Eighth Grade Limo

There were only about 20-something of us that graduated eighth grade together from our Catholic school. Less than half were boys. It was a day of expectation and celebration. I wanted some candy as a reward for making it through, so I walked to the drug store only a few blocks away.

As I walked home, a loud scream reached my ears, and I looked up from my Lick-A-Maid. An extended limousine passed by and hanging out of the windows hurling insults at me were all the other eighth grade boys. They secretly planned their celebration without me.

I ran home without looking behind me tears streaming down my face. My father forced the story out of me. He scoured the neighborhood for the limousine and boys and chewed them out for not even attempting to invite me. Their excuse: we were poor and probably couldn't've afforded it. Really, they all just hated the fag.

I still had to go to graduation that night. The pictures make me look happy, and I was somewhat happy. I was happy to finally be done with them. Only we weren't done. My father forced them to apologize.

Seeing his display of authority, I smiled. And the picture snapped.

Hormones Raging

  
She had the biggest breasts I had ever seen, and it made me hard. The kind of hard only a pre-pubescent boy knows. She was two years my senior and a little more knowledgeable in the ways of sexual exploration. We became fast friends.

My hormones raged, and soon our friendship morphed into lovers. We'd hide in the Green Room when all the other actors were on stage and the crew was busy building sets. She'd throw off her shirt and unsnap her bra. I'd start fondling her. We'd both giggle.

One time my hormones took control, and I was unzipping her pants. She said no. I couldn't and didn't listen. She slapped me.

I returned to my body, my hormones subsiding.

That was the end of our relationship. It was the beginning of my understanding of power and control. I was afraid. So was she.

The Undercover Condom Distributor

  
I love mischief. I wasn't popular in middle school. Who is? But I was desperate for friends. I went to the local drug store and stole condoms.

I was a huge kleptomaniac. It was exhilarating getting away with it, but looking back they probably knew and just didn't say anything. Such are the privileges of being white and growing up in suburbia: the authorities are way more forgiving.

I had no intention of using the condoms for sex, although I was highly sexually active. Instead, I used them as leverage for friendship. I was the condom dealer, except the other students used them for water balloons.

Somehow a tip of an exploded condom ended up in Sister Nancy's hands. That was the end of my days as an undercover condom distributor.

Faggot on the Bus

 

My parents were going out of town or something, and we were all shipped off to different friends of the family for the night. I got to go to his house. He was a huge geek, and I was excited to spend the night. He had a Commodore 64. He and I had gone to school together and were friends since Kindergarten. We were now in the sixth grade.

My mini vacation started agter school. I had to take the bus home with him. It was a different bus than the one I normally took home. I knew how to handle that bus. This one I did not.  

I jumped on the bus and energetically took a seat next to him. "I can't wait til we get to your house. This is going to be fun!"

He looked at me and said, "Find another seat. I don't want you sitting next to me. And I don't want you spending the night."

I moved to an empty seat ready to cry but holding it in fearing I would be teased if a tear dripped down my cheek. The other kids overheard our exchange, and that tear wasn't needed for the teasing to commence.

Suddenly, the bus broke out into "Jason and xxx sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First come love. Then, comes marriage. Then comes..."

"There is no way I'd kiss Jason," he erupted. "He's a faggot!"

Everyone started yelling "Jason is a faggot. Jason is a faggot," in that sing songy tone of childish taunting.

I moved to the front of the bus trying to escape their jeers. They just got louder. The bus driver drove.

"Jason is a faggot," continued until I got off the bus with him some 30 minutes later. We walked silently up the driveway.

"Look. I don't mind you staying over. I just didn't want you sitting next to me on the bus. I don't need any more teasing than you do," he said as we entered the house.

I was on the verge of tears. Anger bottled up. All I wanted was the night to be over and to be home in the chaos I knew. I wanted to scream and punch and fight.

Instead, I said, 'It's okay. We can still have fun. You wanna play a game?" I followed him inside.

In moments of anger or teasing or harassment, I am sometimes still that little boy that ignores his feelings and justifies, "It's okay." Especially with friends, colleagues, and peers.

I Hate Principals' Offices

 
I was suspended for fighting, but I didn't raise a fist. It happened at recess during my seventh or eighth grade year. Everyone was outside playing in their cliques. As usual, I was alone or with the girls from the other school.

(Side note: My Catholic school merged with another Catholic school the summer before my sixth grade year. This created two sets of cliques. As I had few friends from the school I was in, I made friends with the outcasts from the other school.)

I had a scathing tongue and loved gossip. It was my defense against all of the teasing and torment the other students did to me. I must have said something that pissed him off, but I can't remember what. I do remember him coming at me, chest puffed high, hands in fists.

"What the fuck did you say about me," he demanded.

"Uh...what?"

"What did you say about me?"

"Whatever," I said.

He swung. For all the fights I had at home, I was not a fighter at school, but I was strong. I grabbed his fist and held on tight. He swung his other fist. I grabbed that too. I used my weight and twisted him around so his back was against my chest, his arms crossed in front, my hands holding his fists tight. He screamed and squirmed trying to get free.

The nuns spotted us, and we were both sent to the Principal. Each on talked to the Principal in turn. We were both suspended.

"But...I didn't even hit him. He was swinging at me, and I was defending myself. Why am I suspended?"

"To be fair," or some other fucked up excuse like that was given. It wasn't a real answer.

I still hate principals' offices to this day.

May Day Is for Kisses

 
I was in the park celebrating with friends on a beautiful May Day as the puppets danced and the protesters cheered. I saw him down the hill, his skinny black jeans, knee-high combat boots, and tousled  hair recognizable from a distance. I hadn't seen him in years. We both grew distant after our ninth grade year filled with horror movies and questions. I wanted to kiss him then, but thought better of it. He left for art school in the eleventh grade.

He saw me too and approached smiling. I walked towards him distancing myself from my friends hoping for privacy in the crowded park. His smile faded, and he raised his hands in greeting, threw them around me, and squeezed -- an action he never would have done in high school. I melted and sighed.

"It's good seeing you. It has been too long. What've you been up to?" I asked trying to start a conversation.

He didn't respond verbally. Instead, he looked at me, leaned in close, and kissed me. The blood rushed to my face, and I felt warm, almost sun-burnt. I kissed back.

We walked hand in hand around the park that afternoon for about half an hour in mundane conversation between waited for kisses.

Then, it was over. He kissed my cheek and said good-bye. I didn't want it to end. It wasn't supposed to be more than a kiss and a confirmation.

I still occasionally  search for him.