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$16.99 Paperback
$6.99 Digital
This is not a child mistaking cruelty for truth.
It’s an adult looking back—
finally calling it by name.
Growing up queer in Mississippi
meant learning early
how to carry yourself.
To survive.
To turn humiliation into style.
It’s tucking chunks of myself away to spare Mama.
The Pastor calls it guidance.
I call it a polite way to say—
try harder not to be you.
I wasn’t invisible.
That was never really an option.
I wasn’t invisible.
That was never really an option.
If there’s a heaven for boys like me,
it’s not the one they promised.
A God who understands the difference
between a sin and a life.
In Poking Fun at My Pusillanimity, Kenneth Cupp revisits his 1980s Mississippi childhood through kid’s logic with adult humor, precision, and unflinching honesty. Across a series of interconnected essays he moves through faith, shame, rumor, camp, danger, imagination, and the long work of reclaiming courage in a voice once taught to whisper.
This is a queer Southern becoming.
Not nostalgia.
Not apology.
Just the truth—told with teeth, tenderness, and nerve.
Vengeance don’t ever taste as sweet as you think.
If there’s a Pulitzer for closet drama, I’m a shoo-in.
$16.99 Paperback
$6.99 Digital
This is not a child mistaking cruelty for truth.
It’s an adult looking back—
finally calling it by name.
Growing up queer in Mississippi
meant learning early
how to carry yourself.
To survive.
To turn humiliation into style.
It’s tucking chunks of myself away to spare Mama.
The Pastor calls it guidance.
I call it a polite way to say—
try harder not to be you.
I wasn’t invisible.
That was never really an option.
I wasn’t invisible.
That was never really an option.
If there’s a heaven for boys like me,
it’s not the one they promised.
A God who understands the difference
between a sin and a life.
In Poking Fun at My Pusillanimity, Kenneth Cupp revisits his 1980s Mississippi childhood through kid’s logic with adult humor, precision, and unflinching honesty. Across a series of interconnected essays he moves through faith, shame, rumor, camp, danger, imagination, and the long work of reclaiming courage in a voice once taught to whisper.
This is a queer Southern becoming.
Not nostalgia.
Not apology.
Just the truth—told with teeth, tenderness, and nerve.
Vengeance don’t ever taste as sweet as you think.
If there’s a Pulitzer for closet drama, I’m a shoo-in.