By the time I was 14, I had committed to memory nearly a decade of CBS soap opera continuity. I remember Josh searching for his missing wife Reva on Guiding Light, and Ridge’s seemingly endless seesaw between Brooke and Taylor on The Bold and the Beautiful. I can’t seem to remember to pay this month’s phone bill, but my recollection of soap story arcs from the early 1990s are still as clear as day. This is what growing up in Martinsville does to a boy.

I only wrote that last line because it served as a nifty hook. It worked, didn’t it? You’re baited, yes? If not, then you may as well stop now. It’s not going to get any better. It never does.

It wasn’t Martinsville that led me to daytime television, but my unorthodox family situation. This all took place in Martinsville, sure, but this is one aspect of my past that can’t be directly credited to that accursed lay of land. Moreover, I’ve come to look on it fondly. As anyone who knows me can attest, I will never admit any good can come from “the land of broken bottles and shattered dreams,” Martinsville, Virginia.

I was the first boy in five generations on my mother’s side of the family. After my parents separated, I became the sole XY in a flock of XX-es. My father showed up once or twice every year or two, just enough to remind me of my inability to hit a ball or to ride a bike.

My mother wasn’t what you’d call “involved,” not unless you’re referring to her relationship with soap characters. In that case, yes, you’d be right to call her that. My stepfather was a good, albeit quiet man; the bulk of our time together was spent eating or passing time with our mutual friend, television. Subsequently, my early years are a jumble of food stamps, frozen-dinners, and trailer-park intrigue.

And soap operas. Soaps were actually a major influence on my development as a writer. Following a few hours of watching soaps with our then-unemployed mother, my sister and I would use our toys to reenact soap storylines. We even had a name for it: “Ninja Turtles and Barbie.” I’m not exaggerating when I report that “Ninja Turtles and Barbie” ran for no fewer than three years.

The longest running couple in our daily soap was Ariel, the Little Mermaid in human form (i.e., with plastic legs), and Leonardo, leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Ariel once left Leo for “Two Head” in the early days of their romance, but the pairing proved unpopular among audiences (us). “Two Head” was a He-Man toy I’d picked up at the flea market. We resolved the unpopular relationship by having “Two Head” become abusive, and left Ariel running back into the pose-able arms of Leo.

Toward the end of our soap’s run, Ariel fell for Slash, a freakish version of the Ninja Turtles. I’ve long had a propensity for deformed or “ugly” fictional characters. Due to my low self-esteem, I related with them. Naturally, I had had high hopes for Ariel and Slash. Mine weren’t the only storytelling sensibilities influenced by the soaps; my sister kept our viewers (again, us) in suspense for weeks before Ariel decided to marry Slash. When the pair finally did wed, it was among the finest moment in the entire run of “Ninja Turtles and Barbie.” The lowest moments? When my sister and I bickered, fought, and threw tantrums. In the adult world, we call these “creative differences”—although these days, they rarely conclude in fistfights.

The problem with all of this is, aside from the science behind a mermaid sharing a marital bed with a mutant turtleman, is that I wasn’t occupying myself in “male” activities. According to our culture’s rigid gender definitions, something was wrong with me. I never gave two licks about sports. I still don’t. I tended and still tend to approach things in ways that are altogether un-masculine. I’m an emotionally driven gent. I’ve never liked to argue. I’ve never fired a gun or killed an animal. Outside of the convex screen of a television set, I think fighting is moronic. Being that I grew up in a small town in Virginia, this presented a problem.

As I grew into adolescence, there were the inevitable accusations of deviant sexuality. I say “deviant” because, historically, that’s a word that’s become associated with sex that doesn’t follow the rules. I bought into this lame discourse for years. I worried that I was homosexual simply because, if people told me I must be gay, then I must be gay. But then I began contemplating what “gay” means. That’s when the issue got murky.

Stop for a moment and look at how absurd this mindset is: Homosexuality is the sexual and/or romantic interest in members of the same sex. (I could go into a whole spiel about how that term is flawed in a number of levels, but I’ll save that for a later Snarl. Let’s just keep it at that for now, yeah?)

Now: When a boy doesn’t participate in “masculine” activities, that boy is oftentimes designated a “gay.” I’d argue that, in this context, “gay” takes on a special meaning. While the implication is still that the signified person is a deviant and a lover of men, the more direct meaning appears to be that the recipient of the label is not a man at all. It’s a term of emasculation. The suggestion here is that gay men aren’t men. Gay men aren’t men? How’s that work? They have penises, don’t they?

The word “gay” is popularly used to signify things that aren’t liked, things that don’t work, unfavorable circumstances, and, as illustrated above, men who don’t behave as they’re expected to behave. “Gay” must be an awfully tired word.

Let’s keep the heat on that last meaning. I think we’re onto something here. What requirements does one have to meet to sustain “straight” status? Is there a checklist? It appears that one can be gay without having any attraction to the same sex. How does one slip? Is there a recovery program? Could one be certified in proper “Straight-dom?” If I change the channel during the Super Bowl, will I suddenly be stricken with the urge to make man-love? If I meet a drunk woman at the bar and help her home rather than taking advantage, is my sexual orientation suddenly compromised?

Clearly, American culture has done a poor job of defining sexuality. Thanks to poor, sexually confused Freud and misrepresented religious texts, America has developed an irrational fear of sex. Sexual paranoia has gotten so bad that, if a boy doesn’t like playing baseball, his father is apt to worry that he’s gay. As we all know, once someone is gay, their life is over, and their soul doomed.

Enough with the sarcasm: It’s Snarlin’ time. What do sports have to do with loving another man? It’s ludicrous. Being a man has nothing to do with tastes or sexual preference, period. If you say that your god says otherwise, then I say you’re grossly mistaken.

My own personal definition of “man” has nothing to do with sexual preference, violence, fleshy conquests, or beer bong efficiency. To me, a “man” is compassionate, honest, and loyal to his family. By my definition, some of the supposedly manliest men who ever lived don’t qualify for “man” status. The soaps reinforce this. When a male soap character cheats on his girlfriend, karma invariably takes up a stick and beats him into a bloody pulp. When rape or sexual misconduct occurs, the perp almost always pays with his life, or at least his freedom. I’m glad that I was so affected by female-coded fiction. It sure beats Tucker Max.

On a final note, I’d like to give a shoutout to my favorite soap opera character. In the late 1990s, on Guiding Light, Josh finally accepted that his wife Reva was dead and married a woman named Annie Dutton. When the show’s writers decided to bring Reva back, Annie was transformed from a compassionate and loving woman to a boozed-up sociopath hell-bent on keeping Josh all to herself. Annie slipped into an irrational madness faster than you could say “commercial break.”

Given my long-standing pattern of falling for emotionally disturbed women, I was naturally smitten with Annie, particularly when she was portrayed by the terrific Cynthia Watros. (Annie was later recast. The writers accounted for this by having Annie undergo plastic surgery to assume the identity of a comatose detective. That was pushing it, even by soap standards.) Annie was a sociopath in nurse’s attire. Could there be anything more alluring? This teenage crush led to my current infatuation with actress and god-awful writer Anne Heche.

This one’s for you, Annie Dutton. You can change my bedpan any time you like. That is, if you can put up with my unmanliness. It comes with the package.

New River Voice columnist Charles Smith a writer, scholar, and, indeed, a man among men.