6-13
Sixth Grade: George Michael's "Faith" video. I can't figure out why my eyes are plastered to HIS side of the jukebox, rather than the girl's. I think I just really like his ripped jeans for some reason.
Seventh Grade: His name is Tommy. I like him. I really like him in a way that makes me want to be around him alot. He’s my age and he’s so smart and funny. So cute. I like him in the locker room, too. The boys want to change real quick and get into the gym because that’s where the girls are. I like it in the locker room. And I don’t know why.
Eighth Grade: The girls are all fixated on the cutest boy in school. His name is Marc. He’s a ninth grader. He’s tall and tan and has a smile that makes my knees weak. I’m so shy and fumbling and nervous. I have glasses for the first time. Big coke bottle glasses that make the other boys punch me and push me and spit on me. I don’t fight back.
Ninth Grade: Marty finally gives a name to it. A name to what I am. He calls me faggot in Art class and nobody cares. He calls me faggot in front of the teacher and the teacher didn’t care. He looked at me with this sly smile. He knows what it means. I know it means something really bad, but I’m not sure what it is. The girls at the table flirt with Marty before during and after he calls me faggot and even before during and after he punches me when the teacher isn’t looking. They laugh and flirt. I hate them for it. I hate them more than him because they didn’t do anything about it and because he might make out with them like I want him to make out with me. I’m confused as to why, even while he’s punching me, I still think he’s really hot. I want to die.
Tenth Grade: My shuffling walk. My coke bottle glasses. This place is much bigger. I am invisible here. I can sit at the back of study hall and read Stephen King and be invisible in blissful anonymity while the girl behind me whispers her Spanish homework under her breath. Nobody can see me. Nobody wants to see me. I know exactly what it is now, and I know I am the only one on the planet. Alone. All alone. My own private hell that wraps around me and comforts me. I see the world through scratched smudged coke bottle glasses. I know what it is because it’s in style for cool guys to roll the sleeves of their t-shirts up over their biceps and one guy brushed past me, his bicep grazing across my bare arm for a moment and I know it all in a blinding flash of truth and terror and reality. That wonderful combination of hot, hard and smooth that is another man’s body.
Eleventh Grade: I came out to my sister and my mom last summer. My friends still don't know because I don't want them to think we are checking out the same guys. My psychology teacher asks what Freudian psychological stage gay men are trapped at and when one smart-ass says “Anal” the teacher laughs heartily and says “No, but I understand why you might think that”. I hate the teacher with such blinding pure rage and I realize that the rage feels good. The rage is something that other like me feel. They may all be in New York and San Francisco doing it in filthy alleys, but they feel it too.
Twelfth Grade: A guy in English Class during our persuasive essays bursts out that if he sees two guys holding hands he will beat the living shit out of them. They need to stay in the closet where they belong. Before the enraged English teacher can say anything a girl pipes up and talks about how that’s really fucked up. “Why do all ugly-ass straight men think that every gay man wants them?” I want to stand up and cheer. Instead, when asked to write my Autobiography for English class, I tell the truth. I call it The Difference and it is the Difference that dare not speak it's name. My teacher commends me for my courage, and I get an A. TO this day she is one of the true heroes of my life.
Thirteenth Grade (AKA Community College): Speech Class. I give an impassioned speech about gay rights and get a standing ovation. I smile and shudder at the statistic I found directly linking the way gays and lesbians are treated in America to the way Jews were treated in Germany right before the Holocaust.
P.S. Marc, the hottest guy at my Junior High that all the girls wanted, was making out with a guy at the Nineties the first time I went there. I don’t know if I will ever recover from the shock.
Seventh Grade: His name is Tommy. I like him. I really like him in a way that makes me want to be around him alot. He’s my age and he’s so smart and funny. So cute. I like him in the locker room, too. The boys want to change real quick and get into the gym because that’s where the girls are. I like it in the locker room. And I don’t know why.
Eighth Grade: The girls are all fixated on the cutest boy in school. His name is Marc. He’s a ninth grader. He’s tall and tan and has a smile that makes my knees weak. I’m so shy and fumbling and nervous. I have glasses for the first time. Big coke bottle glasses that make the other boys punch me and push me and spit on me. I don’t fight back.
Ninth Grade: Marty finally gives a name to it. A name to what I am. He calls me faggot in Art class and nobody cares. He calls me faggot in front of the teacher and the teacher didn’t care. He looked at me with this sly smile. He knows what it means. I know it means something really bad, but I’m not sure what it is. The girls at the table flirt with Marty before during and after he calls me faggot and even before during and after he punches me when the teacher isn’t looking. They laugh and flirt. I hate them for it. I hate them more than him because they didn’t do anything about it and because he might make out with them like I want him to make out with me. I’m confused as to why, even while he’s punching me, I still think he’s really hot. I want to die.
Tenth Grade: My shuffling walk. My coke bottle glasses. This place is much bigger. I am invisible here. I can sit at the back of study hall and read Stephen King and be invisible in blissful anonymity while the girl behind me whispers her Spanish homework under her breath. Nobody can see me. Nobody wants to see me. I know exactly what it is now, and I know I am the only one on the planet. Alone. All alone. My own private hell that wraps around me and comforts me. I see the world through scratched smudged coke bottle glasses. I know what it is because it’s in style for cool guys to roll the sleeves of their t-shirts up over their biceps and one guy brushed past me, his bicep grazing across my bare arm for a moment and I know it all in a blinding flash of truth and terror and reality. That wonderful combination of hot, hard and smooth that is another man’s body.
Eleventh Grade: I came out to my sister and my mom last summer. My friends still don't know because I don't want them to think we are checking out the same guys. My psychology teacher asks what Freudian psychological stage gay men are trapped at and when one smart-ass says “Anal” the teacher laughs heartily and says “No, but I understand why you might think that”. I hate the teacher with such blinding pure rage and I realize that the rage feels good. The rage is something that other like me feel. They may all be in New York and San Francisco doing it in filthy alleys, but they feel it too.
Twelfth Grade: A guy in English Class during our persuasive essays bursts out that if he sees two guys holding hands he will beat the living shit out of them. They need to stay in the closet where they belong. Before the enraged English teacher can say anything a girl pipes up and talks about how that’s really fucked up. “Why do all ugly-ass straight men think that every gay man wants them?” I want to stand up and cheer. Instead, when asked to write my Autobiography for English class, I tell the truth. I call it The Difference and it is the Difference that dare not speak it's name. My teacher commends me for my courage, and I get an A. TO this day she is one of the true heroes of my life.
Thirteenth Grade (AKA Community College): Speech Class. I give an impassioned speech about gay rights and get a standing ovation. I smile and shudder at the statistic I found directly linking the way gays and lesbians are treated in America to the way Jews were treated in Germany right before the Holocaust.
P.S. Marc, the hottest guy at my Junior High that all the girls wanted, was making out with a guy at the Nineties the first time I went there. I don’t know if I will ever recover from the shock.
posted by Shakycam | 8:16 PM
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