I was born in March,1840.
Up in Reading, Pennsylvania. I had a pretty uneventful childhood, As uneventful as any boy growing up in the 1800's, not much to do. It was at age 10 when I realized that I was different from everyone else I knew. My friends from the neighborhood or school would talk to me about the dames they liked and the women they fancied, but I felt nothing for the feminine wiles of those my peers longed for. I remember at age 17, I was confessed to by a girl from the house across the street. I turned her down. I didn't feel bad I turned her down, I only felt bad because she seemed very upset by it. It was a year later I would know how she felt. I learned the term homosexual, and it's definition. I finally knew what I was. With this knowledge I finally knew the type of people I wanted to romance. There was a boy in my class by the name of Jeremiah, he was strong, buff, played for the baseball team and was smart to boot. I thought nothing of asking him out. He thought a lot of it. For simply expressing my long tangled feelings, I was punched. He yelled at me. Said,
"Don't ever come near me again you homo!"
He spat on me while I cried on the ground. I felt so humiliated. So broken. It wasn't long before the rumor spread around school. I became known as the homosexual. The outcast. The queer. After about a week of constant bullying and ridicule, my parents finally heard.
I...don't really want to write down the details of what happened with my parents. It was just...just too much.
To make a long story short, I'm never allowed back home.
So, I took off. For the next year or so I ventured around the States, picking up work whenever or wherever I could. Constantly keeping my feelings inside and not letting anyone know I was what I was.
Though times were rough. There was one thing that helped me endure. Which was religion. To me, someone who was far away from home and ostracized by my family and peers, my relationship with religion kept me grounded. It made me feel like home. One of the first items I bought with the money I made from all my odd jobs was a crucifix necklace. So I could always keep that "home" with me. I related a lot to the story of Christ-the bible was the only book I had for two years so of course I read it cover to cover-his story fascinated me, and made me realize I was a lot more similar to the good lord than I thought. Jesus was persecuted because he was different, because he was claimed to be a messiah. The people didn't believe him and they put him against a cross, all for being claimed different. He had apostles who spread his word and his good grace. Even when he died. Even when he rose.
Much like me, I was also hated and ridiculed because I was different. Except I wasn't crucified as a martyr, I'm alone, drifting along railways and train cars. I ain't got any apostles either. All I have is me. Me and my bible.
Only friend I had for a long time.
