That one Time I Thought I was Gay

How toxic masculinity ruined summer camp and my friendship

Sad Black Boy

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When I was ten, my parents decided they wanted the summer for themselves. So they did what any self-respecting NYC family with little money would do — they signed me up for day camp. That’s where I met Jose, my first best friend.

Jose was a light-skinned Dominican kid with straight black hair, big eyes, and black-painted fingernails. This is relevant because boys didn’t paint their nails in the '90s, as a result, Jose was looked at as a bit of an oddball. We first crossed paths when he entered a heated debate between our lead camp counselor, Jayshawn, and me. I was an avid believer that the strongest Power Ranger of all was Jason, not that Poser Tommy Oliver (RIP Jayson David Frank), Jayshawn, and every other human being with a pulse and 20/20 vision; I couldn’t believe I could be so disrespectful to the “mighty green ranger” I was outnumbered.

Just as things got tense, Jose pulled up and saved the (my) day. He agreed with me about Jason and pointed out that Tommy could never be counted on because he was always late or “Losing his powers.” From that moment, Jose and I became inseparable. Yes, our friendship started over a Power Rangers debate, but it grew even more through our shared love of music — hip-hop, to be exact. We’d spend hours in the cafeteria debating who was the best rapper in New York. I was a Biggie Smalls fan; Jose thought Big Pun would be rap’s Michael Jordan.

In addition to his rap obsession, Jose had a fantastic ear for other music; he introduced me to artists like Green Day, Pearl Jam, Blink-182, and Alanis Morissette. We’d exchange mixtapes, always trying to outshine the others’ song choices. Sometimes we would meet up on the weekends to visit our favorite record store, Beat Street to window shop.

Jose was unlike any other person I had ever met. Jose was a bright sore thumb in a neighborhood where everyone dressed and acted mostly the same. He would paint his nails different colors; sometimes, he would even show up with eyeliner. I was in awe of his ability to appear how he wanted, with no concern for anyone’s opinion.

Unfortunately, that freedom to be comfortable in his skin didn’t make him many friends, and some guys started calling him “Josefina.” There were even a couple of times when the camp counselors sent him home because he was “dressed like a sissy.” It seemed as if the entire camp was after him.

One day, our camp counselor, Jayshawn, confronted me; he was worried about how much time I was spending with Jose. He told me that I should be able to know whether someone was gay or not by their fingers. If their fingers arched backward at the top, it meant they were gay. In our group, only Jose’s fingers did. Thankfully, he wasn’t around to hear the slander, but I did. I didn’t say anything to defend him. I just laughed and played along.

After that conversation in the park, people just stopped talking to Jose. We would enter spaces, and folks would leave. I want to say I had his back, but I didn’t. Hanging out with Jose started to hurt my social life as well. Kids at the camp suggested that we were lovers. They started calling us “gaylords” and “sissy boys.”

Jose’s friendship was important to me, but I started to question myself. Was I gay? I didn’t want to be. I just wanted a best friend.

Jose was my boy, but I couldn’t take it. A year before, a classmate had told everyone I was gay after he caught me singing along to Mary J. Blige’s “Not Gon’ Cry” word for word. (That song is fire.) I couldn’t take getting ostracized in another space. Jose’s friendship was important to me, but I started questioning myself. Was I gay? I didn’t want to be. I just wanted a best friend.

I talked to Jayshawn about my dilemma, and he explained to me that “men should be tough and love pussy.” By hanging out with Jose, he believed that it suggested that “pussy wasn’t important to me.” He promised not to make fun of me but said that I would have no credibility in the streets if I continued down this path. This was confusing — he was a camp counselor, and we were not in said “streets.” Logical flaws aside, I received the message loud and clear. I didn’t want those kinds of problems, so I pushed Jose away.

It was a slow, deliberate process. Jose and I would always go to the art class first thing in the morning because the teacher would put on an album (usually the Fugees) while we worked. I started to skip that class and hung out in the gym instead. I’d hide during lunch. Jose didn’t get the message, so I had to get mean.

When he approached me, I was talking with a group of “friends.” I demanded he get away from me because I didn’t hang out with a “Gaylord.” I’ll never forget the look of hurt on his face. My heart sank. Jose nodded in acceptance and walked away; that would be the last time we spoke.

I torpedoed a budding friendship with someone who really got me and had my back because I was afraid of what other people would think. My camp counselors, peers, parents, and the larger community told me something was wrong with two boys enjoying each other’s company. And that it was especially wrong if one of those boys didn’t have the traditional “masculine” characteristics that the world says men should have.

We’re told that when boys behave this way, it is not only strange but wrong, and there will be consequences.

I saw in real time how Jose suffered consequences for breaking the rules he had no say in making. Boys and men worldwide suffer when they attempt to step out of the small box that outlines who we can be. We’re taught that we can only be aggressive, loud, physical, all-knowing, and tough. We are not allowed to have feelings and show love, nor do we deserve them, and any expression of feminine energy is not only a threat to the world but the person sharing it.

Men deserve more than that. I deserved to have a friend without fear. Jose deserved the freedom to be who he wanted without having to sacrifice everything that he loved. But as we speak, the world still makes the same mistakes. Yes, conversations are shifting in ways I never thought possible, but we have to do more.

If we’re unwilling to break away from the harmful ways we raise our boys, we will sentence them — and the people they love — to a life of misery.

Or, like me, they may lose their best friend.

Congrats, you made it to the end! This was originally published on Level Mag in 2021. What did you think of the post? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!