RUNNING IN PLACE
Running in place – Chapter 3
This is the story I know—at least, what I know right now, as I write this book.
The year is 1963. My mother is 14 years old and out on a date. The man she’s with—my father, allegedly—is older. When she gets pregnant, everything changes. Nine months later, at the age of 15, she gives birth to me.
Shortly after I’m born, I’m taken away and placed in a foster home. People come to see me, to consider adoption. Finally, after six months, I’m chosen.
I was born in Watertown, New York, in Jefferson County. My adoptive parents were a young couple with one daughter already. But after four miscarriages, they were desperate for a boy to complete their “perfect family.” So, they chose me—chubby cheeks and all.
One year after I was adopted, my mother gave birth to another daughter. Ten years after that, she had twin boys.
Growing up, the only information I had about my birth mother and her family came from a single piece of paper from the adoption center. It listed my mother’s age, my birthplace, and my original name:
Christopher James Varney. It said I had two aunts, two uncles, was of English/Scottish descent, and that my grandfather had lived a long life. That was it. That’s all I was told. That’s all anyone knew.
I was a fat, gay kid. That’s who I was. I loved musicals. I loved singing. I loved dancing. And I really loved sugar.
Looking back, I’ve had—and still have—an eating disorder. Binge eating, mostly. My mother had a “cookie drawer” in the kitchen. It was literally a drawer full of cookies. I loved cookies. Cookies loved me. They made me feel happy, and the sugar gave me a high. I’d steal entire packages, shove them down my pants, walk upstairs, and eat them alone in my room.
“You’re trying to fill a hole in your soul,” my mom said once, snatching the cookies out of my hand.
School was hell. Gay face, ADHD, OCD, and severe anxiety made learning nearly impossible. I dreaded school, but I dreaded Parents’ Night even more. Every time my parents went, the teachers said the same thing: “He’s smart, but he can’t focus.”
I’d get punished until my grades went up. But how could they? I couldn’t understand what the teachers were saying. I could only concentrate when I was doodling. But doodling wasn’t allowed. Teachers constantly snatched my drawings away and threw them in the trash. It was the only thing that helped me turn down the volume in my head.
My father used to drill me on multiplication flashcards every night. I’d stare at them like they were hieroglyphics. “Memorize them,” he’d say, growing frustrated. Eventually, they put me in a special reading class because I couldn’t read.
I always sat at the “special table”—the one for kids who couldn’t focus. It was placed right next to the teacher, as if proximity to authority might fix me.
In the 1970s, they tried to teach us the metric system. America gave it a half-assed attempt. They’d roll in a giant TV with a VHS player into our liberal arts class, turn out the lights, and we’d watch puppets baking bread and building roads using metric measurements. It might as well have been in French.
Everyone else learned it. I didn’t. I was too busy drawing.
My emotions always lived at the surface. Frustration? Tears. Publicly. Which made me an even bigger target for bullies.
And I couldn’t stop talking. I had no impulse control. Thoughts popped into my head, and I had to say them—at home, at school, wherever.
I also stole. I’d take money out of my mother’s purse while she napped. The thrill of it made me feel high. I stole from piggy banks. I’d ride my bike to the garden center and buy supplies. Then I’d go to the flea market, twenty minutes away, to buy vintage movie magazines with the money I’d taken. It wasn’t about the things. It was the act of buying that gave me a rush. I couldn’t stop.
To keep me busy, my parents built me a workshop in the basement. I built robots out of coffee cans, attached skates to their feet so I could wheel them around. I made lopsided birdhouses, crooked bookshelves. I drilled, sawed, hammered. My dad’s workbench was next to mine.
He had a pull-cord light above his bench. You’d pull it, and the whole room would light up. But there was a twelve-foot stretch of darkness from the stairs to that cord—and I was terrified of the back room. I believed something evil lived in there, just out of sight. I’d sprint from the stairs, arm outstretched, racing to that cord like my life depended on it.
I had phobias. My bedroom closet had an attic entrance in the ceiling, and I was convinced that something waited on the other side of the door. I’d sit in the closet to prove to myself I wasn’t afraid—but I was.
I had a Brady Bunch poster on my wall. I wouldn’t undress in front of it. I thought they could see me, so I’d go to the bathroom to change.
Books were my escape. I had a red beanbag chair I’d curl up in, rolling around while I read. It was the only time my mother left me alone.
I barely slept. I was always up at 6:00 a.m.—even Saturdays. I’d turn on the TV and watch the test pattern until cartoons started. My mother would come downstairs, cigarette in her mouth, and slap off the TV:
“Get out of the house and enjoy this day.”
So, I did. I’d hop on my bike and ride to the garden center. I lived in Guilderland, New York—the suburbs. It was safe. I rode everywhere.
On Sundays, it was Davey and Goliath at 6:00 a.m., then church. After church, my sisters and I would listen to Casey Kasem count down the hits.
My mom napped every day, like clockwork. During that time, she locked me out of the house. She’d talk to me through the window:
“Don’t come back until the six o’clock firehouse alarm sounds.”
That alarm went off every day at 6:00 p.m. Everyone in the neighborhood raced home when it sounded.
In winter, she’d lock me out to shovel snow. Once I finished the chore, she’d unlock the door. I cried a lot on the other side of that glass—cold, tired, alone.
My sister never shoveled. I had to do all the “boy” chores.
“Equal rights for women!” my mom would shout.
“Then get them to shovel!” I’d scream back.
I’d pause while shoveling and stare through the window at everyone sitting in the warm house.
“Mom, he’s looking in the window again!” my sister would yell.
My mom would bang on the glass or wave me away.
I got even by jumping out of closets or hiding under beds to scare my sister. It made me laugh so hard. She’d cry and run to tell. I’d get punished.
Mom locked me in the garage a lot. One day, I took a barbeque fork and stabbed her car tires. I was so tired of being treated like garbage.
We hated each other. She told me I couldn’t be tamed or broken—but by God, she was going to try.
She always demanded something right now, on her time. I spent every day doing chores. She once said she should send me to the Moonies. “You’d break up a cult,” she laughed, “because you’d never do what they told you.”
I hated being home. I stayed at school until the last bus left.
At five o’clock, it was cocktail hour. My mother drank two Manhattans every night. On weekends, they went out both Friday and Saturday, and she came home drunk.
She’d call my father at work—slurring—then send me to my room.
“Wait ‘til your father gets home,” she’d warn.
When he did, she’d tell him what a nightmare I was. He’d come upstairs and “teach me a lesson.” That meant with a belt. Fists. Being thrown against a wall. Then he’d go back down to finish his drink with her.
“I hate you, you miserable witch!” I’d scream.
I’d slam my door so hard the pictures jumped off the walls.
He’d come storming back, kick in the door—and it would start all over again.
Holidays? A nightmare. My mom had rules for everything.
Christmas was a militarized operation. Stockings hung in birth order to Here Comes Santa Claus. You had to sit on the stairs until she had coffee. Then stockings, then breakfast, then presents—one at a time, in birth order.
Wrapping paper and ribbons had to be saved and reused. The attic was full of boxes and folded wrapping.
And yeah—some kids don’t get Christmas. I get it. But ours was joyless.
Any gift I loved was taken away as punishment. I wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies, only GI Joe or Action Jackson. But I wanted Barbie. I was obsessed.
My mom drank, smoked, and preached her philosophies while my dad hit me. The more she tried to tame me, the more I fought.
She signed me up for sports. I cried every time.
I was always last in a race. Came in an hour late in swim meets. Couldn’t catch, throw, or bat. I only ran if someone chased me. I was a fat little gay kid who wanted to watch musicals.
They put me in Little League. My mom said I asked for it. I didn’t.
On the field, I was “fat,” “fag,” “loser,” “double fag.”
Even the other team’s coach would shout, “Move in!” when I came up to bat.
The kids would chant: “Whiff, whiff, whiff—come on, fag, you’re gonna whiff!”
The catcher laughed. Even the umpire laughed.
Then the obese kid from the other team would launch a fastball straight at me. It always hit me. At least it got me to first base.
“Fag on first!” someone would shout.
In the outfield, I picked dandelions. Nothing ever came my way—except when that pitcher came to bat and launched it right at me.
After the game, we lined up to shake hands. As I walked past, each kid whispered: “Fag. Fat. Fag.” Like a prayer.
But then—then I got a chip for the concession stand.
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