tracks, waiting for a train
to oblivion. I read about a California
town where suicide-by-train was almost
like a party game for a while. Four kids,
separate occasions, jumped right in front
of moving commuters. Ask me, that’s
a seriously messed-up way to go out.
Then again, so is a rope around the neck.
At 4:16
The door opens and out comes a girl,
maybe thirteen, and the kind of thin
that can rarely be accomplished without
an eating disorder. Martha tells her
she’ll see her next week, then invites
me into her den with a jerk of her head.
How are you doing? She steps back
to let me by. It’s been a while.
Several weeks, in fact. I canceled
a few. “Forgot” a few more. Poor
excuses, as Mom would say. “I think
I’m solid, but apparently my parents
are worried about my currrent stability
because of an essay I wrote for school.”
She gestures for me to sit, goes
around to the far side of her desk
and extracts some papers from a pile.
You mean this. Your mom faxed it.
“Why don’t they just put it up on
a billboard and let the whole damn
town see it? Anyway, it’s not so awful.
I don’t get why it’s making people nervous.”
Martha Reminds Me
Of Mrs. Claus, or would, if I were
to believe the North Pole lore.
She clears her throat. I can understand
their concern, Matt, although it seems
to me there must have been a fair amount
of catharsis in what you wrote about Luke. . . .
I loved my brother more than anyone in the world. He was this amazing little person, dropped into my life by accident. Neither Mom nor Dad wanted another child, and I have no idea what random series of events created Luke, but I was the happiest kid ever when he came along. I’ve always had to work hard at keeping friends. I’m a smart-ass by nature and always manage to say the wrong thing. But no matter what words came out of my mouth, Luke was always there for me. Until he wasn’t.
Like most guys my age, I never really thought about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something shameful, something I sure as hell wouldn’t ever want to be. So when Luke first started talking about his sexuality, I thought he was putting me on. Luke was one hell of an athlete, and a primo basketball player. No way could he be gay; that’s what I believed. His wrists were anything but limp; they could throw three-pointers and layups all day.
All I knew was the usual stereotypical misinformation. And I was the only person Luke felt safe confessing to. So how did I react? “Don’t joke about shit like that,” I told him enough times so he went silent. But eventually, it became clear he wasn’t joking. Once I knew it was true, it vexed me at first. Then I got scared. For him, and for me. But the thing was, nothing had changed. Luke was the same brother he’d always been. It took a little time to understand that, a little longer to accept it.
It was a lot harder for my parents. One of the things I’ve always hated about jocks is the way they pick on kids who are weaker, and that is the general perception of homosexuals. My dad is a jock through and through. The idea of his son being gay totally messed with his head. What a waste, is what Dad thought, and, How could you do this to me? You could see it in his eyes when he looked at Luke. That pissed me off.
But what made me even angrier was how some supposed love-thy-neighbor Christians mocked my brother. A couple of them organized a regular hate campaign, and they were ruthless, relentless pricks. Eighth grade was a nightmare for Luke, who was afraid to go to his locker, where he would be pushed, poked, pantsed, and otherwise provoked. They’d follow him down the hall, calling him “fag” or “dick licker.” They’d offer their own dicks for him to lick. Hetero-freaks.
Almost worse was the online harrassment, which was not only cruel, but also deviously creative. You’d think churchy people would be embarrassed to download porn,then Photoshop someone’s face into
to oblivion. I read about a California
town where suicide-by-train was almost
like a party game for a while. Four kids,
separate occasions, jumped right in front
of moving commuters. Ask me, that’s
a seriously messed-up way to go out.
Then again, so is a rope around the neck.
At 4:16
The door opens and out comes a girl,
maybe thirteen, and the kind of thin
that can rarely be accomplished without
an eating disorder. Martha tells her
she’ll see her next week, then invites
me into her den with a jerk of her head.
How are you doing? She steps back
to let me by. It’s been a while.
Several weeks, in fact. I canceled
a few. “Forgot” a few more. Poor
excuses, as Mom would say. “I think
I’m solid, but apparently my parents
are worried about my currrent stability
because of an essay I wrote for school.”
She gestures for me to sit, goes
around to the far side of her desk
and extracts some papers from a pile.
You mean this. Your mom faxed it.
“Why don’t they just put it up on
a billboard and let the whole damn
town see it? Anyway, it’s not so awful.
I don’t get why it’s making people nervous.”
Martha Reminds Me
Of Mrs. Claus, or would, if I were
to believe the North Pole lore.
She clears her throat. I can understand
their concern, Matt, although it seems
to me there must have been a fair amount
of catharsis in what you wrote about Luke. . . .
I loved my brother more than anyone in the world. He was this amazing little person, dropped into my life by accident. Neither Mom nor Dad wanted another child, and I have no idea what random series of events created Luke, but I was the happiest kid ever when he came along. I’ve always had to work hard at keeping friends. I’m a smart-ass by nature and always manage to say the wrong thing. But no matter what words came out of my mouth, Luke was always there for me. Until he wasn’t.
Like most guys my age, I never really thought about what it meant to be gay, other than it was something shameful, something I sure as hell wouldn’t ever want to be. So when Luke first started talking about his sexuality, I thought he was putting me on. Luke was one hell of an athlete, and a primo basketball player. No way could he be gay; that’s what I believed. His wrists were anything but limp; they could throw three-pointers and layups all day.
All I knew was the usual stereotypical misinformation. And I was the only person Luke felt safe confessing to. So how did I react? “Don’t joke about shit like that,” I told him enough times so he went silent. But eventually, it became clear he wasn’t joking. Once I knew it was true, it vexed me at first. Then I got scared. For him, and for me. But the thing was, nothing had changed. Luke was the same brother he’d always been. It took a little time to understand that, a little longer to accept it.
It was a lot harder for my parents. One of the things I’ve always hated about jocks is the way they pick on kids who are weaker, and that is the general perception of homosexuals. My dad is a jock through and through. The idea of his son being gay totally messed with his head. What a waste, is what Dad thought, and, How could you do this to me? You could see it in his eyes when he looked at Luke. That pissed me off.
But what made me even angrier was how some supposed love-thy-neighbor Christians mocked my brother. A couple of them organized a regular hate campaign, and they were ruthless, relentless pricks. Eighth grade was a nightmare for Luke, who was afraid to go to his locker, where he would be pushed, poked, pantsed, and otherwise provoked. They’d follow him down the hall, calling him “fag” or “dick licker.” They’d offer their own dicks for him to lick. Hetero-freaks.
Almost worse was the online harrassment, which was not only cruel, but also deviously creative. You’d think churchy people would be embarrassed to download porn,then Photoshop someone’s face into
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