Read Online The Confession by James E. McGreevey - Free Book Online Page A

only lesbian serving openly on Capitol Hill, and you’ll know what I mean.
    Frankly, I don’t think there’s anything out of the ordinary about me physically, anything that says “effeminate” in any way. When I came out publicly, some photo editors had a field day searching for pictures of me with a limp wrist or some other stereotypical gay signifier—as though, after decades in the public eye, they’d suddenly come across a trove of shots where I looked like a Cher impersonator. Such pictures don’t exist. Some people even used their home computers to create the images they wanted, grafting my head onto Carson Kressley’s body and transforming me into one of the Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Some of that stuff was pretty funny, I’ll admit, but it just wasn’t me. The truth is, with my thick glasses and curly hair, I was anything but stylish. From childhood on, my dad reminds me, I “bordered on nerd.”
    One thing is true—there is something noticeable about the way I walk. But this is definitely a matter of nurture, not nature. When I was an eighteen-year-old freshman at Catholic University in Washington, I misjudged the time one evening and found myself locked inside the library after hours. I tossed my books out the window and called down for help, but the campus was empty—already evacuated for Easter recess. So I called an upperclassman I knew who was staying on campus over the break. Luckily, he answered and agreed to rescue me. When he showed up, I saw him meander toward my window with the wide-open face of a child at the circus. Later he explained he’d been smoking pot in his room when I called—something I wish I’d known at the time.
    â€œI need help,” I pleaded. “Can you call campus security?”
    He shrugged. “Why don’t you just jump?”
    â€œIt’s too high,” I said. The window must have been about fifteen feet off the ground. It was the only one I could open.
    He stepped back to measure the distance himself. “I’d jump,” he said. I guess the window wasn’t as high as he was.
    Never one to shy away from a challenge, I stupidly slid myself onto the ledge, dangled from my hands as low as I could, then let go. When I hit the ground, both my ankles shattered. Today I’m able to jog daily and swim without pain, but I’m always reminded of that foolish jump by the stiff, slightly listing limp in my stride. And never again have I pushed my luck with closing time, in a library or anywhere else.
    Â 
    THERE WERE ONLY TWO OCCASIONS DURING THESE YEARS WHEN I remember being physically afraid. The first time was the night at Scout camp when I overheard those campers ridiculing me around the campfire. The second incident came a few years later. In every school there is a bully. At St. Joe’s that title went to a kid named John, a tall, sturdy, brash, and menacing figure we all steered clear of as much as possible. John never needed a reason to turn against one of my classmates. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” he would threaten, and his promises were never idle.
    One afternoon in sixth grade, John’s attentions turned to me. I don’t remember what set him off, but it hardly mattered; it was just my turn. “I’m taking you out, McGreevey,” he said, and he named the place and time, later in the week. I knew I was a goner. I spent the next few days in a blur of fright and resignation. That first night in bed, I imagined myself fighting back; the second night I knew it was futile; on the third night I prayed for my soul.
    But then the hour of my reckoning came—and nothing happened. Did he forget, I wondered? Had Sister Imelda stepped in to prevent the crime? Could he possibly have forgiven me? Pitied me? Forgotten me? I’ll never know. But I stayed anxious for weeks, wondering what I’d done to provoke the beating I never got.