Illustration by Sam Goodman

Written by Sam Goodman @therealsamgoodman

For heterosexual, cisgender people, looking through old photo albums, gathering to watch home movies, and reading elementary school assignments are pleasant retreats into the nostalgia of childhood. However, for queer people, these artifacts are only symbols of a life left behind. When I look back at photos of myself from middle school, I do not see the infamous awkward phase that most do when they come face to face with their 13-year-old self. I see someone who was desperately trying to grow into himself while frantically hiding the most essential part of his being: his queer identity. Deep in the shadows of the closet lay the most repressed, inauthentic version of who I know now. I look at that person in the closet as someone totally separate from the person I am today. A Peak into the Closet is a space for queer people to look back at their former selves and explore the person who once was. Excerpted from a longer work by Sam Goodman is the first edition of A Peak into the Closet, “Make it Work!”

MAKE IT WORK

At six years old, I could often be found marveling at the flickering television in the family room. I stood, on most weekend mornings, in awe of Michelle Pfeiffer in a large blonde updo, being lifted by five, strapping young men while twirling flaming batons. Front step, cha-cha-cha. Back step, cha-cha-cha. I followed along. Front step, cha-cha-cha. Back step, cha-cha-cha. I had mastered the mashed potato. I still don’t know how Hairspray on DVD ended up in the hands of a six-year-old but I knew every step, I knew every song.

I relied on the soundtrack to fall asleep at night. Before I begged my father for the Hairspray cassette, he selected my lullabies. Every night as he tucked me in, he pressed PLAY on a cassette of his choosing, often “James Taylor Essentials,” and let the sound echo from an old boom box that sat atop the large, wooden desk we built together.

I thought I was in love a couple of times before with the girl next door. But that was long before I met you, now I'm sure that I won't forget you.

After I was lulled to sleep, my father crept back into my bedroom, clicked off my lamp, its orange glow illuminating my resting eyes, and pressed STOP on the boombox. I soon replaced the gentle folk sound with upbeat Motown. More my speed. “Good Morning Baltimore” as I shut my eyes, “It Takes Two” kept me soundly asleep.

The music danced around my head. I was lost 'til I heard the drums then I found my way.

After seeing Avenue Q on Broadway, my father played “If You Were Gay” for me and my brother to perform to on long car rides. We sat in the backseat of his white 2008 Toyota Camry and sang to the streets, blissfully unaware. Year after year, we fought over who would sing which part. My brother always took the lead, but I started the song. Ah, an afternoon alone with my favorite book: Broadway Musicals of the 1940s. My brother took the big finish. It's okay. You were just born that way. It's in your DNA, you're gay!

I didn’t understand the song until much later, but I knew that I also enjoyed an afternoon alone with my favorite Broadway musicals. Ones about pageants, protests, and puppet shows.

My father worked late during the week so Wednesday nights meant “Project Runway.” Tim Gunn flashed across the television screen and my brother playfully imitated his catchphrase. “Make it work!” My mother critiqued the designers’ garments lazily from the couch. “Tacky.”

Off to the side of the television, there was open space for me to design garments of my own. I transformed white cotton sheets into tight, high-waisted miniskirts. When folded and tucked, silk bed-toppers could be billowing dramatic gowns. My parents’ heavy comforter was my glamorous fur coat. I was both the designer and the model. On Wednesday nights, after an 11-hour workday, my father returned home to find his 10-year-old son dressed in haute couture.

It took an astute eye to fit the garment so perfectly to my body. I made it work.