It is Hal Sparks' birthday, a man who has broadened my perspective and made me reach for the stars, believing I could actually touch them one day if I really tried.
It is a date that has brought so much hope and goodness, love and friendship into my life that I always take the time to honor it each and every year. But there's one very important reason why I decided to release my new book MASKED IN THE MUSIC on this date.
The biggest reason it is so special is that is on this date in 1980 that I met my best friend, my BFF, my bestie, my brother-from-another-mother (God, I sound super white when I say that). The Universe kindly dropped a kind, generous, funny, intelligent, loving person into my life right before it ripped my dad right out of it. This was wise of the Universe. I don't think I would have made it otherwise.
I was ten years old when I met Jeff. I had just moved, AGAIN. I think by the time I was 10 we had moved at least ten times. When I think back to my early childhood, I can mark years basically by where we were living at the time. We weren't military, we just moved a lot. In 1980, this meant we moved from my hometown of Abilene to Amarillo - where my mom and dad had met and fallen in love. He had kids there from another marriage, and my sister had moved there - which seemed to be the biggest impetus of us moving anywhere.
Despite the trauma I endured when I was four, I was a pretty outgoing child who didn't give a rat's ass what people thought of me. I had self-confidence out the wazoo. I was a good student, and, most importantly, I had the unconditional love of a devoted dad whose supportive voice was just loud enough I could ignore all the negative things others might have said about me. I eagerly participated in life, even if it made me a gigantic dork to do it. If you ask my bestie about "Country & Western" day, when I showed up in a denim dress, boots with a wooden purse, he can tell you the inner horror he felt for me. Back then the whole gay thing was way under wraps, but if it hadn't have been, I'm sure the words, "Oh, gurl," might have escaped his lips.
He told me years later that part of it was the fact I wasn't afraid to be seen, and being closeted didn't afford him the same liberties, but let's face it. I probably looked ridiculous. My school photo from the year we met was a frizzy, dizzy mess. I wanted curly hair for my pictures, so I slept with curlers in my hair, which was losing a war with prepubescence and all the oily, stringiness that implies. Needless to say, it didn't come out well.
Like most girls, the most negative stuff always came from me. And it got really bad in 1980, when I arrived in a new school where I wasn't able to win people over like I had in previous years. Recess, which I used to rule with all the creative gameplay I came up with, was traded in for P.E., a class that became my nemesis all throughout the rest of my school career. It even factored *heavily* into my dropping out of high school six years later. (If you've read THE LEFTOVER CLUB, you got a little insight into the kind of abuse I suffered from a coach, which made me ditch high school and everything that came with it like a bad habit. Instead I took my GED test when I was 18 - passing with higher averages than high school students, I might add - and taking college classes later.)
(I'm unstoppable, I just have a low tolerance for needless suffering.)
The transition into fifth grade at Eastridge wasn't an easy one. Because of the onslaught of puberty I had developed early, with all the skin problems and weird hair growth that came with. The boys, who were just starting to notice girls at this age, had plenty to say about it. The strongest pack in our fifth grade class was convinced that I had been held back, which was the worst insult anyone could lob at me. I was a straight-A student. If there was one thing I could count on, it was that I was one of the smartest in the class. But because of how I looked, people started to question it. I honestly didn't know how to handle it. I wasn't sure I'd make any new friends there until the day the boy sitting in front of me turned around to talk to me about politics.
We were progressive even then. Seriously what ten-year-old asks another ten-year-old, "If you were old enough to vote for president, which one would you vote for?"
That neither of us came from politically active families makes this even odder.
Little did I know at the time, the Universe was positioning someone into my life I'd need very badly and very soon. My dad died December of that year, and in an instant all the positive voices in my world were silenced. My dad was my main caregiver. He was older and disabled, so he stayed home with me while my mom worked. Losing him left a huge hole in my life. I became a latchkey kid in 1980, coming home to an empty house at 3:30 in the afternoon, and remaining on my own until I went to bed later that night, before my mom returned from her job at a factory closer to midnight.
I had to fill my own time. I had to make my own meals. I had to parent myself with all the wisdom and insight I'd developed by age ten. Most of all I had to manage staying alone in an empty house, a young kid who suddenly had the entire basis of her emotional security ripped out from under her. It took until last year for me to realize that I had been suffering through PTSD throughout my childhood, that was neither identified or treated. The first trauma, what happened when I was four, was never addressed or dealt with. Then my dad died, and, being strong, southern stock, I was expected to just roll with the punches because life sucks sometimes and there's nothing you can do. "Trust God," they'd tell me.
But God had taken my beloved Daddy away. I had major beef.
Had I not had a kind, conscientious friend, who would call me every single night to ease the loneliness, fear and uncertainty, who knows what might have happened? With Jeff I didn't have to be an instant adult. I could be a kid. I could be silly even at one of the darkest moments of my life. I could play. We bought and listened to records, which broadened my love for music. I went to the movies, which I had never really done before him. He told me jokes. We laughed for hours about all kinds of jokes. With Jeff I could test these limits.
He was my biggest support when I was floundering at school. During the blasted Presidential Fitness test, when I struggled to run a mile (I was fucking ten, for fuck's sake) he was the one who trotted back out to run with me, which inspired a scene in MY IMMORTAL between two of my principle characters. In fact, he's inspired a lot of my characters, including Brian from the aforementioned title, THE LEFTOVER CLUB.
We were the leftovers. And that was usually fine by the both of us.
My friendship with Jeff bloomed even though my mother moved us AGAIN. I ended up across town in yet another school, where the whole boy-girl thing got even worse. This was bad enough, but phone calls kept us connected all the way until my mom decided once again to follow my sister back down to Abilene. I was devastated. Not only was I leaving my first major crush behind, but I was forced to leave my very best friend. We vowed that we would keep in contact, writing each other.
We were twelve by then, and by then we were both tired of friends moving away and having to start all over with someone else. So the letters came faithfully every single week, sometimes two at a time. I would run out to the porch whenever I knew the mailman had come, excited to see that tell-tale green and white envelope that could only mean one thing: Muppet stationary. My mother, guaranteed, wasn't getting any mail on Muppet stationary. That meant it was just for me. When you're twelve and you have something just for you, particularly when everything else was routinely taken away, it's elixir to the soul.
We both kind of forget how remarkable it is that we sustained our friendship long-distance for so long. We've been friends thirty-six years, and have only lived in the same town eleven of those years. We had letters for the rest, which makes Beaches an even HARDER movie to watch for the both of us.
By the 90s we traded handwritten letters for instant messages, which is about the best thing ever. Now we have texts and Face-time, where I can bring him with me wherever I go. (And I do.)
It is because of him I became such a passionate ally for LGBT causes, even though I think I was wired to do that regardless. Because of him, though, I had a reason.
So when it came time to write my first M/M love story, something he was owed after reading 33 books that were all based on straight relationships (including straight sex), there was no other day I COULD release it than September 25. I'd have to check the anniversary list but I'm pretty sure year 36 is paper, right?
MASKED IN THE MUSIC, which released today, is my anniversary gift, and love letter, to my bestie, who has been with me through thick and thin and literally saved my life on more than one occasion. It was an honor to write this story, learning so much about his journey by walking in his shoes. He was my consultant throughout the whole thing, so I knew I was on the right path. Some of his experiences even made it into the book, in the details that helped me color in this new world. This book literally wouldn't have happened without him.
To Jeff, thank you for everything. You not only saved my life, you gave me a life worth saving. I wouldn't be who I am without you. Love you forever and always. Happy anniversary. Here's to 36 more years. <3 <3 <3
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