Portrait of the author as a young problem

When I was in eighth grade, the American Legion or a similar organization sponsored an essay contest. Students were invited to write about a great American hero. I chose to write about Benedict Arnold.

Benedict Arnold, you say?

             

Yes. My approach was to focus on his career in the years before he became a traitor, during which time he was an American hero. The surprising thing was that I won a book. When the awards were given out, the Legion’s (or whoever’s) representative acknowledged that they had been taken aback at first by what I wrote. But they thought the essay was well-thought-out and well-written. So despite some doubts, they awarded me a biography of one of the figures who may or may not have inspired the character of Uncle Sam. I liked the “may or may not have” part. It fit with my own ambiguous essay. 
         

What could that possibly have to do with being gay?  I think it is an example of a tendency to think outside the norm, to examine people and situations from a slightly different perspective than most people do. That time that the priest sent me home to spend fifteen minutes thanking God for making me a gay man, among the gifts I discovered in my gayness was that difference of perspective.

When I was a senior in high school, I pulled a similar coup, entering a contest sponsored by another super-patriotic organization, this time on the topic (and I am not making this up) “Hippies, Draft Dodgers and Their Effect on Americanism.” This was 1968.

It goes without saying that I defended the hippies and draft dodgers. I gave it to my English teacher to read before I submitted it. She told me she disagreed with everything I said, but she thought I had a good chance of winning the contest. She was right, at least about the winning part. 

When awards day came along at the end of the year, I got first place for my essay, a hundred dollar savings bond and a very perplexed look from the old man handing out the awards. It was a small victory for nonconformity, but it delighted me and a handful of other nonconformists no end. My mother, who was there in order to present an award on behalf of her service sorority, did not know whether to be proud or horrified.