year of college. The entire year was like a dream come true for that little boy from East Texas who dreamed of exploring the world outside of Texas and the United States. I spent my fall semester studying in Paris, France, and my spring semester studying in Bologna, Italy, followed by a summer-long internship in New York City.
Again, this must have been another divine intervention, because that magical junior year away from Texas, changed every aspect of my character. I’ll never forget arriving in Paris for the first time, being in the city I had dreamed of, like New York, ever since I was a kid reading about that city, nestled in the corner of the library.
My semester in Paris was the first time, in 20 years, that I could completely be myself. I was no longer in Whitehouse, I was no longer at my university in Dallas: I was in Europe, I was in Paris, and I was free to finally realize the man I am today. My semester in Bologna, Italy, also passed all of my expectations. I further grew exponentially as a person; I developed an unshakable confidence, and most importantly, I started to dismantle the boy who was so full of self-hatred and I learned to forgive myself for my dark past, accept myself completely, and love myself unconditionally.
In time, I came to realize that happiness, unlike my sexuality, is a choice. I came to understand that if I truly wanted to be happy, I could choose to be happy. Summer soon came, and my internship in New York City was phenomenal. I was beyond excited to be in my city, the same city that gave me shelter, and for a small moment, showed me another world outside of Texas for the first time.
After my junior year abroad and in New York, I came back to Texas a completely different man. Having tasted the sweet life, I would be dammed if I would go back to being the shell of a man I used to be. I realized that I had developed a permanent sense of contentment, acceptance, and mercy for myself, and ultimately for others. I began to embrace all of the qualities that I used to loathe. And in time, I began to love and cherish all of the qualities that I was teased for in grade school.
My beautiful cinnamon colored skin, I love. My naturally curly hair, I admire. The stocky build and extra pounds that I can’t seem to shake off, I accept. And ultimately, for the little boy who for so many years was so close to taking his own life, I forgive completely. Last, but certainly not least, to God, who gave me strength and perseverance when I was at a loss: I give my life.
As I have finished college, and I am now preparing for my permanent relocation to the city that started it all, New York, I look back on my life with sheer astonishment. At 22, when just a few years before I was overwhelmed with pressures my soul was too young to bear, I can say I made it through. There are so many people who don’t make it to this point, and because of that, I am so fortunate for this life I now have the privilege to live.
For my brothers and sisters who are dealing with racism, who are dealing with their sexuality, or anyone dealing with their own personal demons: please use my story as a testament that life does get better.
It might not happen overnight, it took me 22 years to finally reach complete happiness. But please, hang in there. Life is too precious; you owe it to yourself to live it in the best way you can.
I know all too well how taking your own life at times can seem like the only option, but know that it is not.
You were crafted and created out of love, and if you have no one in your life to tell you this, know that God loves you.
I love you.
And in time, you will learn to love yourself.
L'Enfant Terrible: 