I have one simple question for anyone who may be reading this. Why does something(s) that happened over 30 years ago in a place far, far away bother me to this day? Does shit really have to be so complicated. Before I go any further, this probably won’t be like other posts. This one might travel around a bit and get lost here and there.
Infant me: I don’t seem to be where I belong. There was a detour or a change of plans somewhere along the way that I seem to have missed. I would just rather stick around here until this mess is sorted out. No? Ok, then I’ll go home with these nice people. I hope. Oopsie!
What?! -righteous indignation-It’s my fault that you don’t do things even close to when you say you will. There are still at least 10 potholes in the driveway that aren’t filled. 50! If he hits that bump…In the air I go. My first date was with a tree branch. My second was with the 3-point hitch on the back of the truck. Finally, my thrid was in the local ER getting some 178 stitches.
Wait. What do you mean, I’m different. I have stitches. They have to be wrapped in guaze for now. White noise filled the silence. Once they could take the gauze off, the exposed stitches had to be kept moist. Ointment-glistens like the sun. Really makes those stitches sparkle. Did nothing for my being different.
Valentine’s Day. I’m excited. I made everyone cards to exchange. First grade-Michael, how many cards did you get? -25. Excellent. Second grade, Michael, how many cards did you get? 18(25) Really? You must have misplaced them somewhere. Why don’t you retrace your steps and find them. -Why don’t you suck my cock? Wonderful. Third Grade, Michael, how many cards did you get? 14(25) Moving right along.
Yay! The Cub Scout’s model race car. I have my kit and the tools I need. I think I’ll get started on it. Oh fuck! Here comes dad. This is going to be anything but fun. No, give me the plane thingy back. I was using just like you are. Why are you yelling at me? I put the wheels in right. ‘Jim, leave him alone.’ He left after a couple of parting jabs, both physical and emotional. It didn’t last long, but at least I had enough time to paint the damned car. With the paint wet, he couldn’t do anything else to it. It was done. All I had left to do was glue the ‘dome’ on top. I left it to dry. Race day came and the little car blew the competition away. I was extatic. It was the first time I had actually won something. Wait, there’s a problem? Weights, what weights? I didn’t put them there. I don’t know how they, I looked at dad and was filled with anger. I threw the car at him and stormed out of the building crying. It wasn’t the last time he sabotaged a project of mine.
{Each one of these little things opens up a new set of doors with things behind them that I don’t necessarily want to open.}
Bunnies! My first 4-H project that I took to the county fair. I had French Flop-eared bunnies and a white-satin species. They were gorgeous. They had babies that were even more gorgeous. The judges even liked them and how tame they were. My dad hated them. All they did was eat food. They weren’t good for anything else. However, they won awards at the fair. I would go out to the barn to play with them every day so that they were all tame. One day Mom took me shopping for something or other. When we got home, I went to pet the bunnies and they were all gone. I asked Mom about it and she didn’t know anything about them (she claimed.) So, then I asked dad. ‘I told you. They’re worthless animals. All they do is eat and cost money. I slaughtered them all and took them to the meat packing plant. My heart sank. They were my bunnies, not his. I don’t think I said much of anything to him for several days. In future years, I took pigs to the fair. They didn’t fare much better with my father either. He didn’t kill any of them, but he wasn’t nice to them either. I remember one year when we were trying to get them onto the truck, one of them wasn’t cooperating, so he decided that it would be a good idea to jump up on its back and jump up and down on him until he climbed the shoot and got into the bed of the truck. That was unreal. His face was purple and red and he was screaming, swearing and shouting. The pig was squealing bloody murder. I lost it.
Ever since third or fourth grade I can hear them. Do you wanna play? We have a game that we think you’ll like. Wanna know what it’s called? Smear the QUEER! And, guess who’s the queer…Every day on the playground from 3rd-6th grade. Teachers knew. A couple of them tried to keep the other boys away from me. Most didn’t give a fuck. Every day-Smear the queer. You’re the queer. We’re gonna kill you, FAGGOT.
Faggot? What’s that? The dictionary says queer is different and then that a faggot is a bundle of sticks. I was absolutely confused by this because I had no idea what being different had in common with bundle of sticks. Even on my biggest trips, I still can’t reconcile that one. Finally, one of them spoke, an ultrabratty kid-you cornhole and we all know it. -Now, listen here shit for brains. You’re moving into dangerous territory. However, now that I think about it, something is different. I see how my friends look at girls. I’d love to be able to look at girls the way that they do. I can’t. I don’t see them that way. I see them as human. I can tell whether one is attractive or not, but I don’t view females romantically. But I begged a deaf god to take this curse from me once I understand what they were saying. Once I understood that what they were saying was right. I was too busy looking at the boys. Different, unpopular and gay-your life is over now.
For the next three years, I would hear the same basic thing(s) day in and day out whether in PE or at recess, Queer, Fag, Faggot. The bus ride home was always hell. I was also peppered with Wether or not I was staying for cheerleading practice, from time to time too. Oddly, beyond the name calling, having my gender questioned at 10 may have been an issue. It always bothered me more when they’d ask if I was staying for cheerleading practice than when they’d call me names. I’m sure it’s something with my dad telling me I can’t do anything other than ‘women’s work’ and now at school someone else is saying that I’m not male. My 10 y/o psyche must have been a little frayed. A wrist and an arm got broken on one bus trip home. They weren’t mine.
I’ll stop here for now. Jr High is was a completely different animal.
cazandoconejos 