“It was in the early ’60s, and my mom was starting to suspect she had a little homosexual on her hands. I didn’t play with paper dolls or dress up in Mama’s clothing (not that there’s anything wrong with that and even if I’d been so inclined, Wanda’s taste in fashion was abysmal) but my interest in contact sports was casual and I had a pronounced aversion to hunting and killing wild animals. I enjoyed reading and painting pictures and writing stories and watching reruns of old movies on TV. I kept my room tidy. In the Texas Bible Belt, boys like me were viewed with suspicion. Wanda later told me that when I expressed an interest in piano lessons, her worst fears were realized. She resigned herself to giving birth to an artistic child, "artistic" being the traditional euphemism for Queer-As-A-Three-Dollar-Bill.
I was nine years old and Grandma had written to tell us her need for child slave labor would occur earlier than usual that summer. This meant I would be as free and restless as a hummingbird by the time August rolled around. My mom just couldn’t abide having youngsters underfoot for long stretches, a fate as abhorrent to her as scrubbing the toilet or toiling over a hot stove.
Her hand-wringing ceased, however, when our pastor recommended Piney Woods Youth Bible Camp as the perfect vacation spot for a troublesome son. Phone calls were exchanged, forms filled out and signed, money set aside, reservations made … for two. My cousin Darlene was enlisted to accompany me to the child indoctrination center, presumably to make sure I didn’t besmirch the family’s good name.
She certainly didn’t need any supplemental salvation. My cousin had accepted Jesus Christ as her personal savior at a tender age – some say while she was still inside the womb. In matters of faith, I was rather more circumspect. I couldn’t believe God expected me to cringe and grovel before our Baptist congregation, many of whom I knew to be hypocrites.”