This is intended to be a series of “letters” to my younger self that are to be opened after each discussion point.
Some of this material has been referenced in my August Autobiography Series from 2014 which can be found on the Joe Kersey You Tube Channel.
Letter No. 1
When I was 14, my Dad walked in on Mark and me while he was sleeping over at “my” house. I was sucking his dick, and he had just come in my mouth. My Dad said nothing then and said nothing later. I wish Mark hadn’t laughed so loud when I sucked his nipples. Maybe my Dad would not have come in to check on us at 2AM.
Dear 14 year old Joe,
This sure might have made things tense. Any tenseness came from you being terrified. It turns out you did not need to have been. But it was not an unreasonable reaction to the situation.
The shame of it all was that you decided Mark was “too flitty acting” and you started to act like all the other strate assholes. I know you will feel really horrible about that behavior toward a guy you loved then and still love up until this day. I know you don’t do the “faggy, gay” jokes and behavior any more, but you were then and continued to be all the way up through college — simply a mean asshole. You will regret it. Period. You will regret it. Who knows what hurt we sow as we move unthinkingly through life. And unfeelingly, too — but perhaps more of that in a later letter.
Letter No. 2
When I was 15 and 16 and 17, I fell in “love”/lust with a number of guys. One was in my Explorer Post, and one was a fellow I was and am truly and deeply in love with. But, alas, both of them were (and the second one I know for a fact is) strate.
Dear Teenage Joe,
There sure are a lot of great guys around that you spend your time with. You think they accept and like you because of your sarcastic humor and smarts and cleverness and willingness to not be so straight laced and uptight about things, although they might expect that you would be, given your background. The fact of the matter is they are oblivious to your desire for them — that, of course, is part of the advantage for you; you are living as a deep cover spy. Bob paid no attention to you when you threw your leg over his on the camp out. Another guy didn’t think twice when we drove back from a state park swimming outing in our wet underwear and you had a hard time keeping your eyes on the road. The other fellow didn’t know that you sucked his cum out of the bed sheets after he belly hump-fucked the mattress after he went out to take a leak when we were visiting my sister. You stew about things too much. I know you can’t help it. You wish you could connect with another guy and be open and honest — but the late 1960s in the US is not the time to be openly gay. Stonewall has not happened yet.
Letter No. 3
When I was in college, I decided to try to go out on a “date”. I asked a girl from one of my chemistry associated activities to go out with me. I believe we went out to the C&G and had a pitcher of beer and some pizza. What a farce. I awkwardly walked her back to Lincoln Tower and then there was this long pause in which I was deciding whether to do the obligatory “good night kiss” — oh, give me — please, please give me a break. I already knew I was gay. Why did I subject this other very decent pleasant human being to this humiliating experience.
Dear Undergraduate Ohio State Joe,
The above speaks for itself. Was this some sort of test for yourself. You did go all out. You even bought a red light bulb in case you came back to your dorm room which, thanks be to the Almighty, she did not want to do. (Sometimes you can be a parody of yourself.) [By the way: You will keep being a parody of yourself off and on well until you are 63.] In any case, you had the good sense to not do that again.
Letter No. 4
Or did you. And this is where it gets a bit dicey; because if I follow this chain of reasoning down to it’s logical conclusion, my son and grandson would not exist.
When you were in medical school you wanted to stay friends with some of the faculty who had taught you and it turned out that you became sexually involved with your former freshman English instructor and she had Thomas, your son.
Dear Medical School Joe Just Trying to Survive,
You will be very surprised when this woman gets pregnant on your very first shot into the bucket; which would not have happened if it had not been for the Thoracic Surgery resident at Children’s treating you like a moron and berating you and running you into the ground on your first day on the service 2 Nov 1973, and making you feel completely adrift — adrift — adrift; and you needing some human connection, and you being 21, and if someone pushes the buttons on a 21 year old guy the stuff starts to work even if you are gay. But you will be (and you knew it then, too) extremely glad when she does not heed the advice of the “kill the baby abortion babes” that surrounded her at her place of work and go ahead and kill the baby. There will be some inevitable problems: How and/or if to tell your parents. How to get your last name on the birth certificate as the father. And eventually, the question of marriage, which she will resist — and perhaps you should have listened to her objection; but that will be up in the air in your mind for the next forty years — so deal with it.
Letter No. 5
Having a child out of wedlock (as we said then) was not your only problem in medical school.
Dear Despairing Medical School Joe,
At a certain point you will have realized that this way of life — the endless hours, the no time for yourself, the deadly dull (but at the same time interesting material, especially the anatomy and pharmacology and the surgical stuff) atmosphere of having to be always — ALWAYS — at peak form — will NOT stop. (Not to mention the night work). You were on the King Avenue Bridge over the Olentangy River and had been for one of your six mile runs (those will kill your knees and ankles, but give you a superb cardiovascular reserve despite your intrinsic cardiovascular disease, by the way). It all of a sudden hits you. What I just said. You will stop and stare into the river (no — it’s not a suicide thing — that will come later) and wonder if you should stop. Because then would have been the logical break point. Cut your losses and try to do what you really wanted to do — teach history or practice law. But no. You know that you can do this and do it reasonably well and make a decent living at it, and, if you save like mad, you won’t have to do it that long.
Letter No. 6
You soldiered through and finished medical school and some surgery and anesthesia training, and, after a short stint on the university faculty the new anesthesia chairman exiled you (exiled everybody, actually) and you moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, a town you would gladly live near by now, but then you thought it was the Devil’s armpit (despite the fact hairy armpits are a huge turn on for you). You were in practice as a member of a group for a year, and then, after your contract ran out, went off on your own, and had a number of surgeons that would have gladly scheduled their cases with you, but by that time you were in deep despair about the fact you could not openly live as a gay man. You are 27. While carrying on with the plan of an independent practice, you buy a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolver and plan to use it to kill yourself at some point — as well as for self defense, of course.
Dear Despairing Working for Yourself Joe,
God will intervene in the form of C. Merle Welch (a fellow who helped train you) and get you a job back in Columbus, Ohio, and it turns out you will not have to kill yourself after all, because it will also turn out that you can come out, get divorced, move out, have gay sex, meet Paul, and be yourself. It only takes 28 years. Simple, huh. Just me being sarcastic again. As you now know from watching You Tube videos (oh, by the way, you will become a You Tuber after you get your very first computer in late 2012), there are a lot of younger guys out there who go through the same internal emotional turmoil despite the massively more accepting atmosphere out there. It’s no more easier for them than it was for you. It might just happen a bit earlier (and therefore not leave so much road kill in their wake), and perhaps in a less messy way. But there are still guys that are going to be kicked out. You will be disinherited. Such are the ways of human beings, huh.
Letter No. 7
No letter here. You’ve spent 34 1/2 years with Paul. And despite the fact the sex has dwindled to none — well, that’s a problem actually — but despite that fact, many guys have it a lot worse and you don’t have to slog it out every day. Thanks be to God.
Many thank to Danny Short from You Tube for giving me the nudge to do this project.
Joe S. Kersey
28 March 2015
joeskersey 