T. Scott Faulkner
I am a child of the 60's, which basically means that I am pre-technological and that I have winter in my beard. (Actually, I've never grown a beard, but I like the archaic sound of this little metaphor.) I grew up without the internet, which basically means I wrote letters instead of e-mails, and read books instead of watching Hillary Duff concerts online. Like my narrator, Aidan, I'm in love with the sound of my own voice; I need to tell stories -- a few of which are not meant for the world in which I gladly live (hence, I am availing myself of AwesomeDude and Nifty and the like). Like fellow author, David, I am a HS English teacher. Unlike David, I am NOT out to my students, friends, family, or hairdresser, though I may be fooling absolutely nobody. The closet in which I live is of the walk-in variety -- fully-stocked and well-guarded. I am writing "Fifteen" from inside this closet. Chances are (and please, dear activists, do not feel sorry for me) I will die in the closet.
This story is -- like many in this familiar genre -- unabashedly autobiographical. Like Aidan, my head evolved long before my heart. Like Aidan, I grew up in the lap of luxury (and if I rubbed it a bit, it would get hard...). Like Aidan, I was a scholar who would gladly have traded 10 Stanford-Binet IQ points for a little self-confidence and a set of pecs. Like Aidan, I am a lapsed Catholic who hates the church but loves God. Like Aidan, I needed someone like Billy to convince me that I was beautiful. And when I was convinced, well, that's when the troubles started. But that, as they say, is another story.
Unlike Aidan, I am much-loved by my mother and father. Unlike Aidan, I am bi-cultural and bilingual -- a cosmopolite much more than an American. And unlike Aidan, when I was 16 I would never have had the courage to run away from the good life I was born into to do something as singular as find out who I really am. Lacking courage, I am left only with words.