First Person: The Note

The note slipped silently from my hand to a prominent spot on his desk. There it lay, conspicuous in its smallness, a strategically placed sheet of yellow elementary-ruled note paper carefully folded once, then again, and once more to provide that degree of secrecy so important to a 4th grader. I was running away from home, and I wanted someone to know. I wanted someone to care.

In my best cursive, I informed Mr. McHenry of both my plan and my sense of alienation. At 9 years old, I didn't know I was gay, but I did know that there didn't seem to be a place for me, not in my family, not in school, not in a small Indiana town. The sense of separateness, of isolation, I was feeling sparked my visions-- visions of being accepted, of finding my true home, of starting over.

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