February 1992

I think I forgot to mention that mother has moved into her own apartment in Modesto. I am proud of her. When I spoke to her I made sure that she knew I support her. All of her life she's been shut up and repressed. Finally she's making her own decisions. I told her to be proud of herself and to think positively, always. And I told her that I love her dearly. Anyway, I just finished "On Being Gay". It was such an inspirational book. I'm so afraid of the future, not just in general, but as a homosexual. I hope that I play an important part in helping my fellow gays in the years to come. I will always be open and out. I just pray for the strength to live as a healthy man. I pray that my family will someday understand me, and love the gay in me. Isn't it funny that people hurt each other because they don't understand each other? Lisa and I were at Charmer's playing pinball when suddenly the front door opened and someone hurled a rock at me and struck me in the face. I stood there for a moment. Somewhat dazed I walked over to Marcelo who was by the dartboards. I cried on his shoulder. I was so angry. I'm angry that I can't go to my family about it. Lisa went to the jukebox immediately and played "I Will Survive", we laughed. Then it made me cry more. It was like reality had hit me. But I guess it could've been worse. It was funny the way I had just walked up to Marcelo like a small child and said, 'Marcelo, someone just threw a rock at me.' In a way I did let go and become a child. I went back in time. To every painful moment, to every frustration growing up, to trying to find out why you simply happen to love men.

I'm very angry. I'm very frustrated that there are people out there actually being killed for being who they are. It's hard to believe. I'm not sure that I'll ever go back to Charmer's and am afraid that something like this will happen again. Fuck them! As if I'm gonna give up! I actually feel the opposite, like telling the whole world I am gay. I feel like calling all my relatives. I hope I can grow from this and become a stronger homosexual. Sons of bitches!

I'm tired. I'm eighteen and I'm drained. If I kill myself God can't be too mad at me. I have no one to blame for this but myself.

I realize that I hurt myself more than others actually do.

I need strength. I need to grow.

Melisa and I split a hit of acid that someone gave me for driving him home after a party. Overall it was a good thing, but I still hate the way it makes my body feel. Melisa and I talked about our spiritual sides, the ones that are trying to grow. Melisa is wiser than I thought, and has grown. We supported each other.

I shouldn't do drugs. But if it's happening, it's happening. Sometimes I think that my homosexuality is keeping me in a place of fear, but I have to remember that it's me who keeps me from living. I was born to live in this world. I must learn how and grow.

I am just realizing that I am an artist. Melisa helps me see this. Then we nap in my bed for a couple hours.

I'm going to see if I can just enjoy a lazy Sunday and not feel like I have to be doing something every minute!

Norman, the bartender at Charmer's, keeps slipping me the tongue when I kiss him goodbye.

Applied for a job at a Starbuck's. Then Rachel and I took a stray cat to the vet. They put a thermometer up her butt. The cat's butt, that is. I felt so bad for it. I understood completely.

Yesterday, to kill time I went to Unabridged Books and skimmed through photographic books of hot naked men. I kept expecting someone I know to walk in and see me and was paranoid. I didn't really care, though.

It's not how you look but what you look for. I will grow and go away, but what will I take with me? That's what scares me. I'm not a child anymore, your words don't just bounce off me. The uncertain hands of the future hold me back.

Blew off class again. Went to coffee with friends and came home at two in the morning. Dad threw a cheap shot, "Did the bars finally close?"

Dad and I are yelling at each other as I write this. My throat hurts, my heart is beating. We were all in a good mood when dad first came home. It's my fault. I bring my frustrations with the world home. We're in this one-bedroom apartment together, but we're alone. If I stop writing now what would I do? I should apologize to dad. It would make for something interesting to write about in here.

Santi picked me up and we went to Charmer's. We talked about personal things. I guess life is hard even when you're twenty-eight. Life is always hard. Santi confuses me. I'm just young, I guess.

He drank. Fell in the shower. I heard a loud upsetting thud. I ran into the bathroom. I asked in Assyrian, 'Pilloukh? Did you fall?' "I just bent down to get this," he answered. I could see him sitting in the bottom of the tub, a washcloth in his hands. 'You fell!' I said as if I were accusing him of something awful. "Alright, I fell!" he admitted unhappily. He blamed it on the alcohol. It hurt so much to see him like that. It hurts now as I think of the terrible sound his falling made, his mean defensive tone. When he finally came out he said sarcastically, "Thanks for caring." I just sighed and daydreamed about living up on a mountain in peace. Where I wouldn't have to worry about racism (my own), politics, money, crime, or anything at all. When I finally fell asleep I had a bad dream. I was sitting in the pews of a church during a prayer service. Everyone was silent. A young girl went around whispering what I thought must have been something sacred and religious in everyone's ear. When she got to me she whispered, "You lick prick!" She moved on. Those closest to me giggled. I stood up and yelled, 'What did you just say?' The young girl looked scared. 'Well yes, I do like to lick prick…' I went on. She had not expected this outburst. The next thing I knew we were both in the principal's office as he looked through his collection of many belts of different sizes, styles, and colors. He was about to punish the girl. I argued with him if beating her with a belt was necessary.

There's a mysterious distance between Melisa and me, which still surprises me. Let things happen, Emil.

Sometimes I think so much that I feel confused, like there's something I'm supposed to be doing, but am not, or something I'm supposed to be saying to someone that I'm not saying. Today I came to the conclusion that I don't really mind being poor. I didn't have a dime to my name, but it was o.k. Do we have to constantly spend, spend, spend? Buy, buy, buy? As if the rest of the world doesn't play its part in making a day gloomy, I have to be cruel to myself.

We're afraid of those who are different from us, when I think we should respect them, appreciate them, and learn from them. Black, Christian, Muslim, gay, straight, whatever. It scares me that the world is so intolerant. It scares me that I have my own weaknesses. It amazes me that we've even come this far. And I'm so tired of labels. There are so many of them, especially in America. As I continue to become set in my own ways I try to remain open and flexible. I want to do all this now, but I realize that it will take me most my life. I really have a hard time expressing myself in this journal, or anywhere. My thoughts are so scattered.

I got really sick from drinking too much at Brandon's and threw up on the side of Norby's car.

No hangover, but I did feel silly in the morning. It wasn't my fault, really. It crept up on me. I called Norby and apologized and offered to have his car washed. He was really cool and told me not to worry about it. Before dad went to bed drunk tonight I made sure to thank him for everything he's done for us. You have to take the time to do stuff like that when your relationship with your father sucks.

I want to work with photographers, musicians, actors, painters, poets. I don't want to live an ordinary average life. It rained. I didn't answer the phone because I didn't want to see anyone today.

I'm obsessed with my weight. Dad is drunk. It doesn't matter to me who is right and who is wrong. The point is that we fight. We fight. We fight every night. Dad, I'm sorry that I'm gay, but damn it, this is no after-school special. This is who I am! This is who I'm going to be until I die. My suicidal thought is: I'm gay. I'm miserable. I'm causing my family pain and embarrassment. They don't believe I can be happy this way, and I didn't ask for this. So, I should terminate my own existence. Isn't that a bunch of bullshit?

The Monster (my friends) is having a party, but I'm avoiding it. I stay with poetry, books, notepads, and pen. I feel so incomplete. There's so much out there to see. Alyson Moyet of Yaz is in town. Poets lecturing at The Art Institute. Plays. So much!

Who does this journal make me? Does it tell who I really am? I don't think in here I'm such a wonderful person. All I do is throw out my one-sided opinions and bitch. That's all. And I wonder whom it is I think I'm talking to. Who's ever going to want to read this? Sometimes I feel like burning every notebook. Why do I talk so foolishly of fame and fortune? But is it really about those things? I just want to be able to have a voice with which to help other homosexuals, minorities. To be inspired by life. Dad says I've been talking in my sleep lately. I'm not high, nor drunk, and maybe I'm stupid but something, some voice inside tells me that to be at peace with the world is better.

Glass of wine and a cigarette. Will I spend the rest of my life pretending because I always feel so incomplete? Pieces missing. There's something deep inside me. A yearning. A calling. A love for… what? No one knows this. It's silly. Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps I'll end up teaching at some public school somewhere, in the closet. Going home to some lonely little apartment, and dreaming about who I might have been. I'll get what I want, someday. I swear! I swear!