Homecoming
A full-circle moment I didn't plan on having.
Last weekend, I faced my fears and did something I swore I’d never do: I did a book event at Barnes & Noble in my hometown of Peoria, Illinois.
In the opening chapters of my book, I wrote about the challenges I faced growing up there in the late 90s and early 2000s, and how I did everything in my power to get away as quickly as possible. I never felt like I fit in or belonged. Being a chubby, left-handed, queer, adopted, Mexican-American in a Midwestern town would do that to anyone. I was the furthest thing from an athlete, which was the expected norm of little boys in our community, and I was always more comfortable around the horse girls.
In school, I tended to be the class clown and was friends with everyone, but in reality, I was more of a loner. And, from the time I was very little, I always had a tote bag of books with me. Books offered me an escape into different worlds and imaginary places where my differences didn’t matter. I loved books and was the poster child for a local bookstore called ‘A House of Books,’ which was, as the name clearly states, a bookstore in a beautiful house.
I first learned about the magic and wonder of Barnes & Noble when my older brother went away to college. I was absolutely gobsmacked when he took us to see where he spent his evenings studying. It was like my dream come true. When word came that Barnes & Noble would be opening a store in Peoria, I was ecstatic. So much so that I wrote an article about its grand opening for the Kids Journal Star, the weekly kids’ page in our hometown newspaper where I served as a junior reporter.
Barnes & Noble became a sanctuary for me. Before I was old enough to drive, I’d have my mom drop me off there, and I’d spend hours perusing the shelves and reading books in the cafe. And, when I was ready to go, I’d call home collect from the pay phone and say “MOMCOMEGETME” as fast as I could when I was prompted to say my name.
Barnes & Noble was also a place of self-discovery. I cannot begin to count the number of times I would nervously walk by the Gay & Lesbian Studies section, grab books off the shelves, and bury them between a stack of books I picked from the Christian section. That’s how I came across the writing of David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, James Baldwin, and other queer writers. In their words and stories tucked discreetly into copies of whatever the popular Christian books were at the time, I began to find the language to define the feelings I was experiencing but didn’t know how to name or express.
The Barnes & Noble Cafe was also the first place to serve Starbucks in Peoria, a good decade before they’d open up stores in our community. I felt cultured and sophisticated drinking sugary caramel macchiatos while thumbing through stacks of books and magazines.
The other great thing about the Barnes & Noble Cafe was the gay guys who worked there. They were college-aged, flamboyant, and fabulous. I would nervously approach the register and awkwardly order a latte when they were working. I’m confident they saw in me what I couldn’t express to them and always met me with warmth and kindness. I wanted to be their friend and ask them a million questions about how they were okay with being themselves, but I never found the courage to ask them. I settled for our transactional relationship and blushed when they eventually learned my order and name.
Many years and chapters of life have elapsed since my days at Barnes & Noble. And as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized what a sacred place it was for me. It was a refuge for a lot of us misfits who didn’t quite fit the norm. It gave me a place in space where I didn’t feel like I always had one.
Three years ago, when I was home for the holidays, I returned to the Barnes & Noble Cafe in Peoria and put the final touches on the proposal for what would become Conversion Therapy Dropout. It was due to my agent before the holiday break, and it felt right to finish it in a place that held a lot of meaning to me.
But one thing I swore I’d never do is return to my hometown to do a book event.
Even though I have grown more comfortable talking about my sexuality with my family, something about doing an event in Peoria didn’t feel safe to me psychologically, spiritually, or physically. There were so many triggers and landmines. And so many people I was afraid might show up to protest or try to lay their hands on me and pray for me. I decided going to a bookstore in Chicago was close enough and figured anyone who really loved me in Peoria would be willing to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to see me in what I deemed a safer space.
However, in my weekly therapy sessions leading up to my book release, my therapist kept prodding me to remember why I wrote the book in the first place. I wrote it because I wanted to write the book I needed to read when I was younger and questioning how to reconcile my faith and sexuality.
And after about a dozen book events under my belt, I decided to face my fears and added a stop in my hometown to my book tour. I wanted to show up for the younger version of myself and all of the other people who are asking themselves the same questions I was.
Of course, the day of the event I was riddled with anxiety and considered faking sick and canceling it. But I knew it was important for me to do it, and to swallow my pride and my fear and trust that whoever was meant to be there would be there.
I arrived at the store an hour early and got a little teary-eyed seeing my book on the very shelves I used to peruse as a teenager.
As the event time got closer, familiar faces started to trickle in: Childhood friends. Classmates I haven’t seen in two decades. (We’ve never had a class reunion.) Kids from my youth group days. Family members. Former work colleagues. Members from some area LGBTQ+-affirming congregations and members of the local PFLAG chapter and Youth Outlook. My brother and his wife. And the one that got me the most: my mom.
I blacked out and don’t remember much of the evening. I was also very medicated. But I do remember feeling so overwhelmed with gratitude that I was able to show up as my full self in a place where I never felt like I belonged and see so many familiar faces there to support me.
It was an unbelievably surreal, full-circle moment. Of all of the book tour stops I’ve done thus far, this one will always stand out as being the one that surprised me the most. I never thought I would do it. I actually believed I couldn’t. But I did. And I’m so thankful I faced my fears and made it happen.
I pray that my story will continue to find its way to the people and places that need to hear it, and that other queer kids like I once was will know they can be gay and still loved by God. That they have a place in the church. And that they never have to be afraid or ashamed of who God created them to be.
Immense thanks to my conversation partner, Joel Shoemaker, and the entire staff at Barnes & Noble in Peoria for hosting the event and dragging chairs out of the cafe to accommodate the standing–room–only crowd. And thank you to every single person who showed up, purchased copies of the book, and stuck around to say hello. I wish I had more time to chat with all of you, and I cannot thank you enough for being there and for your love and support. And thanks to Spark and Wander for capturing these photos.
I’ve got one more book event on the schedule coming up on August 21 in Washington, DC. Details here.
And, as much as I love supporting independent bookstores and Barnes & Noble, my book is currently only $15 on Amazon. If you already have a copy, grab one for a friend, to donate to your local library, or passive-aggressively send to a homophobic pastor in your community. Remember, sharing is caring!
To facing our fears,
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Thank you for writing this piece and telling us about it so we got to enjoy this moment with you! A great story!