A Dream of Wrestling, Love, and Unexpected Connections

Dreams have this magical way of pulling us into worlds we never imagined, blending reality with fantasy in the most unexpected ways. Last night, I had one of those dreams—the kind that leaves you wondering what it all means and wishing you could dive back in to see how it ends. It was surreal, emotional and oddly cinematic. Let me take you on this journey with me.

It all started at a restaurant. I was feeling good, rocking my cute hair, though it was a little out of place. As I headed to the bathroom to fix it, I passed by the kitchen and spotted Jacob (name changed)—a guy I went to school with. He was a football player, someone I never really connected with and I always thought he was straight. But there he was, noticing me. He smiled and as I walked by, I brushed his shoulder lightly with my fingers. It was such a fleeting moment, yet it felt charged with something unspoken to him but not me.

After fixing my hair, I returned to my table and to my surprise, Jacob was sitting there. Just like that, the dream shifted and suddenly, I was at his place. He asked me if I could wrestle him, recalling my thing for wrestling back in school. I laughed and asked, "What kind of wrestling? Sexy, pro, or college?" He chuckled at the "sexy" suggestion and said, "Pro." 

I wanted to make sure neither of us got hurt, so I meticulously wrote down the order of moves we’d perform and even came up with a safe word—just in case. Before I knew it, we were in a wrestling ring, on TV, of all places. The arena was more like NWA from the 1980’s rather than something like WWF where there was a huge crowd. The crowd was roaring and then Ruth, his girlfriend—or maybe wife—stormed into the arena. She was furious, accusing him of fulfilling some "gay thing" with the "weird gay guy from school"—me. 

The scene shifted again, and we were on a couch. Jacob was in the kitchen, leaving me to sort things out with Ruth. She was upset, blaming me for taking him away. I tried to explain that Jacob and I weren’t a thing, not even friends—we were just wrestlers playing our parts. But then she grabbed a remote and played back the scene from the restaurant. It showed me brushing his chest, not his shoulder and him following me to the restroom, watching me fix my hair. It wasn’t creepy—it was sweet, like something out of a romantic movie.

I told Ruth that maybe her feelings were the reason Jacob had been living a lie. She paused, and then, to my surprise, she agreed. She said she loved us both, even though I didn’t even know her. She confessed she’d rather be happy knowing we were happy together and that she was already with the man she loved before Jacob—someone else from school who might also be gay, or maybe not.

The funny thing is, I had/have no interest in Jacob. I wasn’t invested in any of it—I was just there, caught in this whirlwind of emotions and drama. As I reached out to take Jacob’s hand to tell him something, my 3:30am alarm went off. I woke up, desperate to know how the dream would’ve ended. I tried to fall back asleep, but it was no use. The dream was gone, leaving me with lingering questions and a strange sense of wonder.

  

Dreams like this remind me of the complexity of human emotions and the stories we carry within us, even unconsciously. What do you think this dream means? Have you ever had a dream that felt so vivid and layered, you couldn’t shake it? Share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear your interpretations.  

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A random chapter from my Book: October 1992 Navigating High School Drama in Pace 2.0

An AI rendering of one of my outfits though my hair was different.

I thought I would share a chapter from the original draft of my book. I hope you enjoy a peek into the story of my life 32 years ago which has progressively been written and rewritten over the years. This chapter is drawn from my favorite version of my book.

OCTOBER 1992

The month of October was pretty much a blur. I remember being excited to be back in Pace, but in hindsight, my excitement was clouded but I needed to heal from my encounter with Richard Rogers and I knew I needed to conceal my wound so no one would freak out. When I arrived at the Pensacola airport after a flight from La Guardia with a layover in Nashville, I was thrilled to see my mom, sister, and dad, even though my dad had only driven over from Mobile to stay a few minutes, just to make sure I got home safe. It was hot and my mock turtleneck t-shirt was causing me to sweat. One would have expected we go to a restaurant to catch up as a family but once we all said our hellos, I was in my mom's car on the way to her house.

Mama hadn't made any haste in getting my 11th-grade enrollment sorted out, despite me already missing over a month of school. I arrived in Pace on a Monday, and by the next Monday, with just the clothes I brought with me, a bunch of mock turtleneck shirts from the Gap, my friend Todd's blazer I wore when I met Tom a few nights before, Hugo Boss and Gap jeans and my black Nike Airs, I looked totally out of place, especially with my long hair that I pulled back from the sides into a tight ponytail, she dropped me off at Pace High School. Spending a week in mama's little cottage-style apartment, sleeping on her couch, wasn't at all a vacation or a good space to heal. By midweek, I was already bored. I looked forward to being the out-of-the-closet GBF to every girl in school and hoped to reconnect with some old tricks and friends, especially TK.

I was given a locker, but before I could get my class schedule, I had to meet a guidance counselor, one of the deans, the resource officer, and the principal, all at different times. In hindsight, I realize this was a scare tactic to make me leave. The dean, Miss Holland, basically told me to cut my hair, blend in, and butch it up. Ironically, she was more butch than most of the men on staff. The resource officer, Mike something, seemed more interested in a situation from the year before involving my best friend Charlie and a missing walkie-talkie than in helping me get back in the groove. I knew where the walkie was but snitches get stitches. The guidance counselor wasn't even my grade's counselor but knew me from previous years and was known for handling "problems" like pregnancies and drug addiction, often suggesting students quit Pace and get a GED over at Vo-Tech. It all seemed a set up but low key to what was to come.

Finally, I met with the principal, Frank Lay, who was known for his religious sermons disguised as motivational talks. While he spoke at me (not to me), I was more focused on the long nose hair that blended into his mustache. His talk was a recap of what I'd already heard but with less tact. He stuttered over the words "ho-ho-homo-homosexual behavior will not be tolerated," while I couldn't help but think about his own daughter who seemed like she may be batting for the same team in spite of her carrying around a huge designer purse.

By the end of the morning, I had my class schedule and realized I was back with some of the same teachers who tormented me during my previous years, including Coach Kent Smith. They also put me in Mrs. Parker's Chorus class, which I knew would be miserable since I hadn't been into choir since 5th grade. I was not an ensemble singer and I expected solos and maybe an orchestra to make this work. I spent most of the day bouncing around, showing up in random classes and avoiding Kent Smith's class by hiding in the restroom and also trying to clean up a bit of the fluid oozing from my neck so it didn't get on or show through my shirt.

I completely disregarded the administration's warnings about my behavior and what I couldn't talk about. When Matt Gaff tried to mock me in one of the few classes I did attend, insinuating I lied about my summer, I blurted out details of my adventures in Atlanta and NYC. I ended up being sent to cool down, in the office for attempting to stand up for myself but what the teacher pegged me with was the fact I was speaking of inappropriate and offensive subjects. It was my truth, I was not ashamed and I survived doing what I did. After getting stabbed by a random weirdo, a tongue lashing from low level high school coaches turned dean and principal seemed pointless to me. I didn't go to the office, I just walked out the door that was closest to the path leading to my mom's house and went home instead, stopping off at the corner store to buy a pack of cigarettes and a Mountain Dew then smoked all the way home. Over the course of the month, I attended school a total of three days, refusing to ride the bus I walked a mile and a half and clashed with everyone in the chorus class because they were either singing too loud, not at all or attempting to sing with fake vibrato. I also hated the music we were singing. I think Mrs. Parker was kind of happy that I didn't stick around because I was in total "diva" mode.

During the month, the only activity my family did to get me out of the house was attend the Pensacola Interstate Fair. After spending the previous months going to Six Flags Over Georgia, Six Flags Great Adventure, and Coney Island, a fair seemed like lowbrow entertainment but it was the first year the new carnival company, Reithoffer Shows, played the fair after the old carnival I grew up seeing at the fair lost their contract. My sister, brother-in-law, mom, dad and I had a blast but the moment we left the fair, we were all split up again and I was laying on my mom's couch, missing my life in New York. I wondered what the other hustlers, bartenders, tricks and my friends were up to and if anyone noticed I was gone.

Halloween made me realize it was time to leave. I missed the hustle and bustle of NYC, Broadway, my freedom, the money and the ability to easily score cocaine. My injury had healed enough to be mostly unnoticeable and my excitement about being back in Pace had faded so there was no sense in sticking around where I felt unwelcome. To the other kids in school, I was still the weird kid that no one took seriously, a freak. On Tuesday, November 3, 1992, the resource officer came to take me to school but I was not having it, he had no grounds to arrest me and his bully tactics were irrelevant. My bag was packed and I had already called a cab. With my return ticket in hand, I walked out of my mom's house and headed to the cab. I was prepared the night before and spent a half hour on the payphone in front of the Piggly Wiggly convincing American Airlines to reinstate my return ticket after using a sob story. With my mom's ATM card in hand, without her knowledge, I was on my way, back to New York City, rested, stronger and more determined to succeed on my own.

My Journey to Getting a GED at almost 50

Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs. I’m not shy about talking about my time leaving home and supporting myself as a street hustler, doing things a 16-year-old had no business doing. My real struggle came in high school. I never got to finish because of the homophobia I faced from my principal and guidance counselors. Their prejudice made an already tough time even harder. When I returned home after my journey and tried to resume my public education, I would have only been a year behind. But the principal, Frank Lay, told me I couldn’t come back because my ideas and the way I am would be like an infection within the student body. My dad sided with Frank Lay, not knowing the actual words spoken to me. When I told my dad that Frank Lay said I could not return to school and that I wanted to take it up with the school system, my dad’s reply was to leave it alone. He said they did well by my sister and it might be for the best that I don’t go back anyway. I was basically forced to leave school and give up my right to public education without a diploma. Years later, Frank Lay was the subject of not one but two lawsuits brought by the American Civil Liberties Union aka the ACLU. During my freshman and sophomore years, I had numerous run ins with Lay and the rest of the school staff. One day I will share a full account of my high school experience as well as stories regarding some things going on at school, no holds barred. The only person in the office who treated me fairly was a sweet secretary named Nita Reed, who also at times worked in the library. Fast forward to today, and here I am at 48, finally taking steps to get my GED.

One of the biggest blessings in this journey has been the company I currently work for. They’ve been incredibly supportive, not just emotionally but financially too. They’re covering the costs of my lessons and the tests, which has taken a huge weight off my shoulders and inspired me to finish high school, even though I’ve done well without a diploma. It’s amazing to work for a company that genuinely cares about personal growth and success.

So far, I’ve managed to pass the science, language arts, and social studies tests. Each one was a hurdle, but I got through them with a lot of hard work and a bit of luck. The feeling of passing those tests was incredible, like reclaiming a part of my life that I thought was lost forever. It’s been a mix of relief and pride, knowing that I’m capable of achieving this. For so many years, I felt like I shouldn’t bother investing the time, energy, and money.

Now, I’m staring down the final test: math. Math has always been my Achilles’ heel, and it’s even more daunting now because the curriculum has changed so much since I was in school. The thought of tackling it is terrifying, but I’m determined to push through. I’ve been putting in extra hours of study, and I’m hopeful that with enough preparation, I’ll be able to conquer this last challenge.

This journey has been a rollercoaster of emotions, but it’s also been incredibly rewarding. I’m grateful for the support I’ve received and proud of the progress I’ve made. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that it’s never too late to chase your dreams and make them a reality. Here’s to passing that math test and finally getting my GED!

Discovering the Truth About My Middle & High School Bully

High school was a rough time for me, especially being gay in an environment that wasn’t always accepting. The administration, including the principal, Frank Lay, as well as counselors and other staff members at Pace High School, advised me and other queer students never to confirm our sexuality. I dealt with the same thing at Pace Middle School but on a more low-key level. I faced a lot of bullying and name-calling because I wasn’t exactly like the other boys. For years, I harbored resentment towards a kid in my grade named Kyle Norris, who I believed, and was led to believe by others, was the main culprit of a prank that went on for several weeks. The graffiti in the boys’ bathroom with my name on it and the love letters to Jason McBride, who I never even liked, were just a few of the humiliations I endured.

The graffiti was the start. Seeing my name scrawled on the bathroom wall with a sexual message directed at someone I had no interest in was like a punch to the gut when I walked in to see it. Kyle had come out of the bathroom and made a beeline directly to me to inform me that there was something in the bathroom that I needed to see. It felt like there was no escape from the constant ridicule. Shortly thereafter, there were the love letters to Jason McBride. Someone thought it would be funny to sign my name to them, making it look like I had a crush on him. It was mortifying, especially since I had no feelings for Jason at all. At one point, I was called into the office of Herb Cannon, our assistant principal. Herb presented himself as a bigoted judge with the assumption of guilt and threatened to get the police involved with the accusation of harassment. What really upset me was the fact that he mentioned he knew my family really well and knew they would be really ashamed of this situation. My sister was close with Herb; he was her basketball coach for a few years, taught her how to drive, and helped her get her driver’s license. I was mortified and never mentioned any of this to my family, though I now realize I should have. It’s interesting looking back, seeing the way that people who were in a position to help were blinded by their own bigotry.

For years, I blamed Kyle Norris for all of this. I was convinced he was the one behind the bullying because he always seemed to be the messenger when something would happen. I recently told my friend Jenny Reeves, who has remained friends with Kyle since high school, that every time I thought about high school, my anger towards him would flare up. Jenny decided it was time to clear the air between Kyle and me, and he and I chatted for hours, not only about the situation but our lives during and after school. The truth: Kyle was innocent. He wasn’t the person or connected to the people who tormented me. Kyle was simply the messenger or an individual who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a shocking revelation that turned the way I thought of some of the people I went to school with upside down.

Finding out that Kyle wasn’t my bully was a mix of emotions. On one hand, I felt relief knowing that Kyle was innocent and I had wrongly accused him. On the other hand, I was angry at myself for holding onto that resentment for so long and letting it block my chance of a friendship that could have been. This shows how important it is to get the facts before jumping to conclusions.

This experience has taught me a lot about forgiveness and letting go of the past. It’s not easy to move on from the pain of bullying, but holding onto anger only hurts you in the long run. I’m still processing everything, but I’m hopeful that this new understanding will help me heal and move forward. Now that I’ve cleared the air with Kyle, we are actually friends. With all this said, some good things came out of the love letter situation. I became friends with Terry Kelly, another gay boy in middle school, and we shared each other’s secrets. I began to trust people less, which helped me become less gullible, and I learned how to see through people’s facades. Now that Kyle is no longer negatively living in my head rent-free, I wonder who the actual culprits were during my middle school years.