CHAPTER 1
My Age of Innocence (1927–1941)
My life was destined to be different, in conflict with what was considered normal, at the far end of the normal curve. I would have to cope with how I was expected to live and how I wanted to live.
I was born a month earlier than predicted, on the cusp of Sagittarius and Capricorn, near the end of the Roaring Twenties and the beginning of the Great Depression. Although I don't believe in astrology, babies born on the cusp are thought to be influenced by both signs. Either way, I feel I was born to have a confluent life.
I either was anxious about getting started in life or wanted to arrive in time for the holidays, an early Christmas present. I was born December 21, 1927, a month earlier than expected, changing the holiday plans of a lot of people. Mother told me she had a hard time conceiving me and giving birth. We celebrated my first Christmas in the hospital because it was the custom in those days for a mother and child to remain confined for up to two weeks. I often tell people, "I cruised the doctor when I was born."
The entire family anticipated my arrival, my being the first grandchild on both sides of the family. According to my mother, I was a beautiful baby with curly blond hair who was doted on by grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family friends. I was named James Burton, James after my father and Burton after my maternal grandfather.
My mother had wanted a girl, and my father had hoped for a vigorous "all boy." I was an underweight, sickly child with feminine traits, not what my father wanted. My arrival didn't fulfill the expectations of either parent. However, Mother got closer to her wish than Dad.
My father worked, like his father before him, in the railroad yards of Chicago. He was over six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. Hardworking and extremely strong, he was capable of carrying two locomotive air brakes, one on each shoulder, whereas an ordinary man managed only one. He was handsome, with bright red hair, and was faithful to my mother. He tried to be a good father and husband but had an uncontrollable temper.
His mother, my grandmother, had raised him under the tenets of the strict Reformed Presbyterian Church and didn't believe in playing cards, dancing, drinking, or having instrumental music during church services. I am not sure whether he completed high school, given that he was the oldest of five siblings. He had to go to work while still in his teens to help support his family. Mother told me he liked to read books about history whenever he had the chance.
Dad had a big appetite. He needed the strength to work at his job. Mother told the story of how her family had invited him over for dinner on several occasions when they were first dating and how, after they were married, he told her he had always eaten a normal-sized dinner at home before going to her family's house. She learned soon after their marriage to prepare three big meals a day for him.
Mother was of average height, slightly built, and beautiful. She was tomboyish, having to compete with two younger brothers. She completed high school, earned a certificate in journalism, and was planning a career as a reporter until she met my father. It was unusual for a woman to have such a certificate. Most women in the twenties were stay-at-home housewives. She published numerous articles and poems in the Chicago Tribune, in a neighborhood newspaper, and in various other similar publications during her lifetime, complete with bylines. Mother's family didn't attend church, and they drank beer and played poker almost every Saturday night.
My childhood changed with the birth of a second son nearly three years after I was born. Lawrence, nicknamed "Laurie," had red hair like our father and was a healthy, robust, and rambunctious child. He was just what my father wanted. His antics won the favor of family and friends. He was friendly, whereas I was shy, a trait that would affect me the rest of my life. Eventually, my father rejected me and focused on my brother. When Dad came home from work, he always picked up my brother. I began to resent Laurie. I gave up competing with him for my father's attention.
My father and I never bonded, although I wanted and needed his attention and affection. I couldn't bond with my little brother because I was jealous of the attention he received from my father. This began my lifelong feeling that there was something wrong with me.
My father's rejection during these formative years affected my entire life. I had few friends during grade school because I feared I wasn't acceptable for some reason. I became a loner at a young age.
I was a sickly child compared to Laurie. Chronic tonsillitis plagued me throughout the early years of my life, and because I was so unhealthy, the doctors advised my parents not to circumcise me right away. The circumcision was done when I was between four and five years old, at the same time that my tonsils and adenoids were removed. I was sore at both ends, not quite sure what had happened to me. The family gave me a lot of attention until I recovered, after which Laurie again became the center of attention. My health improved after the surgeries, and I became a more active child. I'm not sure which cut of the knife did the trick.
I was quiet compared to my healthier brother. Rather mischievous, he challenged both parents by always getting into things. When we were punished, he got over it right away; I didn't. I was told I was too sensitive, a virtue I didn't understand until later in life. The belief that my father favored Laurie was confirmed by a major incident when I was disciplined by my father.
Dad was driving our 1930s family car, Mother was in the passenger seat, and Laurie and I were in the back seat, acting up as siblings often do. My father got angry and told me to stop teasing my brother. He swung his right arm back over the front seat and hit me. In those days, there were no seat belts or headrests to restrain him. This was a shock for a five-year-old; he hit me so hard, for the first time, that he made my nose bleed. I had intermittent spontaneous nosebleeds for many years afterward. Convinced he didn't like me, I stopped trying to gain his favor.
Mother later related to me how she had protected me on other occasions from being beaten by him when he became angry at something I had done, even though I tried not to provoke him. This and other incidents made me a "mama's boy."
My parents were able to make a down payment on a modest bungalow on Chicago's south side. They were the oldest children on both sides of their families, the first to marry and to have a home. It was during the Great Depression and Prohibition. Their home became a hangout for their brothers, sisters, and friends because Dad made beer. They had a houseful of company every weekend. I'm not sure when my father started drinking beer, but I feel my mother and her two brothers changed him.
Dad made a home brew that was legal so long as he didn't sell it. Some in the group couldn't go home with the smell of liquor on their breath, particularly my father's siblings, so they stayed overnight, sleeping on the floor or furniture. Mother and the other women got up on Sunday mornings, even with hangovers, to cook breakfast for everyone.
Mother told the story of how one night she and Dad were awakened by a pop-pop-pop coming from the basement. It wasn't a child calling for his father. All the beer Father had bottled that day was exploding. There was beer from floor to ceiling. This often happens with beer bottled too soon, called "green beer." The odor penetrated the whole house, and they spent the rest of the night cleaning up the mess.
The Brewmaster
In 1927, Prohibition was the law. Mother and Dad were newlyweds, investing in a new bungalow on Chicago's south side.
She was eighteen and he twenty-one, the first among their siblings and friends to marry and have a house.
They had company every Saturday night, Dad noted for his home brew made in a converted bathtub housed in a basement room.
He was a master at his art, bottling and capping the product in clean containers, there to age.
Mother often told the story of how one winter's night, they were abruptly awakened by popping caps and flowing beer. It was a mess for both to clean. Mom blamed Dad for bottling
the homemade suds too soon.
There was not much left for those friends and relatives to have a party that Saturday night — a few from an earlier brew had to do.
Dad wasn't the only one in the family involved in making homemade liquor. My step-grandfather had a still in his attic, and my aunt's father ran a speakeasy out of his home.
Everything went well for my parents until the Great Depression hit, costing my father his job as it did so many others. My parents were no longer able to keep up the payments on their house, the mortgage was foreclosed, and we moved in with relatives until Dad received a job offer in Mishawaka, Indiana.
We moved to our new home in the spring of1931. Life was not the same without family and friends. Mother and Dad became friends with our landlords, an immigrant Italian family who lived next door. They realized we knew hardly anyone and welcomed us into their home and invited us to their family get-togethers. I remember that Mother won a twenty-five-pound box of spaghetti at one of their picnics. We soon got tired of eating spaghetti.
The neighbors were about the same age as my parents and had a son a few months older than I was, nicknamed Dicky. He and I became fast friends, playing together the entire summer. We bonded. I remember nothing of the summer except that I was happy being with him. Whether this was an expression of my homosexuality at this age is an open question. I believe it was.
Dicky started kindergarten in the autumn, and I wanted to go to school with him. The school told my mother that I was not old enough and had to wait until the next enrollment period the following spring. I was heartbroken. I remember crying and carrying on about losing my best and only friend. She went back to the school and received permission to enroll me in kindergarten so that I could continue being with Dicky.
My First Boyfriend
I was born gay! "How do you know?" From a story Mother told me.
When I was not yet five, my playmate from next door was five and about to enter kindergarten. Without me!
I was heartbroken and grieved, not realizing I was in love.
Mother understood.
She convinced the principal to let me attend school with my first boyfriend!
Dicky was the first friend I ever had. He liked me, and we enjoyed spending time together. My brother was too small to join us in any of our games, and anyway, I didn't want him to be with us. Dicky, in a way, was my first boyfriend. Perhaps this was my gay genes expressing their influence. Before the end of the school year, my father was laid off again, and we went back to Chicago. I missed Dicky and was disappointed about leaving him, but new experiences awaited me.
I remember going to the Chicago World's Fair; A Century of Progress International Exposition (1933–1934) when I was six years old. The World's Fair was located on the shores of Lake Michigan at the south end of the city. Two of the features were the Sky Ride and a giant Ferris wheel. I rode on both of these modern-day "wonders."
The Sky Ride consisted of large cable cars suspended between two high towers over the fairgrounds. I recall viewing the panorama of the fair as well as the city from both of these rides. It was the first time I became fully aware of the extent of the fairgrounds, the expanse of the city, and the size of Lake Michigan. It was all sort of magical. I learned that the world was not confined to the south side of Chicago.
One of the featured entertainers at the fair was Sally Rand, an internationally known dancer famous for performing seemingly nude with large ostrich-feather fans. My parents took me to see her show. I wasn't sure whether they did this because of their curiosity or to start my learning about life. I believe it was the former. She did nothing for me. I didn't understand why so many people, particularly the men, were fascinated with her. The audience didn't see anything more than what they might see on the beach.
It wasn't nearly as exciting as a more interesting and significant event I witnessed later in the year. The great Chicago stockyards fire occurred in the autumn of 1934, and my family watched the flames in the sky from our back porch. The flames were several stories high, pushing up enormous dark clouds of smoke. My grandfather took my brother and me to witness it. I remember the chaotic scene of burning buildings, firemen carrying long hoses, and fire trucks everywhere. The roar of the fire, the yelling of the stockyard personnel leading cattle and sheep to safety, and the excitement of those around us left a lasting impression. It was the first time I had seen live farm animals. I will always remember the odors of burnt wood and flesh — a good reason not to play with matches.
My family went back to Indiana for a weekend to visit the Italian family in the spring of 1935, and I looked forward to seeing Dicky again. The adults went out for the evening and left Dicky and me alone. We got involved in sexual exploration as boys at this age often do. I still felt a strong affection for him, but he hesitated at first, although he expressed the same affection for me. He was Roman Catholic and cautious about the intimacy, but we both enjoyed the encounter without guilt. We were two kids who liked each other, using this closeness to show our affection. I never saw him again, although we stayed in touch for a brief time through letters. I still think about him after all these years.
When I was thirteen and remembering those days and my love for the boy next door, I realized it was one of the first signs that I was grow up to be a gay man. I never knew whether or not Mother was aware of my attraction to other males. We never discussed it. I began to learn about who I was and began also to realize that any attempt to change would be futile. The fact that I was different from most other boys first entered my thoughts during these early years and was confirmed as I grew older.
I never admitted my attraction to other males to any member of my family, believing they'd judge me and reject me. I felt that if my father had lived and found out, he would have kicked me out of the house. There has always been the question of whether or not my father sensed the difference between my brother and me. I believe that he realized I was more "feminine" than my brother but did not anticipate my eventual attraction to other men.
After we returned to Chicago, in the summer of 1935, my father died from a ruptured appendix, leaving my mother alone with her five- and seven-year-old sons. My brother and I were not allowed to attend the wake or the funeral. I remember Mother telling us, "Daddy won't be home again."
I held back tears, knowing I'd miss him in spite of his rejection and cruelty. I understood later how important it was to have a father figure in your life. A son needs a father to look up to, be proud of, and confide in, gay or not. A father can be a role model and can influence his son's choices in life.
Mother was devastated. However, later in life she told me that their romance had faded, and she planned to divorce him after we children had grown. She felt they were mismatched from the beginning, and his temper was also a factor. After my father's death, she had the support of her family but not my father's relatives. Her two brothers and their wives, along with her mother, who had just gone through a divorce and remarried, did what they could to help. One night one of her brothers found her wandering around the neighborhood in shock.
It was at the height of the Depression, and Dad had left only a small insurance policy. Mother didn't have a job and was worried about how she'd provide for herself and two small boys. There were no antidepressants on the market to help her through the crisis, nor was there any public assistance to provide for her and the children. Her father, my grandfather, decided to help. He offered to support her and my brother and me if she kept house for him.
