The Truth in Our Lies

Storytelling was my first drug of choice. Some might’ve called it “lying;” indeed, it was. But wouldn’t you lie, if you were me? Let me take you back to 1994, when truth was still a viable solution. I was sequestered in the conservative suburb of Kettering, Ohio, attending fifth grade at a school called The Immaculate Conception (the big quiz in first grade was learning how to spell it), and while the other boys drooled over Cindy Crawford and talked football, I had Richard Grieco in white briefs with the French scorpion and rocket launcher from If Looks Could Kill on repeat in my head … and my obsession with this scene wasn’t because of any rocket launcher. The only thing that got my mind off Grieco’s tan pecs and cute bum as he frantically searched the hotel bathroom looking for condoms was practicing Tchaikovsky on the piano or writing short stories, both decidedly uncool and fairly homosexual activities, according to those confident mid-1990s fifth graders. So, I was deemed an outcast.

Enter Tommy, the first boy in class to achieve golden hairs on his arms. They felt soft against mine as we caressed each other and held hands in the dark during “movie day” in Ms. Miller’s class. One minute he bullied me, kicking me off basketball at recess (who are we kidding? He saved me!), and the next he rubbed his cheek with mine as we strolled back to class after the bell rang. My mind could never tell if his flirtations were earnest or in jest, but to my heart, they were bliss. He was the object of my affection in the first play I wrote, School Dayz. The play involved scenes with Tommy convincing me how fabulous it is to be gay, a romantic boy-on-boy moonlight roller skating scene, and dialogue peppered with the words “SEX” and “penis,” spelled “p-i-n-o-u-s.” (I had never seen “penis” written out and wouldn’t dare look it up in a dictionary – I was Catholic!)

Although tucked away at the bottom of my desk drawer for no one to see but me, my mother found the notebook with School Dayz in it one morning as she was “cleaning my room” while I was at school. Without going into the shameful details, that invasion of privacy began a decade-long inner battle to change myself in order to please the adults in my life. In other words, let the lying commence.

I invented friends. I invented girlfriends — girlfriends who went to public school. They had sex. They did drugs. One whopper with one imaginary girl got so elaborate, I had no choice but to kill her off. “Oh, she died last weekend of a drug overdose. I don’t know if I can talk about it.” My web of deceit disgusted me, but I was hooked on the thrill of … getting caught? Of wanting someone to confront me with my lies?

It wasn’t until the age of 30, long after I accepted my sexuality, and after years of drinking and eventual sobriety, that I was offered a fresh perspective on my actions as a child. I was doing summer theatre in Vermont, playing Horatio in Hamlet, when I became friends with the great actor Brian Cox and his wife Nicole, who played Queen Gertrude. Brian was preparing for Waiting for Godot, and he employed me to run lines with him. While sipping four-hour-old coffee on lawn chairs on a lazy afternoon, we reflected on life — easy to do when learning Beckett. Brian suggested: “It’s not that you were a liar, David. You became acquainted with the imagination. Perhaps you just fell in love with storytelling. Stories we tell are often much safer than reality.” That concept made my head explode. Yes, I protected myself in my storytelling! My fantasy was my armor from the world. Plus, I got to practice my writing and my acting skills. Not the worst way to spend an adolescence. The choices of my childhood no longer seemed malicious, as it was the first time I considered my lies through a creative lens.

The more I reflected on my past in this manner, the more I realized what a radical act it was to write a big ol’ homosexual play in 1994 at the age of 10. And that’s when it hit me: Storytelling is dangerous. It uncovers the truth that we don’t want to see. That’s what made me fall in love with it in the first place. Even though I immediately threw out that secret, dusty story at the bottom of my junk drawer when it was discovered by my mother, the power in those written words stayed with me. Only recently did I learn how to harness that power.

That’s the primary reason why I began my film company, The Great Griffon, which aims to “tell tales of the underdog.” As a kid, I had no power and no vocabulary to articulate what I was going through. As an adult, I’ve learned I can empower others through my stories. It’s become my calling as a filmmaker to shine light on injustice.

For that reason, my first feature film, Regarding Us, is about a Catholic school teacher, Veronica Hathaway (played by Alexandra Grey), whose hidden transgender identity is exploited by the Archdiocese, and whose life is upended, through no fault of her own. This inciting incident forces her to ask the question “So, now what?” Regarding Us was written by me and Jennifer Bobbi, and was mostly inspired by Jennifer’s life, as she is trans and lost both her livelihood and family relationships after she had the courage to come out as her true self. Strangely enough, Veronica doesn’t come out on her own terms — she is thrust out. In creating this cinematic conflict, I didn’t examine my own childhood baggage, how I myself was exposed and judged as a child. How I was disgraced, told that I was wrong and sinful for feeling what I felt. That what I felt was a “disease of the mind.” Childhood is different after that! So, now what?

We all have to ask ourselves that question at least once in life. For me, it was in the fifth grade, and my response was shoving myself back in that junk drawer, living in the shadows, well after the point of no return. Thankfully, our fictional character, Veronica, is an adult and chooses to live openly, despite being cornered by her bully (played by the delicious Catherine Curtin). Because her life is uprooted, her creativity and love expand to the people she later encounters in the film. So, yes, perhaps writing Veronica’s journey with Jennifer was just as cathartic for me, tending to those childhood wounds that are so familiar they feel like companions, despite the concerted effort to heal them.

I often ask myself why stories like these are still needed in 2024. Why is the fight for justice so long, and why does it feel so fruitless these days? It’s evident our film tackles timely issues people are facing all over the country, and it’s obvious we are divided in cultural silos … but what can I solve as a filmmaker? My only response is creation, in immersing myself where it’s dangerous. It is not my intention to change anyone’s mind. But if I can make someone feel something, then I’ve done my job. Some might call it bold truth-telling; others might call it fanciful fiction. Either way, I’m happy to go where the danger lies.