There are literally no pictures of me growing up. There has been many a times when I have flipped through our old family photos hoping to get a glimpse into the un-jaded and lighthearted child I assume I once was, just to be terribly disappointed by the lack of proof that I even existed before the new millennium. There are hundreds of pictures of my sister, however. It’s like my parents captured every little thing she did as a child, but then once it was my turn they just figured, eh, we got a picture of Neena doing that two years ago . . . we’re good. The only picture of me that exists is one of me unsuccessfully attempting to eat spaghetti and getting noodles and pasta sauce over every inch of my upper torso, because apparently the only entertainment that I brought to my family as a youth, was that I had real shitty hand to mouth coordination.
Although there may not be any pictures of me, there are many stories about me that my family never lets me live down.
There is a long running debate on whether homosexuality is a result of nature or nurture, whether it is one’s innate qualities or personal experiences that lead to an individual being gay. In my particular case, it is neither and both. My lifelong aversion to vagina was caused by a very traumatic event at birth. You see, while my mother was giving birth to me and my head was coming out (considering I was not a breech birth, this was at the very start of the pushing process, mind you) she apparently made the executive decision that I wasn’t worth the effort and stopped pushing. After having to endure carrying me around inside of her for nine months, she decided at the last minute that she just couldn’t be bothered with this any further. Whether by the grace of God or by my father’s frantic threats to press charges for vaginal manslaughter, my mother somehow found it in her to finish the job she started and got me out into the world. However, it wasn’t without a price. For the first few weeks of my life, I had a horrible case of vagina burn . . . on my face.
My family takes every opportunity (especially my current second favorite Aunt) to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that I was the ugliest baby they had ever seen. I would love to provide photographic evidence to prove my claims of third degree cooter burn, but as I mentioned at the beginning, my family refused to take any photos of me. The only infant photo I have ever seen of myself, before my face began to recover, was on my now long lost passport (because I was born in Germany and we left soon after my nativity). Meaning, my ONLY baby photo is the one my parents were legally obligated to take.