Phil Bildner: Half a Life, Half My Life
The First State of Being
A few months ago, I read Erin Entrada Kelly’s brilliant middle grade novel, The First State of Being. There’s a scene in the middle of the book where Mr. Mosley is sharing words of wisdom with Michael, words of wisdom Mr. Mosley’s mother had shared with him when he was a boy:
“Before you go to sleep at night, ask yourself: was I the best person I could be today? If the answer is no, do better tomorrow.”
You know how sometimes when you’re reading a really good book you come across a line that just stops you? A line that makes you pause to acknowledge and appreciate it in the moment?
As soon as I read that, I knew that was one of those instant classic lines that was going to stay with me forever.
Circle-the-Calendar day
On Wednesday July 24, 1996, I came out as gay.
It was the most difficult day of my life. It was the most important day of my life. Every year, it’s a circle-the-calendar day.
This year, it’s particularly meaningful because I’m now fifty-six. That was twenty-eight years ago, twenty-eight years ago today.
Today marks half my life.
Yeah, I know if you’re actually counting the days then today isn’t the exact half-way point, but because each July 24th is the day I commemorate my coming out, today marks half this life.
Today is my half-life day.
Coming out is a journey, not a moment. And even though I time stamp the day — time stamp the exact instant – of my coming out, I know my coming out was anything but a singular event. My coming out took place over the course of many, many years. My coming out is still taking place.
Each day is another page in my coming out story.
Just before COVID, writer and LGBTQ+ activist Alexander Leon’s tweet about coming out went viral.
As soon as I read the instant-classic post – as well as his subsequent threads and comments – I knew it was going to stay with me forever.
I knew I was different since pre-K. But I didn’t know what different was until summer camp at Kutsher’s Sports Academy in junior high. That’s when I understood what different was.
I couldn’t be. I couldn’t. I had to beat it. I had to defeat it. That’s what I told myself. Everyday. I was going to beat it. Kids like me couldn’t be. I couldn’t be. I was going to defeat my demon.
My demon.
That’s what I called it. My demon. Not for days, not for weeks, not for months. For years.
Half my life.
Books.
I was a reader.
Books would’ve made a difference. Books would’ve changed the trajectory of my life. In so many ways, books would’ve saved my life.
If only I’d had access to those books. If only I’d had access to those books I needed. But those books didn’t exist back then.
Like they do today.
I would’ve discovered so much. I would’ve learned so much. Books would’ve been my kickboard. They would’ve helped keep me afloat. They would’ve given me something to clutch and grasp, something to hold onto and hug. Books would’ve helped steer me in directions and chart my routes.
I was a reader.
I would’ve found my authentic self in books. I definitely would’ve found my authentic self in books.
But I didn’t.
Half my life.
Who was the real me? Which parts of me did I make up? Which parts of me did I pretend to be? Did I really like the things I liked? Did I really believe the things I believed? Who was the real me?
Half my life.
The self-loathing and self-hate didn’t just magically disappear when I came out.
That’s not how it works.
The undoing and unlearning takes time. It can’t be rushed. Even when you want so badly to make up for all those lost years, for all that lost time.
That’s not how it works.
The undoing and unlearning takes commitment, a commitment to curiosity. No matter how unpleasant. No matter how intense. Because this an existential endeavor. There is no on/off switch.
That’s not how it works.
You have to remember to be kind to yourself.
I grew up in a household with a mentally ill and emotionally abusive mother. It took a long time to come to terms with that. It’s taken even longer to share it publicly. Half a life, in fact. Often, she was nasty, even cruel. The things she would say, the things she would do. So judgmental. So unkind.
Undoing and unlearning, I discovered so much of that ingrained in me, a part of me.
You have to remember to give yourself grace.
I was raised Jewish. I attended synagogue regularly. A conservative synagogue where women weren’t permitted to have aliyot and didn’t even count towards a minyan. Where a rabbi preached – ranted – about what it meant to be a good Jew. About how righteous Jewish boys became righteous Jewish men who married Jewish woman and had many Jewish children.
Undoing and unlearning, I discovered so much of that ingrained in me, a part of me.
You have to remember to be compassionate to yourself.
I was raised in a household where intolerance was the default setting. I heard how my family used that Yiddish word when they talked about Black people. I saw how my family treated Black people. I heard the words my family used to talk about gay people. I saw how my family treated gay people.
A few times a year, my parents would take my sisters and me to Manhattan. Sometimes we’d eat at a nice restaurant. Sometimes we’d see a Broadway musical. Every time, on the way home, we’d drive through Greenwich Village so we could point at and laugh at the weirdos and creeps who probably already had that new disease they deserved.
Undoing and unlearning, I discovered so much of that ingrained in me, a part of me.
You really have to remember to be kind to yourself.
I’m so fortunate.
I didn’t always believe that – obviously — but I certainly do now. Since coming out, I’ve had the opportunity – the privilege – to discover and connect with my authentic self. With the support and trust of family, found family, friends, community, and therapy, I’ve been able to experiment openly and explore freely. I’ve been able to engage in this massive undertaking and honor my commitment to curiosity.
I’m incredibly fortunate.
The Author Village
Seven summers ago next month, I started The Author Village. There are now over eighty children’s book creators, educators, and librarians in our collective. Amazing!
If you’d told me seven summers ago that a large part of my role would now involve fighting book bans and censorship, I doubt I would have believed it.
But it’s a fight I won’t shy away from. I’m an author. I write books for young people. I’m a teacher. I taught middle school in the New York City Public Schools for many years. Of course, I’m going to relentlessly defend the right to read.
But it’s so much more than that. This fight against book bans and censorship is deeply, deeply personal. I know what lack of information does. I know what lack of access does. And I also know that these book bans aren’t just about the books. They’re about the erasure of identities.
I know. I lived it. For half my life.
No kid should have to go through that. No kid should grow up hating himself, herself, or themself because of who he is, she is, or they are.
“Before you go to sleep at night, ask yourself: was I the best person I could be today?” Mr. Mosley in The First State of Being says to Michael. “If the answer is no, do better tomorrow.”
No.
My answer is always no. Some days, I come close, really close. But even on those days, I know I can do better. I have to do better tomorrow.
There’s a tattoo on my left forearm designed by my friend, LeUyen Pham. It’s a tattoo of a Texas bluebonnet with the words “Walk Your Talk” on the banner. Over time, the layered meaning behind the tattoo has morphed and evolved. Except for those three words. That hasn’t changed.
Walk your talk.
Each day, I see and read those words, and each day, those three words are my ever-present reminder that queer kids need us. All of us. More than ever.
Each day, I see and read those words and push myself to be who I needed when I was younger, to be who I needed for the first half of my life.
I have another tattoo across my shoulder and down my back that’s also designed by Uyen. I got this one a few years ago to commemorate the 25th anniversary of my coming out. It’s a Daliesque clock and hourglass. The numbers on the clock face represent my birthday, 12-29-67, and my coming out day, 7-24-96.
Right now, I have photographs of the tattoo open all around my screen. They’ve been open the whole time I’ve been writing this.
Today marks half my life. Today is my half-life day. I have now lived more than half my life – half this beautiful life – as my authentic self.
Phil Bildner is currently scheduling both in-person and virtual school and library visits and conference appearances for the 2024-25 school year. If you’re interested in hosting him and would like more information, please contact The Author Village.