When I was four years old, my dad was driving the family car — a 1956 Bel Air Chevy on our way back from a friend’s farm, where we had just finished riding horses. I was in the backseat with my sister, just barely big enough to look out the window.

We pulled up to a red stoplight and waited as pedestrians passed, then a prepossessing man stepped off the curb onto the street; I could feel my heart start to race. I looked over at my sister and wanted to ask her if she saw him but quickly turned back to stare again. It looked as though he was walking in slow motion — he was handsome and had a graceful stride and confidence. And then I quietly sunk back into my seat.

I questioned my thoughts, as I had never felt this way before from just looking at someone. It was a strange rush of emotions that felt good but at the same time also didn’t feel right — like a secret. The light turned green, and my dad stepped on the gas, and we drove away.

By the time I awkwardly entered high school, the signs of a closeted young man slowly coming out began to surface — especially as I tried to show my independence.

Those feelings wouldn’t appear again for a few years. Around the age of seven, a school friend thought it would be fun if we fooled around in the backyard shed.

And we did. And it was fun.

We touched each other curiously for a couple of minutes and then decided that we were finished. There was a sense of truth in it for me — but not for him. Something I knew I couldn’t speak of, acknowledge, or even quite yet even understand.

A few more years passed, and there was another boy in school who was just like me. But, instead of being able to acknowledge our similarities, we were pushed and poked by other kids to dislike each other. Slowly, we both began to despise one another for the same things we had in common — our unspoken, unrecognizable queer characteristics.

Whispers of “he likes you” were coupled with “stay away from him.”

Every day I took the same route home from elementary school, by myself. That is, however, until one afternoon when the taunting and whispering about the two of us became too much. I didn’t know this boy very well, and we stayed away from each other out of fear of confronting what we saw in each other’s eyes but didn’t understand. On this one particular walk home, we were egged on and pushed to fight. And, we did.

In reality, we were beating ourselves up — but taking it out on each other, instead. As I walked home, I emotionally berated myself; I just hated the fact that I fought him. I still do.

For the rest of the year, I saw him every day at school. But again: We stayed far away from each other. I wish we had the chance to grow up together, be friends, to support each other in our quest to figure out who we were. But that didn’t happen.

By the time I awkwardly entered high school, the signs of a closeted young man slowly coming out began to surface — especially as I tried to show my independence. However, I became bolder when I started shopping for school clothes, picking out dress shoes instead of sneakers and nice shirts instead of T-shirts. Outside of school, I spent my time going to movies, drawing, learning to sew, and allowing my interest in the kitchen to blossom. I hung out mainly with girls, and I kissed one enough that I would later consider her my girlfriend.

One day on my way home from high school, I noticed a man following me in his car, and he slowed down as he passed me. He eventually circled back until he knew that I was paying attention to him. He was one of my friends’ dad — the hairdresser that teased all of my grandmother’s beehives. He offered me a ride home, and I curiously jumped in, but I shyly sank into the passenger seat as though I was four years old again, and I asked him to pull over a block later so I could get out.

Coming to terms with my queerness at this age was more confusing than challenging.

I was a little brown gay boy trying to find my way.

During my sophomore year in high school, I stepped into the magazine shop located in the middle of downtown Hayward, just a few blocks off my path walking home. It was there that I immersed myself in magazines like Interview and After Dark. These periodicals gave me my first glimpse of nightlife in the big cities, the glamour of Studio 54, performance art, cinema, and men’s fashion.

There wasn’t much representation of other Brown boys like me in the gay magazines — filled page after page with chest-shaven, muscle-toned white guys that didn’t look a bit like me — making me again question where I fit into this new world opening up to me.

I started stopping in to the shop more often. At the time, I only had enough money to purchase a can of Coke — but spent as long as I could flipping through the magazines before rushing home to dinner with my family. As I got more comfortable with my visits, I started to pick up other magazines like Penthouse and Blueboy to get a glimpse of the naked men that graced their pages.

Coming to terms with my queerness at this age was more confusing than challenging. I acknowledged that these feelings were real but struggled to figure out how to share them with anyone else. I had an unapologetically out cousin, who I only saw during the holidays and another who was still deep in the closet.

There wasn’t much representation of other Brown boys like me in the gay magazines — filled page after page with chest-shaven, muscle-toned white guys that didn’t look a bit like me — making me again question where I fit into this new world opening up to me.

I soon realized there was something more than just magazine shopping happening outside the shop.

I started taking note of who was buying the After Dark magazines. And I would follow them out of the store, to their cars, and sometimes into their back seats. The sex was enjoyable, though awkward and experimental at the same time. But, it was done under the umbrella of secrecy and always clouded by the fear of being caught.

I would come to learn that there was a vibrant gay bar scene in my little East Bay town. (Some would even consider it a gay mecca.) By the time I turned sixteen, there were eight gay bars within six blocks. The parking lots were a cruise fest at night, with cars circling around the area. These streets are where I met guys from other high schools, nellie queens, and dads — literally. The story goes that its gay bar scene began with closeted gay sailors from Alameda Naval Base looking for a safe place to meet other men.

I did just that. And all those years later, I’m so happy to have found my chosen family; my sacred safe spaces; my own identity in the queer community.