“Let’s talk about obsessions,” he says. “Write about your most intense obsession from when you were a child.”

“Could you repeat the assignment?” someone asks.

“Yes, but I reserve the right to resent the question.”

For Christmas in 1989, my mother received a copy of the 50^th anniversary VHS of the Wizard of Oz. I still remember her opening it, though I’m not sure why: it wasn’t our first VHS, nor had I seen the movie before. It’s as if my 3-year-old self somehow knew: this was the start of something big.

I became fixated on Dorothy, that lost girl who was desperate to find her way home. More importantly, I became obsessed with the actress who played her: Judy Garland.

After countless visits to Oz, my mother took me to the local video store to rent tapes of Judy’s other films: first, Meet Me in St. Louis, then Easter Parade. I still remember the delight I felt after walking down the rows of plastic cases to find that the tape I wanted was in stock; I didn’t realize competition for Judy Garland VHS’s wasn’t terribly stiff.

My mother bought me a Walkman, and I listened to the only cassette tape I remember owning: Judy’s greatest hits from the Decca years. I listened to it so often and so loudly that my mother feared I would damage my hearing, so she used red nail polish to draw a line on the volume dial to show me the max level I could use. I loved that red line; it told me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I preached the Gospel of Garland to my friends, which was, in hindsight, a bit odd for a young boy in rural Vermont to do in the early 1990’s. To one friend, I described in great detail the fashion show of Judy’s previous costumes that I thought she should have opened her concerts with. He listened politely, then asked, “You do know she’s dead, don’t you?”

I called a different friend and used my Walkman to play him one of Judy’s songs over the phone. I was confused when he didn’t recognize her voice. My mother told me to get off the phone. I felt like I’d done something wrong, but I didn’t know what.

My mother and I performed one of Judy’s songs in a church talent show, back when I was young enough to get away without much talent. We rehearsed in her bathroom in front of the mirror. I wore a tiny suit jacket and was too nervous to look anywhere but at my mother. I remember thinking she was so glamorous – both my mother and Judy Garland. What stars.

I probably don’t need to tell you that Judy Garland is a gay icon, but I didn’t know that then. If you’ve heard me speak or seen me walk, I also probably don’t need to tell you that I’m gay, but I didn’t know that then either. All I knew is that Judy Garland made me feel: less alone, more hopeful. Judy let me dream: of a place over the rainbow, a place where I belonged, a place to call home.

Louise Glück wrote, “I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere.” That resonates with me, even if it’s not quite right. My childhood was a long wish to be someone else, not somewhere else.

My obsession with Judy Garland began with my mother, and even in trying to write about Judy, I find myself writing about her instead. Maybe my mother was my real obsession, as I desperately longed for her to love me, even though I wasn’t the child she wanted.

“Who wants to share what they wrote?” he asks.

One woman wrote about hating her body since the age of seven. Why were so many of us writing about self-loathing? Maybe we all do.

I wish I had been easier to love. I was so angry as a child, frustrated that I was unable to change myself, terrified that I couldn’t change my fate. My mother would always love me, but I didn’t know that then. In the end, just like Dorothy, I would find my way home, safe and sound. In that way, we made our own fate. Maybe we all do.