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I was a skinny, stuttering, bedwetter. Straight up, yo. From very early on I was hyper-aware of the dangerous implications related to my triple threat status. In the classroom and on the playground there was no doubt that I could have easily become big-time bully bait. I managed, however, to develop some effective, if not obvious strategies to conceal my embarrassing quirks and imperfections – a cover for each specific pane in the tortured adolescent triptych that was Jimmy Lunsford.
First and foremost, the skinny me would never tuck anything in. I remember the dread of back-to-school shopping, because I would inevitably be forced to buy jeans and corduroys that were labeled “slim.” And even those would sometimes need to be taken in. As I got a little older it became a struggle to find pants with a waist any smaller than a twenty-eight, and as a young teenager I repeatedly found myself being ushered out of the men’s department and back into the boys section. By the time I got to junior high school I had taken to wearing a large, down filled parka to school everyday to add some feather-stuffed nylon girth. In my early twenties, just as I started to make peace with my unusually slight frame, my insecurities were back with a vengeance as AIDS began to ravage the gay community and being skinny was one of the early red flags.
I d-d-d-d-d-don’t. Ra-ra-ra-ra – remember. When the sssss – ssssss – sssssstuttering began. Or why. I will, however, be able to recount in a later confession the very day that it ended. My strategy for the stuttering? Simple. Don’t say anything. Really. To the best of my ability – in most circumstances – I just didn’t speak.
Like the stuttering the bed-wetting was something I always remember struggling with, but unlike the stuttering my nocturnal enuresis didn’t have a definitive end date. My best estimate would be that it stopped altogether sometime around age twelve or thirteen. It was never an every night occurrence, but it was frequent enough that I was forced to avoid sleepovers. Every once in a while I would bravely agree to an overnight stay at my cousins house, but more often than not I would approach my aunt just as bedtime rolled around and say, “I want to go home.” On each of those instances my mom or dad would make the drive over to fetch me. Also, I recall walking into my parent’s bedroom on many occasions and waking my mom in the middle of the night because I needed help changing the sheets. As I got a bit older and savvier, I would simply change my pajamas and place a bath towel over the large wet area.
In general, my overall strategy to avoid becoming one of those kids that other kids torment was to never be noticed. I exerted great effort to call no attention to myself whatsoever. I would hang unobtrusively on the outskirts of my adolescent environments – just watching. Like one of those color changing reptiles – a chameleon – doing my best to blend in to whatever bland backdrop I could find to lean against: the dusty green slate of a chalkboard, the rough brown bark of a tree, or the cold grey concrete of a deserted handball court. I struggled to be invisible in every circumstance. Maintaining that level of obscurity demanded that I never excel and never fail, as either would serve to highlight my existence. Consequently, I became a master of mediocrity and eventually I began to believe that that was all that anyone ever expected of me.
When trying to sum up my relationship with the Catholic Church, I responded to someone that I was never abused, but never embraced. In some ways that also describes how I fared as a skinny, stuttering, bedwetter. I mostly managed to avoid being overtly targeted, however I never recall being explicitly reassured either. Certain things were just not discussed. And like the implicit shame that existed in my young world due to a scarcity of gay references, the obvious silence surrounding my three embarrassing issues seemed to imply that something was wrong. Or more to the point, that something was wrong with me.
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