When I was younger I lived in government housing. Some call it Section 8, others call it The Point of No Return. I just called it home.
As you can imagine, or at least stereotype, the inhabitants of 100 University Lane weren't always the classiest of individuals, and maybe not always the most promising. Like Ed. Creepy Ed.
Ed hardly left his tiny apartment, leaving the parents of the building to gossip and their children to, naturally, assume he was a supervillain. Maybe not of the Joker variety, though whether he had an affinity for white face paint and red lipstick, I'll never know — but at least of Smurf-hunting Gargamel caliber.
In truth, Ed wasn't creepy, just different. Ed was gay. He may have been fun to be around, had a sarcastic tongue or a quick wit. He may have liked the same television or movies as everyone else. But no one knew. They just knew that he was gay — and, well, kind of weird.
1990's semi-rural Ohio probably wasn't the place to be "here — and queer!" — but silence is acceptance. And in Ed's silence, in his inability to share that he was more than just gay, he perpetuated the stereotypical image of the creepy, single gay man, living in a dark apartment doing Cher-knows-what with his spare time. He allowed himself to become Creepy Ed, because that's all anyone ever knew of him. His sexuality became deviant, became creepy, guilty by association.
He was the first gay man that I knew, other than that dazzling boy with the steps in his hair singing The Little Mermaid in the mirror, and he was creepy. That sort of thing sticks with a kid.
This article appears in Jul 1-7, 2010.