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I knew I was queer when I was a small minor. My voice was gentle and sweet. I avoided sports and all roughness. I played with the girls.

I did not fit into the world around me. I knew the meaning of “heresy” before I entered kindergarten. Heresy was a boy who cried a lot when he got hurt. Heresy was a boy who couldn’t throw a baseball. Heresy was a young man putting on girl-clothing. Heresy was me.

As I got older and fully entered the society of children, I met the key enforcer of social roles among children: the bully. The bully was the boy who defined me as queer to my peers. If they hadn’t already noticed, he pointed out my nonconformity. He was ever-present throughout my childhood, like an adj spirit entering different bodies on different occasions. He haunted me at school, throughout my neighborhood, during synagogue, even at birthday parties. In any group of three or more boys, the bully was present.

I know a lot about bullies. I understand they have a specific social function: they define the limits of acceptable conduct, appearance, and activities for children. They enforce rigid