My Deepest Secret

As I become more and more familiar with the phenomenon of web logs, I see a particular pattern. Many times people use their blogs to tell stories about themselves. I have read a number of blogs that tell the deepest secrets. Perhaps the anonymous nature of the internet has led to this sense that you can say anything in a blog, because you don’t have to see the expression on the face of the reader of your story. Or, it could be that we tell the tales of our lives in our blogs in a unilateral “conversation” where there is no interruption. This allows us to get it all out without experiencing shame or recrimination. Or, maybe it is just that we don’t expect that our Mothers would read the blog and be embarrassed by what we have to say. Maybe, just maybe it is all of those reasons or none at all.

Let’s put this whole theory to the test. I have been harboring a deep dark secret that I have hidden for more than forty-five years, and perhaps longer if I could remember the earliest experiences of my youth. This is a dark secret that began with my maternal Grandmother. It was she that introduced me to this shame. I can recall the sly way that she gradually introduced me in the corner of her kitchen when I was not old enough to see the harm it would cause. She would get me alone, just the two of us and while no one else could possibly see it, she would do it. This happened many times during my early youth. I never told my mother of these things as my grandmother always told me not to tell anybody. She said this had to be our little secret.

As I grew older I would often find myself going back to those events in grandmother’s kitchen. They created a yearning in me that I would often satisfy as a young child. I was always hiding it from my sisters, not wanting them to know who I really was. I did not tell my friends about it because I thought that they might laugh at me. I knew by then that I was different. And we all know how cruel children can be when you are different from the rest. When I went to college, I experimented with other things. I tried to move away from my past and try something different. For a while, though actually only a short time, I went the complete opposite. I can admit it now because as I write this you don’t know my face. I admit that I tried as hard as I could to change who I was. I thought that making this change was good. I even liked it for a while. But the urges of my youth kept coming back to me. What I thought was innocent, from my grandmother’s kitchen stuck with me. I could no longer resist and I went back to the same old ways, still hiding it from everyone.

I feel emboldened by the blog. This is a one way conversation that lets me feel free to tell the world just who I am. There is no shame. I am who I am, and I can shout it out loud. I am a laysbian. That’s it; I have said it and all the world can now know. That’s right, I love Lays potato chips. I am sure that you will be surprised to read this. You certainly could not tell from my looks, or the way I dress. Society has forced me to hide this secret for these many years. Unlike some people I was not born this way. My grandmother introduced me to these evil ways when she would sneak the thin morsels to me in the corner of her kitchen. We hid this, she and I because we did not want to share these pleasures with my sisters. We would pass each other sometimes at crowded family gatherings and she would give me that conspiratorial look. The one that said, I have chips in my purse, and as soon as we are alone we will share them.

In college, I tried soft pretzels. The corner vendors in Philadelphia had them everywhere. I thought that perhaps going the other way might cure me. I tried pretzels with mustard. I did enjoy them for a time and I thought that perhaps, just maybe I was not so different after all. But then out of nowhere it came back to me. Once again I realized that my laysbian ways had never left. I was still hooked on Lays potato chips.

I once thought that I was different. I felt the shame of my ways until about three years ago. It was then that I met another laysbian. He too loved Lays potato chips. He is a prominent lawyer with a prestigious firm. We thought that we could help each other. Together we tried to give up our laysbian ways. Together, we gave up on Lays. Cold turkey, we both just quit. He could not make it and just one short month later he was back on the chips. However, I spent an entire year without one single chip. Ah yes, I did substitute Cheez-Its during those days. I ate them by the hands full. My family finally noticed. I would sneak upstairs late at night with my hand full of Cheez-Its, munching and leaving crumbs along the way. Finally, one day I was caught by my children. They accused me of eating all of their snacks for school. I had to confess right then and there that yes, I had eaten the Cheez-Its. Even this confession did not allow me to tell them the real truth. This is the truth that I now tell the world. The truth is I am a laysbian.

One year after I gave up chips, I am once again back to my daily habit. I have chips with my lunch, and I often have them as an afternoon snack. I even have days when I have just a few chips before going to bed. The word is out now. Yes I am different. I am a laysbian, but please don’t’ treat me differently. Just like you I love, have hopes, and even dreams. I would never take your chips; I am discreet in my desires. Yet, when I see your chips the passion burns hot in my bosom.

My name is Harvey, and I am a laysbian.