Anthony Molino

I grew up the middle child between two sisters. I was a small kid with a high voice. My best friend was a girl, and most of the kids I played with in our neighborhood were girls. To some of the older boys on the block, that made me different. And being different made me an easy target. I was teased. I was called names. Long before I understood my own sexuality, other people had already decided what it was and used it as a weapon against me. One afternoon, I was outside playing ball with some neighborhood kids and found myself in the middle of what was supposed to be a game of “Monkey in the Middle.” Except it wasn’t really a game. One of the older boys started making fun of me, calling me names related to my assumed sexuality. The ball wasn’t just being thrown over my head anymore. It was being thrown at my head. He pushed me to the ground. The other kids watched. And then my older sister Monika came riding down the street on her bicycle. She saw what was happening, jumped off her bike, walked over and punched him square in the face. He hit the ground. Then he got up and ran home crying. Not exactly the ending he had planned. That moment didn’t stop the teasing. I would be made fun of for years. But it taught me something I have carried with me for the rest of my life: I was never alone. I was incredibly fortunate to grow up with wonderful parents who loved me completely. I had sisters who loved me, including one who apparently took her role as my protector quite literally. I had people around me who made sure I knew that whatever someone else said about me could never change my worth. Eventually, I stopped wishing away the things that made me different. I am gay. I am confident. I am proud of who I am. The insecurities I carried as that little boy eventually became some of my greatest strengths. Being underestimated taught me determination. Being made to feel different taught me empathy. Being bullied taught me to notice when someone else is standing alone. And being protected taught me the importance of using whatever power you have to protect someone else. Today, advocacy is a major part of who I am, both personally and professionally. I try to speak up when others cannot. I try to make room for people who have been pushed to the outside. I try to notice the person who feels like they are standing alone in the middle. Because I remember exactly what that feels like. “Monkey in the Middle” represents a painful part of my story, but it doesn't represent weakness. It reminds me where my voice came from. I took the things I was once insecure about and made them my powers. And while I no longer need my big sister to jump off her bicycle and punch someone in the face for me, I will always be grateful that once upon a time, she did.