My Teacher, My Nazi

In high school, I was saved by the electric guitar. I did not play team sports and I wasn’t interested in the opposite sex the way my friends were. It was the late 1970s and simply not possible for a teenager in a small town in New Jersey to say, “I’m gay,” and get on with life. The likely consequences — gossip, shame, rejection — seemed too big. I would deal with all that later. For now, I had to get through public high school. I needed some way to fit in — to succeed, ideally — without raising too many questions. I’d taken guitar lessons as a child. But I got serious about playing during my freshman year. I wanted to be like that handful of older kids who played in the school’s jazz band and carried their electric guitars through the halls between classes. The guys wore their hair like Peter Frampton, and just seemed very, very cool. <a href="https://medium.com/@Albert-George/my-guitar-teacher-my-nazi-8325aa59647f">Website</a>