The Confession by James E. McGreevey Page A

convalescing on a mattress on the floor. It was a scene that almost made me cry. Most of the kids at the Y camping program were there on scholarship. Often they came with no food in their stomachs and ill-fitting clothes on their backs. But there was always something to wear and eat there, and even extras to take home.
    It was also a racial mixing bowl, where the color of one’s skin was so irrelevant as to go unremarked. I remember the first time Patty Cannon cornrowed my hair, how excited I was to show it to my sisters and to teach them the songs the children had taught me: “Hambone, Hambone, where you been?” I wore the braids all week, only taking them out in time for Sunday Mass.
    At the Y, I felt I could be totally myself. I felt none of the sense of judgment that shadowed me at the church, or the burdens I felt at school. I also felt a little more “cool” at the Y, where I didn’t have to wear my goofy glasses. Even my vexingly curly hair straightened out after a swim, just the way I always wanted it.
    So from May to September, I hardly left the place. I worked from seven in the morning to nine at night, loving every minute of it; the harder I worked the more I enjoyed it all, and the faster I rose in the esteem of my supervisors. As the seasons clicked past, I was swim instructor, then pool manager, then aquatics director; before long I was practically running the whole camp.
    Junior prom was approaching, and with my newfound confidence I invited Nancy McKeown, a gorgeous young woman with sparkling eyes. I coaxed Sean Hughes into coming along, too, setting him up on a date with a girl I knew from the Y, and they made an attractive couple. I can’t say I had a fabulous time that night, and it ended awkwardly when Dad told me I couldn’t continue on to the after-party. I think I was the only member of the junior class who was home by 10:30. Still, for the first time I’d begun to think of myself as having some kind of social potential. And for this I credited my time at the Y.
    But my private struggles weren’t going away. I had developed a close friendship with another swim instructor I’ll call Brian Fitzgerald. Brian and I were a lot alike. We were both Irish, of course. And we were both perfectsons who did what we were expected to do: overachieved in school, went out of our way at work, followed all rules unfailingly, and took immaculate care of ourselves. We were the kind of kids who flossed our teeth regularly.
    Brian had a great sense of humor and solid academic training and was handsome besides: blue-eyed, blond-haired, with a taut athlete’s physique. Maybe because I found him so attractive, I competed with him nonstop, which he seemed to enjoy as much as I did. We both had crushes on the same girl, and we spent months vying for her attentions. Brian and I went to sleepover camp together, even double-dated a few times, and I enjoyed cautiously pushing the limits (like trying to get the girls back to our cabin), just to make him nervous. I don’t believe he tried anything with the girls. I, on the other hand, sometimes kissed or touched a girl specifically to see his reaction.
    In senior year, we began a nightly ritual. After clearing all the kids out of the gym and emptying the locker room, we would turn off the lights in the pool room and sprint a few laps in the dark. He was always faster. But one evening, when I came particularly close to beating him, we got tangled up in a wrestling match—which dissolved into something entirely driven by hormones. Before it was over we had somehow ripped off one another’s suits and were standing in waist-deep water totally naked. Our excitement carried us even further.
    And when we were through that night, and the many other times that followed, I saw that Brian wasn’t spiraling into the self-hatred that had consumed me after my first experience. I took great strength from that. With Brian, I was able to