A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about how I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t “blocked;” I just wasn’t inspired by anything. The words simply were not coming. A few people posted not to worry because inspiration would strike when it was ready. So I waited. And tweeted and updated my website. And tweeted. A few days ago All Things Queer in South Africa (@AllThingsQueer.co.za) posed a question on Twitter: “How old were you when you first realised you're gay/lesbian/bi/trans/queer?”

I thought back to “the moment“ and quickly tweeted: “I was 12 & in 7th grade. He was the new kid. His name was Jose. He walked into 4th period music, smiled & changed everything”

Then I went on with my day. Except that tweet kept replaying itself in my head, tugging at me. Finally I picked up my notebook and wrote. That’s right, I wrote. For the first time in months, the words just came and kept coming. I wrote in the car on the way to a memorial service. I wrote in the car on the way to the movies. I was writing and remembering, trying to get the description of that first crush picture perfect.

I was 12 and in seventh grade. He was the new kid. His name was José. He walked into fourth period music, smiled and changed everything. Until that moment, I had believed I would grow up marry a “nice” girl, have a couple of kids and a cat and a dog and a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch because that’s what everyone told me boys did when they grew up.

José. Behind long feathery lashes, he had enormous wide-set dark eyes that bulged slightly from the smooth nut-brown of his rather narrow face. Thick lips parted over square white teeth. His cheekbones were high and sharp as a barber’s blade. He had a very pronounced Adam’s apple that made my heart beat faster every time I looked at it. He was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen.

His voice was rough, deep for a 12 year old, yet soft, like a shouted whisper. And he had a big laugh that started rumbling deep in his throat then suddenly burst forth through his lips falling suddenly around him, and you, in an avalanche of joy.

Staring at his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke, or more often, laughed, the movement mesmerizing, seductive as his voice, his words, I wanted to press my lips gently against it, feel its movement as words, laughter, his magic rose up. I decided I would marry him; we would adopt children and a cat and a dog and buy a split-level in the suburbs just like on The Brady Bunch.

I conspired to get him to notice me.

He was assigned the trombone. I had been assigned the trumpet but schemed and convinced the teacher to let me switch to trombone. Now, I cared not a whit about either instrument, my disinterest in both surpassed only by my inability to play either. But playing trombone meant I got to sit right next to him! Once in awhile he would reach out and adjust the position of my trombone thing—the part that slid in and out. I would look at his strong brown fingers with their crescent-shaped cuticles and clean flat nails and want to kiss each of those fingers.

The challenge in telling this story is to recreate a particular moment in time, to accurately describe the emotions of my 12 year old self at what was a moment of discovery, a life changing moment. I doubt he ever knew that I had a crush on him or that the simple act of walking into a new classroom and smiling caused me to redefine myself, to reevaluate every assumption I’d ever made about myself. Without meaning to, he’d shown me a door and I’d chosen, in that instant, to step through. I’ve never looked back at what could have been but wasn’t meant to be. Who I am now is who I needed to be.

I’m not sure what these words, these scratchings of memory, will turn into but I am confident that this will turn into something, that the story will reveal itself in the telling. Once again I will step through a door he opened.

Note: To read the slightly longer version of this story, see Larry’s Writing Lab on my website at www.larrybenjamin.com.