Inserti( )n

Back when I was ten, I remember saying the f-word for the first time in front of my mother. She simply replied with: “Christopher, there are better words to use rather than bad language — words have power.” Growing up, her little speech held little or no credence to me, since I tended to copy and repeat anything I heard in movies, and, since I watched about five movies a week, I had a lot of material to draw upon.

When I was sixteen, my best friend died from an accidental drug overdose. Naturally, high school students aren’t trained for such events. Suddenly, being friends with the dead kid became the popular thing to do. This one girl, Alyssa, told me that if I “…went to the funeral, [she’d] kill me.” I understood what my mom meant with words having power. Born out of my friend’s death and my interest in movies, I began writing screenplays that dealt with teenagers engaging in traumatizing situations — and using words to get out of them.

About at the same time my friend died, I realized I was gay. There weren’t any good LGBTQ+ role models in 2009, and the library didn’t have a wide selection of queer cinema (except Brokeback Mountain). Bullies picked on me for being different: I was stuffed in lockers, mocked by teachers and students alike. I wanted a role model that was cool and ‘normal’ — not “that one gay kid in Glee club.” I realized that if I couldn’t find a role model that fit my criteria, I should write one. I want to explore my role in the LGBTQ+ community, and feel it’s fitting to use film as a medium to do so. I don’t want to write another crappy Netflix gay film that plays into the heteronormative expectations for a gay relationship: I want to challenge the perceptions of what gay men can do in cinema. I want to shatter glass ceilings. I want to use my words to show what minority men and women are capable of.