October 13, 2011
Spoons
So I got a new novel/short story idea and I just wanted to post it here in the event that I ever got really writer happy or something and I wanted to pursue it. So basically, we're not allowed to carry spoons around in school because they're considered potential weapons. LONG story. But basically, I started thinking. If spoons can be used as a weapon, what else will schools consider a weapon? What would happen if schools went too far in efforts to keep their students safe to the point where the student began to be disfigured "for their own good"? I know, it sounds super Kurt Vonnegut-y, but you know what, it's a valid point. What if shoelaces, belts, forks, knives, pens and pencils were all banned from a school environment? And what if that was just the tip of the iceberg? I'm telling you, this could be a fantastic writing idea and a perfect story opportunity. If I ever have the time, I'll post an opening paragraph or two. And if this makes NO sense to you, just be glad you can keep your spoons. =)
OneWordaDayforOneMinute: Compassion
"Just have some compassion, will you?" I mean, I know she had this suck it up policy and life and and all, but now was not the time for that bull crap. I try not to swear, I do. And I mean, his parents just died and you're asking him that already? I loved her death, but I swear, sometimes she could just be so difficult to deal with. I don't even know why I do.
October 11, 2011
More Sneak Peek
October 29, 2010
Dear mom,
I have something really important that I want to tell you. Well, two things.
I know that I mentioned that I would tell dad that I'm gay soon. I've tried to a few times, but I always got too nervous. I would be sitting with him, eating dinner or watching a game, and it would be on the tip of my tongue. At the last second, my nerves would always tie up and I'd be completely unable to say anything about it. But, I finally did it. We were watching the football game two Sundays ago in the den. I just had a feeling that I needed to get it over with. I needed to have the pressure lifted off my shoulders. I was so tired of having to hide Isaac like he was my cell phone in class. You're allowed to use it as no one else finds out sort of thing. Plus, I tell dad everything. It was ripping me apart inside that I had to keep such a huge part of my life away from him. This was it. As soon as the game went to commercial, I turned to him and stammered, “Dad. There's something I really need to tell you.”
“What is it, Elijah?” He seemed concerned and I almost backed out of it, but I couldn't. This was it. I had to do it. I wouldn't back out again.
“Dad,” I started, struggling to find the right words. I began to sweat and I fumbled with my fingers for a second, “I know I'm your only son and all, but--. Dad, I'm gay. I like boys.”
Dad put down his newspaper, sensing that he was beginning what would be a very serious discussion. He adjusted his glasses and then looked at me straight in the eyes, “Son. You know all of the times that I've told you how much I love you and how much you mean to me no matter what?”
“Yeah, I do,” I responded nervously. It was my dad's way of telling me he loved me when I was growing up. I'm not sure if he did it when you were still around or if it was something he started to do once you left.
He looked at me again sternly and I became very nervous, “Eli, I meant it and I still do. Whatever or whoever you are, I'll just have to accept it.” Without thinking, I hugged my dad and he continued, “Now, it'll take me a little bit of time to get over the shock, but I think it's manageable. You'll still watch the games with me, right? This doesn't change that?” He laughed as he said the last part, a sign that he was trying to lighten up the mood.
“Of course, Dad. I'll still watch the games with you. I'm still me. I'm still your game buddy,” I laughed, “And dad, it's okay if you need time. I don't expect you to go out right now and buy a rainbow flag to hang from the porch. But, dad, I'm really glad you reacted this way. I was worried...”
“I don't want to be that person,” he smiled, his eyes shadowed with a slight feeling of remorse, “I already drove your mother away. I don't you to go away too. I wouldn't care if you turned out to be a green fungus eating space alien from a distant planet. I love you.”
“Aw, thanks dad. That's gross, but sweet. I love you too.” I hugged him from across the couch, and he was a bit surprised at first. We didn't hug much. But he hugged me back.
“No problem. Now what's his name, then?”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend. You've been acting happier than a dog with a lifetime's supply of bones. Now, what's his name?”
I laughed nervously, thinking of his blonde hair and big green eyes, “Isaac.”
“Okay,” my dad thought about it for a second and then continued. He still had a smile on his face, “And when do I get to meet Mr. Isaac?”
I was shocked, but happy. I stammered, “You want to meet Isaac?”
“Yes. Find out when he can make it to dinner and he can come over. Now, are you two--?”
“Dad, we don't have to go there. But no, not yet at least.”
He rubbed the top of my head, messing up my hair, “Okay, son. Now let's watch the rest of the game. Sound good?” After that, I felt a huge amount of weight taken off my shoulders. I could breathe. It felt good, and I was the happiest I'd ever been as we watched the rest of the game. Dad still loves me, and by now, he's really okay with it. At least he hasn't given any indication that he's not.
As soon as the game ended, I went upstairs and called Isaac. It felt good to hear his voice on the other line, “Eli? What's up?”
“I told him, Isaac.”
“Told who what?” Isaac paused to think. I was going to tell him, but then he said, “Holy shit, did you tell your dad tonight?”
“I did. I told him.”
“Eli, congrats. You're out. How did it go?”
“Really good, actually. I'm so happy. He still loves me. It's not exactly going to be entirely easy, but he understands. He asked about you.”
Isaac laughed, “He did? He knew you were seeing someone? Is he okay with it?'
“He wants to meet you. As soon as possible.”
“Okay. Are you doing anything next Saturday?”
“No, we'll be home watching the game. It's a date?”
“Oh, Eli. You're so cute. Yes, it's a date. I can't wait to meet Mr. Greene.”
“Thanks, Isaac. See you tomorrow.” He told me goodbye and I hung up the phone. I ran downstairs and asked if it was okay with dad. He said of course and told me he couldn't wait to meet Isaac. It was a good feeling, and I made plans for the next day.
I told my school about my homosexuality (I both hate and love that word) today. It was time to do so. Dad knew, and he accepted me. That's all that mattered. Now, I wanted to just be open about it. I don't like to keep my feelings all bottled up, and I'm pretty sure that's quite obvious. I felt so much better anyhow just from telling dad. I knew that I only needed to tell a small group of people. News like mine is very potent in the school environment. I decided to make an announcement to my homeroom when the teacher stepped out of the class to make copies. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I went to the front of the room and stood behind her podium. I just needed to get this over with.
Almost yelling, I announced, “Homeroom. Can I have your attention for one second?” Everyone immediately stopped talking and stared at me. I told Isaac that I was going to come out that day, but I didn't tell him how. I saw him looking at me and he mouthed, “Now? Here?” from his seat. I smiled and he put his head down on the desk. I got nervous again. I don't know why I get nervous, but I had the feeling it had to do with the fact that two words would change my life forever. I continued, but my voice was shaking, “Guys, I have something important to tell you guys. I'm gay.” No one said anything immediately, so I sat back down in my seat and took out my binder.
Isaac picked his head up and looked at me. He whispered, “You're insane. I wish I was more like you.” I laughed. During class, I caught pretty much every person in our class look at me at one point. I saw a few people look at me and then whisper to their friends. I saw a few people texting and I couldn't help but wonder if it was my news that was being wirelessly spread throughout the entire school. It must've been because by lunch, our entire lunch table knew. I'd been getting looks in the hallway all day. I did my best to ignore them. Isaac did his best to tell me I did the right thing. I wasn't so sure anymore what was right and what was wrong. Lunch, however, was an unpredicted test of my power to control myself in a public setting.
October 10, 2011
OneWordaDayforOneMinute: stacks
I looked around the room and saw all of the stacks of books that lined the walls. I couldn't imagine someone living there and not surprisingly, there was no room. A single window provided a flood of natural light. I felt someone walk up behind me, breathing down my shoulder. I knew I wasn't supposed to be in there, but I hadn't cared. I turned around, not knowing who would be there as I turned.
October 9, 2011
Letters to Mom Update:
My goal is to finish it this week. I need to finish this because for NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month) I am delving into the world of the sequel. I want to make a lot of progress because then I have to continue editing and writing my outline to submit to the Scholastic PUSH imprint contest this year. Basically, I have a lot coming up, so I NEED to finish it. There's not much left to cover really. All resolution, so it's definitely within reason. No naps this week though.
OneWordaDayforOneMinute: iron
Well, I guess we better go out to the mill again today. He knew there was no point. No one used iron anymore. His father was just living a wasted dream. Tim knew that they needed to start working with steel instead of iron, but his father refused to listen. He wanted to keep the old ways. Tim knew this was backwards thinking, but what could he say? This was his father.
The Underground - Satire/Reflection Piece
I juts like this one a lot:
What is the underground?
For all intents and purposes, it is hell. You can feel the heat immediately as you begin to descend into its dark and slimy depths. The stairs are covered in soot, dust and other long-forgotten waste. Once below the surface, it becomes clear how much the temperature has increased. Beginning to sweat and looking around, you take in the dark and dismal nature of this place. Fluorescent lights provide dim lighting overhead. There is an eerie lack of natural lighting. The tile has been stained from its original white to a depressing gray.
Perhaps a little confused, you stumble over to one of the numerous cold, metal machines lining the walls. Each person that goes down into the underground must receive a special pass granting him or her access beyond its gates. By following a series of simple instructions on the screen, you are issued your ticket.
Continuing to sweat, you join the masses of other people and approach the gates. Looking around, it is easy to see that there are a variety of people in the crowd. Some are parents toting along small children who grip their hands tightly, afraid to let go and be lost in the chaos. Many are old, several of them dressed in formal attire and carrying their briefcases. Others are teenagers who look around with the same disaffected stare that all teenagers carry.
When you approach the gate, you are prompted to swipe your card and enter. Now, you have entered the chaos. Signs and stairwells indicate a variety of locations. Colors and numbers indicate the different paths that you might take in order to reach your destination. Some are more convenient than others. Most won’t get you where you want to go at all. After much thought, consideration, instinct and just a tad of luck, you descend one of the stairwells and wait on the platform with the other passengers.
The platforms are even dirtier than upstairs. On every surface, a thin layer of soot and grit sits patiently to be washed away. It is even more poorly lit and a line indicates the point in which you should use caution, lest you want to be swept away when one of the vessels approaches. Below the platform, mysterious creatures creep and crawl in the shadows of the overwhelming darkness. Almost a foot long, they appear to be a mysterious mixture of two rodent species, bordering on being some type of mythical creature. You turn away, appalled by the sight of one as it steps into the light
Looking around, the other passengers avoid contact with you. They all carry the same dismal, disinterested expression upon their faces. In the distance, you can hear a slight rumbling, a tremor. It becomes louder and louder as the ground beneath you begins to shake more and more. In a flash, a silver vessel appears in front of you. Headlights on the front help it find its way through the darkness. As the cars pass by, you peer through the windows at the inside. More people with the same disinterested expressions.
Eventually, the vessel slows to a complete stop and with some hesitation, the doors open. The vessels are silver, but are layered in the same fine layer of dust and soot as everything else.
As you step inside, you are shocked at the sudden change of temperature. You feel the icy sting of death as you peer around for an empty seat. In the corner, one seems to be waiting for you. Like all the others, it is a faded orange. The lights are brighter now, and you finally rest. The doors close. The ground begins to shake again and in an instant, you are traveling off into the unknown. You are in the underground.
What is the underground?
For all intents and purposes, it is hell. You can feel the heat immediately as you begin to descend into its dark and slimy depths. The stairs are covered in soot, dust and other long-forgotten waste. Once below the surface, it becomes clear how much the temperature has increased. Beginning to sweat and looking around, you take in the dark and dismal nature of this place. Fluorescent lights provide dim lighting overhead. There is an eerie lack of natural lighting. The tile has been stained from its original white to a depressing gray.
Perhaps a little confused, you stumble over to one of the numerous cold, metal machines lining the walls. Each person that goes down into the underground must receive a special pass granting him or her access beyond its gates. By following a series of simple instructions on the screen, you are issued your ticket.
Continuing to sweat, you join the masses of other people and approach the gates. Looking around, it is easy to see that there are a variety of people in the crowd. Some are parents toting along small children who grip their hands tightly, afraid to let go and be lost in the chaos. Many are old, several of them dressed in formal attire and carrying their briefcases. Others are teenagers who look around with the same disaffected stare that all teenagers carry.
When you approach the gate, you are prompted to swipe your card and enter. Now, you have entered the chaos. Signs and stairwells indicate a variety of locations. Colors and numbers indicate the different paths that you might take in order to reach your destination. Some are more convenient than others. Most won’t get you where you want to go at all. After much thought, consideration, instinct and just a tad of luck, you descend one of the stairwells and wait on the platform with the other passengers.
The platforms are even dirtier than upstairs. On every surface, a thin layer of soot and grit sits patiently to be washed away. It is even more poorly lit and a line indicates the point in which you should use caution, lest you want to be swept away when one of the vessels approaches. Below the platform, mysterious creatures creep and crawl in the shadows of the overwhelming darkness. Almost a foot long, they appear to be a mysterious mixture of two rodent species, bordering on being some type of mythical creature. You turn away, appalled by the sight of one as it steps into the light
Looking around, the other passengers avoid contact with you. They all carry the same dismal, disinterested expression upon their faces. In the distance, you can hear a slight rumbling, a tremor. It becomes louder and louder as the ground beneath you begins to shake more and more. In a flash, a silver vessel appears in front of you. Headlights on the front help it find its way through the darkness. As the cars pass by, you peer through the windows at the inside. More people with the same disinterested expressions.
Eventually, the vessel slows to a complete stop and with some hesitation, the doors open. The vessels are silver, but are layered in the same fine layer of dust and soot as everything else.
As you step inside, you are shocked at the sudden change of temperature. You feel the icy sting of death as you peer around for an empty seat. In the corner, one seems to be waiting for you. Like all the others, it is a faded orange. The lights are brighter now, and you finally rest. The doors close. The ground begins to shake again and in an instant, you are traveling off into the unknown. You are in the underground.
October 7, 2011
October 6, 2011
OneWordaDayforOneMinute: setting
Okay, so I put the forks and knives in all their fancy positions. God, what's the point of this?!? Do you really think anyone cares where their salad fork is, or perhaps the soup spoon?!? Why make it complicated? I don't want all of this fancy shit... I just want a simple fork, a simple knife and a simple spoon. A plate would be nice too, but I don't need a whole pile of them either. God, it's just dinner...
Pretty in Punk
Here's an idea for a book I had a while ago about a football player becoming a punk. I just love it, so here you go. Three scenes:
I've always been that average, middle of the line kind of guy. In terms of food, I would be the equivalent of a simple cheese sandwich. I'm not super fancy like a shrimp cocktail or spicy like a juicy taco, nor am I bland like crackers or oatmeal. I'm just in the middle. Of course, that all changed once I met Ivy.
When I was fifteen, my family moved across the country. We left the warm, bustling streets of San Francisco for a small suburban town in northern New Jersey. I left behind trolley cars for my family's new SUV. I left behind our bayside apartment for a quaint two storied house with a pool and a yard. I left behind all of my also average friends and went to a place where I would be that kid. The kid with the weird clothes and a slight accent.
I didn't feel much when we first landed in Newark Airport other than a little jetlag. Things were now three whole hours out of whack, something that would take some time to get used to. My little sister had no concept of really moving. She was only five, so she had few friends and worries left behind in sunny California. I, however, was a different story. I left fifteen years of memories on the other side of the continent.
It didn't hit me that we had moved until my family picked up our luggage. My mom found her red suitcase rather quickly, which was much easier to find than me and my dad's plain black ones. Checking the luggage tag, I pulled my suitcase off the conveyor belt. These were my clothes, probably still smelling like San Francisco. I recalled when my mother had first told me we were moving to New Jersey. I wasn’t too happy about. I’m normally a very mellow person. I rarely cry, if ever and I just kind of absorb everything. I’m not a complete blob, but I’m just kind of in the middle with that too. I knew there was nothing I could say or do to change their minds, so I just didn’t bother. It was that simple.
Besides, my mom is a very stubborn lady. I took after her side of the family, the Italian side, usually. I had dark hair, but pale skin and light eyes like everyone else that I encountered at those family meetings. Even at family reunions, I was just average. She had a fiery temper, especially when you upset her, so I usually tried my best to steer clear of her wrath. That’s where I began to take after my dad. We’re both exceptionally smart and athletic, the two areas where I am definitely not average, although I probably wouldn’t mind if I was. He was a mellow person; Irish, grew up with twelve siblings, right in the middle of all of them. He had to be mellow just to survive in that house hold.
Anyway, I recalled the last day I was in San Francisco. I rode out to the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike and then stopped at the middle. I wasn’t going to jump, I swear, I just wanted to take one last look at the bay. A slight fog was descending over the waters and I watched all the boats pass underneath for about ten minutes. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was leaving, and now I was pulling up to my new house in New Jersey. It was okay. It was average. Just like me.
“Have you ever put eyeliner on?” Ivy asked me, a mysterious smile forming on her lips. I looked at her black covered eyes, staying mesmerized for just a second and then shook my head slowly. She gave me a quick nod and then pulled out a black studded bag from her nightstand. With her long black nails, she unzipped it and pulled out two things: what appeared to be a black colored pencil with a cap and a zippo lighter.
“Wait,” I began to protest, standing up off of her bed. I began to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but still a part of me wanted her to put the black make up. I looked around the room. The red walls, her black furniture, the hardcore punk music in the background. Everything sunk in. I felt comfortable in this room, but I was uncomfortable about everything going on. Simply, I was just very confused. I knew my mom, my new friends, the football team, they all wouldn’t approve of this behavior, but everything was just so tempting.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, beginning to pout a little bit. She flipped her hair to the side, exposing the pink and red strands underneath. She had told me she was naturally blonde, but I couldn’t picture it. She looked much more suited to have the black, pink and red style she did. I could tell from her eyes that she was excited to do this. I finally shook my head, giving into the immense temptation and followed Ivy into the bathroom. She noticed that I began to get nervous once we walked into the bathroom. “Just relax. It’s no big deal,” she assured me. “It’s easy. It’ll take five minutes.” I gulped and she giggled in response. Then, she patted the counter, signaling for me to sit on it. I followed her silent orders as she uncapped the pencil. Taking the lighter, she melted the end of it. Once it was melted to her standards, she began to paint the black goo onto my upper eyelids.
It was not hot like I had expected, but rather comfortably warm instead. It felt good. Once she was done with the top of my eyes, she stepped back and smiled. Then, after remelting the stick to her satisfaction, she began to cover the bottom as well. Instead of spontaneously smearing it on like she had with the tops, she simply drew a single smooth line underneath. Once she was done, she fixed all of the mistakes by rubbing the excess off with her fingers and then, she took me by the shoulders and turned me so that I would be able to see myself in the mirror.
I was half scared and half in complete shock. Either way, I was absolutely speechless. I barely recognized myself, but in a good way. I really liked it. I hadn’t felt this comfortable since I was in San Francisco. She smiled at her work and I sensed that she knew the change that was beginning to take place. I liked the eyeliner; it looked amazing, but deep down I knew that others wouldn’t feel the same way. As much as I hated to doubt myself, I knew that it was true. As I was thinking, Ivy jumped up on the counter next to me and asked, “Do you like it?’
I began to answer, “Yeah, but--“
“You’re worried about what other people will think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, don’t be,” she looked at me with her deep brown eyes and I felt their warmth. I knew she was right, I’d known it all along, but deep down, I just knew I couldn’t be like this.
“Ivy,” my doubts started, “I have a mother who I like to respect me and will flip out if she sees me wearing more makeup than her. An entire football team to deal with.”
“I understand. But are you happy like this?”
“Yes! I haven’t been this happy since I was in San Francisco,” I started to tear up a little bit when I mentioned home, “I love it. I love everything that you’ve been introducing me to, but what if they don’t like it?” I began to cry now, something I had never done in front of a girl before. She looked at me for a second and then embraced me tightly, whispering that everything would be okay in my ear. I kept crying until I finally realized something, and then I looked at her and said, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Show me everything.”
She looked at me with sad eyes, our eye-liner covered eyes meeting for a brief second. “I will soon, but not today. Now let’s clean up you eyes and get you home. It’s starting to get dark outside.” I nodded and followed as she helped me get down from off the counter.
I looked once more in the mirror in my room. Ivy had taught me everything she knew now, and it came down to this. First, I would have to get past my mother and then all the people at school. At least she would be there to help. I couldn’t help but notice how different I looked. It had been nearly six months since my family had moved from San Francisco. When I came, I had been average. Insignificant even. I came with the simple straight black hair cut, no eye makeup, plain clothes and nothing to draw attention to myself. Now, though, I had been completely transformed into someone who was not average. But, I was completely comfortable with my new self. It had taken me a long time to realize it, but this is who I am. Punk rock came from California. I came from California. It just worked.
My black hair had been tousled (Ivy taught me that word and I love it so much!) and I smeared black eyeliner all over my eyes, allowing for my blue eyes to sparkle underneath with excitement. I was wearing a black button down shirt and black skinny jeans, complete with a studded belt. My converse sneakers were comfy and I appeared to have a ‘shape’ now, which I was still undecided as to whether it was a good or bad thing. Finally, in my ears were new stud earrings. It hurt, but it was worth it since they looked amazing. Ivy showed me how to accessorize with a small fortune’s worth of different bracelets and rings. Unlike two months ago, I was now prepared to show that world that this was who I am.
My mom was in the kitchen, just like she is every morning. This morning, I found I was nervous and had a difficult time walking to the kitchen. Finally, I stepped into the doorway and said good morning to my mother. When my mother saw me, she had nearly fainted. She sat down at the table and asked me angrily, “Patrick! What is this? What have you done?”
“Mom,” I told her, crying to calm her down, “Don’t be upset. Listen, since we’ve got here, I’ve been trying to figure out who I am. I love punk rock. I want to be like this.”
“What is this ‘punk rock’ nonsense that you speak of? I don’t understand! You look like a fairy! You think I want my son to dress like this?”
“Mom, I’m your son. Can’t you accept that this is who I am?”
“No,” she put her hands on her face, “Patrick. That was the wrong thing to say. You know I love you, but this is too much right now. I need to think about it.”
“Okay, mom,” I yelled back, but I was furious. I realized I didn’t care if my mom liked the way I dressed or not. This was me and she would have to figure out how to deal with it. All I knew was that I couldn’t wait to see Ivy. Because with Ivy, I knew that she would understand. Without looking back, I opened the door and left, slamming it behind me. I was me now and I couldn't wait for everyone to see.
I've always been that average, middle of the line kind of guy. In terms of food, I would be the equivalent of a simple cheese sandwich. I'm not super fancy like a shrimp cocktail or spicy like a juicy taco, nor am I bland like crackers or oatmeal. I'm just in the middle. Of course, that all changed once I met Ivy.
When I was fifteen, my family moved across the country. We left the warm, bustling streets of San Francisco for a small suburban town in northern New Jersey. I left behind trolley cars for my family's new SUV. I left behind our bayside apartment for a quaint two storied house with a pool and a yard. I left behind all of my also average friends and went to a place where I would be that kid. The kid with the weird clothes and a slight accent.
I didn't feel much when we first landed in Newark Airport other than a little jetlag. Things were now three whole hours out of whack, something that would take some time to get used to. My little sister had no concept of really moving. She was only five, so she had few friends and worries left behind in sunny California. I, however, was a different story. I left fifteen years of memories on the other side of the continent.
It didn't hit me that we had moved until my family picked up our luggage. My mom found her red suitcase rather quickly, which was much easier to find than me and my dad's plain black ones. Checking the luggage tag, I pulled my suitcase off the conveyor belt. These were my clothes, probably still smelling like San Francisco. I recalled when my mother had first told me we were moving to New Jersey. I wasn’t too happy about. I’m normally a very mellow person. I rarely cry, if ever and I just kind of absorb everything. I’m not a complete blob, but I’m just kind of in the middle with that too. I knew there was nothing I could say or do to change their minds, so I just didn’t bother. It was that simple.
Besides, my mom is a very stubborn lady. I took after her side of the family, the Italian side, usually. I had dark hair, but pale skin and light eyes like everyone else that I encountered at those family meetings. Even at family reunions, I was just average. She had a fiery temper, especially when you upset her, so I usually tried my best to steer clear of her wrath. That’s where I began to take after my dad. We’re both exceptionally smart and athletic, the two areas where I am definitely not average, although I probably wouldn’t mind if I was. He was a mellow person; Irish, grew up with twelve siblings, right in the middle of all of them. He had to be mellow just to survive in that house hold.
Anyway, I recalled the last day I was in San Francisco. I rode out to the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike and then stopped at the middle. I wasn’t going to jump, I swear, I just wanted to take one last look at the bay. A slight fog was descending over the waters and I watched all the boats pass underneath for about ten minutes. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was leaving, and now I was pulling up to my new house in New Jersey. It was okay. It was average. Just like me.
“Have you ever put eyeliner on?” Ivy asked me, a mysterious smile forming on her lips. I looked at her black covered eyes, staying mesmerized for just a second and then shook my head slowly. She gave me a quick nod and then pulled out a black studded bag from her nightstand. With her long black nails, she unzipped it and pulled out two things: what appeared to be a black colored pencil with a cap and a zippo lighter.
“Wait,” I began to protest, standing up off of her bed. I began to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but still a part of me wanted her to put the black make up. I looked around the room. The red walls, her black furniture, the hardcore punk music in the background. Everything sunk in. I felt comfortable in this room, but I was uncomfortable about everything going on. Simply, I was just very confused. I knew my mom, my new friends, the football team, they all wouldn’t approve of this behavior, but everything was just so tempting.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, beginning to pout a little bit. She flipped her hair to the side, exposing the pink and red strands underneath. She had told me she was naturally blonde, but I couldn’t picture it. She looked much more suited to have the black, pink and red style she did. I could tell from her eyes that she was excited to do this. I finally shook my head, giving into the immense temptation and followed Ivy into the bathroom. She noticed that I began to get nervous once we walked into the bathroom. “Just relax. It’s no big deal,” she assured me. “It’s easy. It’ll take five minutes.” I gulped and she giggled in response. Then, she patted the counter, signaling for me to sit on it. I followed her silent orders as she uncapped the pencil. Taking the lighter, she melted the end of it. Once it was melted to her standards, she began to paint the black goo onto my upper eyelids.
It was not hot like I had expected, but rather comfortably warm instead. It felt good. Once she was done with the top of my eyes, she stepped back and smiled. Then, after remelting the stick to her satisfaction, she began to cover the bottom as well. Instead of spontaneously smearing it on like she had with the tops, she simply drew a single smooth line underneath. Once she was done, she fixed all of the mistakes by rubbing the excess off with her fingers and then, she took me by the shoulders and turned me so that I would be able to see myself in the mirror.
I was half scared and half in complete shock. Either way, I was absolutely speechless. I barely recognized myself, but in a good way. I really liked it. I hadn’t felt this comfortable since I was in San Francisco. She smiled at her work and I sensed that she knew the change that was beginning to take place. I liked the eyeliner; it looked amazing, but deep down I knew that others wouldn’t feel the same way. As much as I hated to doubt myself, I knew that it was true. As I was thinking, Ivy jumped up on the counter next to me and asked, “Do you like it?’
I began to answer, “Yeah, but--“
“You’re worried about what other people will think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, don’t be,” she looked at me with her deep brown eyes and I felt their warmth. I knew she was right, I’d known it all along, but deep down, I just knew I couldn’t be like this.
“Ivy,” my doubts started, “I have a mother who I like to respect me and will flip out if she sees me wearing more makeup than her. An entire football team to deal with.”
“I understand. But are you happy like this?”
“Yes! I haven’t been this happy since I was in San Francisco,” I started to tear up a little bit when I mentioned home, “I love it. I love everything that you’ve been introducing me to, but what if they don’t like it?” I began to cry now, something I had never done in front of a girl before. She looked at me for a second and then embraced me tightly, whispering that everything would be okay in my ear. I kept crying until I finally realized something, and then I looked at her and said, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Show me everything.”
She looked at me with sad eyes, our eye-liner covered eyes meeting for a brief second. “I will soon, but not today. Now let’s clean up you eyes and get you home. It’s starting to get dark outside.” I nodded and followed as she helped me get down from off the counter.
I looked once more in the mirror in my room. Ivy had taught me everything she knew now, and it came down to this. First, I would have to get past my mother and then all the people at school. At least she would be there to help. I couldn’t help but notice how different I looked. It had been nearly six months since my family had moved from San Francisco. When I came, I had been average. Insignificant even. I came with the simple straight black hair cut, no eye makeup, plain clothes and nothing to draw attention to myself. Now, though, I had been completely transformed into someone who was not average. But, I was completely comfortable with my new self. It had taken me a long time to realize it, but this is who I am. Punk rock came from California. I came from California. It just worked.
My black hair had been tousled (Ivy taught me that word and I love it so much!) and I smeared black eyeliner all over my eyes, allowing for my blue eyes to sparkle underneath with excitement. I was wearing a black button down shirt and black skinny jeans, complete with a studded belt. My converse sneakers were comfy and I appeared to have a ‘shape’ now, which I was still undecided as to whether it was a good or bad thing. Finally, in my ears were new stud earrings. It hurt, but it was worth it since they looked amazing. Ivy showed me how to accessorize with a small fortune’s worth of different bracelets and rings. Unlike two months ago, I was now prepared to show that world that this was who I am.
My mom was in the kitchen, just like she is every morning. This morning, I found I was nervous and had a difficult time walking to the kitchen. Finally, I stepped into the doorway and said good morning to my mother. When my mother saw me, she had nearly fainted. She sat down at the table and asked me angrily, “Patrick! What is this? What have you done?”
“Mom,” I told her, crying to calm her down, “Don’t be upset. Listen, since we’ve got here, I’ve been trying to figure out who I am. I love punk rock. I want to be like this.”
“What is this ‘punk rock’ nonsense that you speak of? I don’t understand! You look like a fairy! You think I want my son to dress like this?”
“Mom, I’m your son. Can’t you accept that this is who I am?”
“No,” she put her hands on her face, “Patrick. That was the wrong thing to say. You know I love you, but this is too much right now. I need to think about it.”
“Okay, mom,” I yelled back, but I was furious. I realized I didn’t care if my mom liked the way I dressed or not. This was me and she would have to figure out how to deal with it. All I knew was that I couldn’t wait to see Ivy. Because with Ivy, I knew that she would understand. Without looking back, I opened the door and left, slamming it behind me. I was me now and I couldn't wait for everyone to see.
Here it is! Sneak Peek of LETTERS TO MOM Part 1
Dear Mom,
My hand is shaking as I try to write this letter to you. I found your address, or at least what I believe to be your current address, in an old shoebox that I found in the attic yesterday. I had gone up there just to have a quiet place, to have a place to think about some things. I figured it was quiet and that Dad wouldn’t think to look for me there. I was looking for a place to sit by the window when I saw the shoebox. When I opened it, I found one of the last letters you sent us a few pictures of you. Instantly, I began to think of the mom I never knew nor thought I would ever know. The last time Dad or I have heard from you was five years ago exactly today. I know you left when I was a baby, but I figured you would at least have the minimal decency to keep in contact with us. I mean, we were your family at one point. What happened?
I don't even know why I'm writing to you other than the fact that I am your son and I think you should have some idea as to what I'm doing with my life. Frankly, I don't even care if you simply tear this letter to shreds once you receive it, but deep down I need to know that at least I tried. I like to think that I hold myself to higher standards than you ever did. That was harsh, but I do like to think it's true. I also like to think that I wouldn't leave my family.
Dad's still upset, and I don't know how you feel about that. He hasn't been the same I'm guessing since you left although I was too young to remember the person he was. He’s been quiet, at least for as long as I could remember unless you had a real conversation with him. Then, he has the most wonderful laugh and facial expressions. All of the stoic hardness melted away and he became another person. The only thing is that he’s cried less and less about you over the years. When I was still a little kid, I would find him crying about you. It seemed each memory, even the most subtle, was enough to remind him of you and it would bring on the tears. Years have passed though, you’ve stayed away, and he’s become more private with his feelings about you. Otherwise, he's pretty much stayed the same. Sure, his hair is starting to gray on the edges now and maybe he's just a tad bit wiser, but he really hasn't changed.
We still live in the house, and we keep up on the maintenance pretty well. The siding is still as white as the day it was put on, on account of us cleaning it at the beginning of every spring, summer, fall and winter. A seasonal cleaning, Dad calls it. He says it helps the house keep its charm. We still have your flower and vegetable gardens out back. I tend them every day when I get home from school, regardless of how much homework I have. It's the one thing I do in your memory. I don’t exactly have a green thumb, but I understand the idea that plants need water, sunlight and some attention to survive. I'd like you to know that the rose bushes are blooming beautifully, the tomato plants are quickly ripening and that the zucchini plants-while just flowers right now-look as if they will become a fine component of some hand cooked vegetable lasagna I’m hoping to add an herb section next summer as well. I’ve been slowly expanding the garden since you left and it’s now taking up about a quarter of the space in our backyard. I’m sure that if you saw it now, you’d be proud of what it’s become from the patch of weeds I’d originally found it as when I was six.
But mom, I really have missed you. There's so much I wish I could tell you all at once. I can't believe the idea of writing a letter to you hadn't come sooner. I guess it's a little weird. I mean, no one writes letters or anything anymore. We’re kind of in an age dominated by emotionless messages sent wirelessly through either email; or a massive social networking site. I prefer letters though. They have a more personal feel. It feels more private. Regardless, I wish I could have told you about loosing my first tooth, or about all of the teachers I've had, or about my sixteenth party, or about how I taught myself to play the guitar, or how about I'm a straight A student, or about anything that's gone on in the past twelve years. You’ve missed so much of my life mom. You’ve missed practically everything. But, mom, there's something—well, someone—that I really want to tell you about. Mom, his name is Isaac.
I'm sure you're wondering who Isaac is. Well, if you're still reading that is. However, you probably won’t be able to figure out who he is on your own. No, mom, Isaac is not my little half-brother, or my best friend or my cousin. Mom, Isaac is my boyfriend. And mom, I'm gay. I really hope you don't rip this letter to shreds now that you’ve made it so far into it, or start crying, or any other of those over the top dramatic things that parents allegedly do when their children come out to them. I only see that in books, television shows and movies. I don’t think I believe in that actually happening in a majority of cases. I don’t understand how parents could get so angry with their children. I know all parents might not understand it, but that comes with time. I just want you to accept me, mom. Please. That's one of the main reasons I'm writing this to you. I want you to know this. I needed to tell somebody, and not just anyone. I needed to tell someone whom it mattered to. Who would actually care and maybe listen. You're only the second person I've told. The first person was Isaac, obviously. I'm going to tell Dad, soon, I promise. It's just a little bit more difficult since it's in person and well, he's a guy. I don’t know how he’ll take it. Deep down, I’m scared that he won’t accept me or will never be able to understand it. I’ll do it when I’m ready. I just hope that’s soon. I hate to keep Isaac a secret from him. I always felt I’ve been able to tell him everything. No one else at school knows either, although it's harder and harder to hide. I hate having to act fake in front of everyone else. I hate having to laugh along with their jokes about it, terrified that if I hesitated to even once, they would instantly know. After I tell Dad, I'm going to tell everyone. I'm just a little scared about that right now. I don't want them to hurt me. Kids are brutal.
I'm sorry if you find this first letter to be a little lengthy, but I just have two more things I want you to know about. First of all, you probably want to know when I knew I was gay. Don't be embarrassed about it mom. It's a very natural question to ask. Since you left when I was three, I wasn't exactly aware of it yet. Three isn’t an age where you understand love and passion just yet, even slightly. Once I could actually start remembering things though, I immediately knew I was different. It wasn't one of those cliché things where I had an easy bake oven and I had dreams of being Annie on Broadway or something. It wasn't like that at all. I played sports, watched the games with Dad and loved video games. But when I was around the other guys, I just felt a little bit off. I guess it had a lot to do with the media being very heavily heterosexually dominated. I mean, even in all the cartoons and kid shows you see, the guy always goes for the girl or the girl always goes for the guy. I didn’t understand that concept. It was out of the reach of my understanding.
I didn't know what gay was until I was ten actually. I wasn’t a sheltered child; it just wasn’t something that I’d been exposed to until then. My fifth grade class took a field trip to New York City to go to one of the museums or whatever and we passed through this place called “The Village.” I don’t know if you’re familiar with that slang, but I learned that it is synonymous with Greenwich Village. My friend, Cassidy, and I were sitting behind our teacher, Mrs. Johnson on the bus. It stopped on a red light and I looked out the window, peering around at the crowded shops and bustling businesses. I noticed a small coffee shop where people were walking in and out, holding different sized cups of coffee. There was a rainbow flag outside, flapping in the wind. That was the first time I'd ever seen one. Immediately, being a child and all, I tapped Mrs. Johnson on the shoulder.
“What's that, Mrs. Johnson? That flag, right now there,” I asked, then patiently waited for an answer. I looked at her, anticipating with widely opened eyes. I continued to stare at the flag out the window. I remember thinking that it was very pretty, even prettier than the American flag. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful. I liked the American flag and all back then, but this one was much more colorful and aesthetically pleasing to me.
Mrs. Johnson stayed silent for just a second, thinking how to answer. I could tell she was pondering. She looked out the window, then adjusted her glasses, indicating to me that she was nervous. Mrs. Johnson always adjusted her glasses when she was nervous and didn’t know what to say. Finally, after clearing her throat, she told me in a soft voice, just slightly louder than a whisper, “Elijah, that's a pride flag. It represents the gay community. The rainbow is their symbol. It’s quite common in this part of the city. It’s well-known for being a prominent gay community.”
“Gay community?” I inquired in a perplexed tone, well as perplexed as a ten year old could possibly be. I was ten years old. Never before had I heard the word gay, or at least hearing it directly and trying to comprehend it. I was curious, and once again waited for her to answer. The light changed green and I now looked back, watching the flag flap in the wind. It was long before I noticed that there were many others, all hanging outside of storefronts along the street.
“Yes, Eli. Gay is when boys like other boys and girls like other girls.”
“That happens?” This was earth shattering to me. I suddenly understood. I felt a thousand different emotions at once. I felt happy because I was fairly certain I figured out why I was so different. I felt sad because I didn’t realize this until now. I was confused at why I didn’t hear of it before and I was angry for the same reason.
“Yes,” she laughed nervously again, adjusting her glasses once again, “It does.”
“That's disgusting,” Cassidy blurted out, sticking out her tongue. Her whiny high-pitched tone said simply two words that made my stomach sink. That wasn’t just a normal reaction. I could feel hatred and anger behind it, something I felt I would have to face for the rest of my life. Even then, I could tell it would not be easy. Not even Cassidy, my sweet friend who loved animals and would always try to make someone feel better when they were sad approved of this. Not surprisingly, I didn't talk to her that much after that comment. Actually, I don’t think I talked to her at all after that day. I didn’t tell her why of course; I already knew how she would react. That was okay with me. I understood why the friendship wouldn’t work. I understood why I was different from all of the other boys ever since. I am gay. And from that point on, I was okay with it. It's just who I was, and I tell myself that everyday. Sure, in the world we live in, it’s impossible to have some doubts. How will this affect my getting into some colleges? How will this affect my career? What will everyone think once they know? But, I always try to keep a positive attitude. Sometimes, that’s just the only way.
I also want to tell you about Isaac and me. You obviously haven't seen me in fourteen years, so I just want to remind you of what I look like. Dad said you never did have a good long-term memory and I’m not sure whether or not you have any relatively recent pictures of me. I have very dark black hair. It's not that long, and it's spiky since I gel it every morning. It takes forever, but I love the way it looks. I have your blue eyes since I've compared ours in the few pictures I have of you, and I have Dad's softer rounded face, but not quite as fleshy. Mine's slightly more defined. I'm terribly short, however. I'm barely 5'3” although dad tells me I'll grow more in the next few years. I hope he's right. Isaac, in my opinion, complements me. He's blonde—well dirty blonde—with green eyes. He has a round face too, like mine, and he’s about five or six inches taller than me. Looking at both of us, you would never declare us automatically as being gay teenagers. We’re both fairly masculine and wear normal clothes. Neither of us act overly feminine nor have high pitched voices.
We met at the library about a month ago. I was there to look for a book I was interested in reading. I’m a bit of a classic book junkie, so I was looking for a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I had heard it was quite an exceptional piece of writing, full of teen angst, longing and all of those wonderful emotions we hormonally charged adolescents experience. I was walking to the shelf when I noticed Isaac poking through the classic shelves. He was immediate eye candy. He was dressed casually, actually more urban styled. His hair was falling in his face as he bent down to look at the books on the lower shelves. Timidly, I walked over to the shelves and tried to look for my book. As soon as I pulled it off the shelves, Isaac looked at me and then said, “That's an excellent book. Let me know if you like it.” I froze for a second, feeling my cheeks immediately blush red. I knew Isaac from a few of my classes, but he seemed like he was quiet, and as a result, I'd never talked to him before. But now I was here, inches away from me, and this very cute guy was talking to me. I responded, “Sure, I'll do that.”
He smiled, “You're Elijah, right? From my science class? I sit behind you.”
He knew who I was too. I stuttered, but continued the conversation. “It's Eli, and yes, you do. You're Isaac.”
“Okay, Eli. Nice to meet you. Well, talk to you. Have you ever read this?” he asked me, turning around the paperback book he was holding. He revealed a very used and beaten copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Charles Dickens. Very well written. Very powerful. An idol for any classic book junkie. I smiled, and told him, “It's one of my favorites. The passion contained those pages is simply phenomenal. Have you read it?”
“Five times,” he smiled, “I don't have my own copy, so I'm just taking it out again.” The conversation continued, as we walked downstairs, checked out our books and walked outside. We just talked and talked. Talked about movies. Talked about history. Talked about each other. We exchanged email addresses and kept in touch. About two weeks later, Isaac told me that he was gay. I smiled, reading the words I'd been hoping to hear since I'd first ran into him at the library. I typed him back two words: Me too. And that was that. That was the beginning. Another week went by with us enjoying simple acceptance. Then, in one note passed to me in science class, Isaac made it complicated once again. His note basically told me I was the cutest boy he ever met, even if I was short. He wanted to know if I'd like to see a movie this weekend. I didn't have to think. I wrote “YES” on the piece of paper and passed it back to him over my shoulder. The teacher gave me a look and I smirked. I'm going out with Isaac on Saturday. I'm nervous. I told dad I was going to see a movie with a few of my friends. IT made me even more nervous that I had to lie to him. I really hope I don't screw this up. I really like Isaac.
Lovingly from your son,
Elijah (Eli) Greene
My hand is shaking as I try to write this letter to you. I found your address, or at least what I believe to be your current address, in an old shoebox that I found in the attic yesterday. I had gone up there just to have a quiet place, to have a place to think about some things. I figured it was quiet and that Dad wouldn’t think to look for me there. I was looking for a place to sit by the window when I saw the shoebox. When I opened it, I found one of the last letters you sent us a few pictures of you. Instantly, I began to think of the mom I never knew nor thought I would ever know. The last time Dad or I have heard from you was five years ago exactly today. I know you left when I was a baby, but I figured you would at least have the minimal decency to keep in contact with us. I mean, we were your family at one point. What happened?
I don't even know why I'm writing to you other than the fact that I am your son and I think you should have some idea as to what I'm doing with my life. Frankly, I don't even care if you simply tear this letter to shreds once you receive it, but deep down I need to know that at least I tried. I like to think that I hold myself to higher standards than you ever did. That was harsh, but I do like to think it's true. I also like to think that I wouldn't leave my family.
Dad's still upset, and I don't know how you feel about that. He hasn't been the same I'm guessing since you left although I was too young to remember the person he was. He’s been quiet, at least for as long as I could remember unless you had a real conversation with him. Then, he has the most wonderful laugh and facial expressions. All of the stoic hardness melted away and he became another person. The only thing is that he’s cried less and less about you over the years. When I was still a little kid, I would find him crying about you. It seemed each memory, even the most subtle, was enough to remind him of you and it would bring on the tears. Years have passed though, you’ve stayed away, and he’s become more private with his feelings about you. Otherwise, he's pretty much stayed the same. Sure, his hair is starting to gray on the edges now and maybe he's just a tad bit wiser, but he really hasn't changed.
We still live in the house, and we keep up on the maintenance pretty well. The siding is still as white as the day it was put on, on account of us cleaning it at the beginning of every spring, summer, fall and winter. A seasonal cleaning, Dad calls it. He says it helps the house keep its charm. We still have your flower and vegetable gardens out back. I tend them every day when I get home from school, regardless of how much homework I have. It's the one thing I do in your memory. I don’t exactly have a green thumb, but I understand the idea that plants need water, sunlight and some attention to survive. I'd like you to know that the rose bushes are blooming beautifully, the tomato plants are quickly ripening and that the zucchini plants-while just flowers right now-look as if they will become a fine component of some hand cooked vegetable lasagna I’m hoping to add an herb section next summer as well. I’ve been slowly expanding the garden since you left and it’s now taking up about a quarter of the space in our backyard. I’m sure that if you saw it now, you’d be proud of what it’s become from the patch of weeds I’d originally found it as when I was six.
But mom, I really have missed you. There's so much I wish I could tell you all at once. I can't believe the idea of writing a letter to you hadn't come sooner. I guess it's a little weird. I mean, no one writes letters or anything anymore. We’re kind of in an age dominated by emotionless messages sent wirelessly through either email; or a massive social networking site. I prefer letters though. They have a more personal feel. It feels more private. Regardless, I wish I could have told you about loosing my first tooth, or about all of the teachers I've had, or about my sixteenth party, or about how I taught myself to play the guitar, or how about I'm a straight A student, or about anything that's gone on in the past twelve years. You’ve missed so much of my life mom. You’ve missed practically everything. But, mom, there's something—well, someone—that I really want to tell you about. Mom, his name is Isaac.
I'm sure you're wondering who Isaac is. Well, if you're still reading that is. However, you probably won’t be able to figure out who he is on your own. No, mom, Isaac is not my little half-brother, or my best friend or my cousin. Mom, Isaac is my boyfriend. And mom, I'm gay. I really hope you don't rip this letter to shreds now that you’ve made it so far into it, or start crying, or any other of those over the top dramatic things that parents allegedly do when their children come out to them. I only see that in books, television shows and movies. I don’t think I believe in that actually happening in a majority of cases. I don’t understand how parents could get so angry with their children. I know all parents might not understand it, but that comes with time. I just want you to accept me, mom. Please. That's one of the main reasons I'm writing this to you. I want you to know this. I needed to tell somebody, and not just anyone. I needed to tell someone whom it mattered to. Who would actually care and maybe listen. You're only the second person I've told. The first person was Isaac, obviously. I'm going to tell Dad, soon, I promise. It's just a little bit more difficult since it's in person and well, he's a guy. I don’t know how he’ll take it. Deep down, I’m scared that he won’t accept me or will never be able to understand it. I’ll do it when I’m ready. I just hope that’s soon. I hate to keep Isaac a secret from him. I always felt I’ve been able to tell him everything. No one else at school knows either, although it's harder and harder to hide. I hate having to act fake in front of everyone else. I hate having to laugh along with their jokes about it, terrified that if I hesitated to even once, they would instantly know. After I tell Dad, I'm going to tell everyone. I'm just a little scared about that right now. I don't want them to hurt me. Kids are brutal.
I'm sorry if you find this first letter to be a little lengthy, but I just have two more things I want you to know about. First of all, you probably want to know when I knew I was gay. Don't be embarrassed about it mom. It's a very natural question to ask. Since you left when I was three, I wasn't exactly aware of it yet. Three isn’t an age where you understand love and passion just yet, even slightly. Once I could actually start remembering things though, I immediately knew I was different. It wasn't one of those cliché things where I had an easy bake oven and I had dreams of being Annie on Broadway or something. It wasn't like that at all. I played sports, watched the games with Dad and loved video games. But when I was around the other guys, I just felt a little bit off. I guess it had a lot to do with the media being very heavily heterosexually dominated. I mean, even in all the cartoons and kid shows you see, the guy always goes for the girl or the girl always goes for the guy. I didn’t understand that concept. It was out of the reach of my understanding.
I didn't know what gay was until I was ten actually. I wasn’t a sheltered child; it just wasn’t something that I’d been exposed to until then. My fifth grade class took a field trip to New York City to go to one of the museums or whatever and we passed through this place called “The Village.” I don’t know if you’re familiar with that slang, but I learned that it is synonymous with Greenwich Village. My friend, Cassidy, and I were sitting behind our teacher, Mrs. Johnson on the bus. It stopped on a red light and I looked out the window, peering around at the crowded shops and bustling businesses. I noticed a small coffee shop where people were walking in and out, holding different sized cups of coffee. There was a rainbow flag outside, flapping in the wind. That was the first time I'd ever seen one. Immediately, being a child and all, I tapped Mrs. Johnson on the shoulder.
“What's that, Mrs. Johnson? That flag, right now there,” I asked, then patiently waited for an answer. I looked at her, anticipating with widely opened eyes. I continued to stare at the flag out the window. I remember thinking that it was very pretty, even prettier than the American flag. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful. I liked the American flag and all back then, but this one was much more colorful and aesthetically pleasing to me.
Mrs. Johnson stayed silent for just a second, thinking how to answer. I could tell she was pondering. She looked out the window, then adjusted her glasses, indicating to me that she was nervous. Mrs. Johnson always adjusted her glasses when she was nervous and didn’t know what to say. Finally, after clearing her throat, she told me in a soft voice, just slightly louder than a whisper, “Elijah, that's a pride flag. It represents the gay community. The rainbow is their symbol. It’s quite common in this part of the city. It’s well-known for being a prominent gay community.”
“Gay community?” I inquired in a perplexed tone, well as perplexed as a ten year old could possibly be. I was ten years old. Never before had I heard the word gay, or at least hearing it directly and trying to comprehend it. I was curious, and once again waited for her to answer. The light changed green and I now looked back, watching the flag flap in the wind. It was long before I noticed that there were many others, all hanging outside of storefronts along the street.
“Yes, Eli. Gay is when boys like other boys and girls like other girls.”
“That happens?” This was earth shattering to me. I suddenly understood. I felt a thousand different emotions at once. I felt happy because I was fairly certain I figured out why I was so different. I felt sad because I didn’t realize this until now. I was confused at why I didn’t hear of it before and I was angry for the same reason.
“Yes,” she laughed nervously again, adjusting her glasses once again, “It does.”
“That's disgusting,” Cassidy blurted out, sticking out her tongue. Her whiny high-pitched tone said simply two words that made my stomach sink. That wasn’t just a normal reaction. I could feel hatred and anger behind it, something I felt I would have to face for the rest of my life. Even then, I could tell it would not be easy. Not even Cassidy, my sweet friend who loved animals and would always try to make someone feel better when they were sad approved of this. Not surprisingly, I didn't talk to her that much after that comment. Actually, I don’t think I talked to her at all after that day. I didn’t tell her why of course; I already knew how she would react. That was okay with me. I understood why the friendship wouldn’t work. I understood why I was different from all of the other boys ever since. I am gay. And from that point on, I was okay with it. It's just who I was, and I tell myself that everyday. Sure, in the world we live in, it’s impossible to have some doubts. How will this affect my getting into some colleges? How will this affect my career? What will everyone think once they know? But, I always try to keep a positive attitude. Sometimes, that’s just the only way.
I also want to tell you about Isaac and me. You obviously haven't seen me in fourteen years, so I just want to remind you of what I look like. Dad said you never did have a good long-term memory and I’m not sure whether or not you have any relatively recent pictures of me. I have very dark black hair. It's not that long, and it's spiky since I gel it every morning. It takes forever, but I love the way it looks. I have your blue eyes since I've compared ours in the few pictures I have of you, and I have Dad's softer rounded face, but not quite as fleshy. Mine's slightly more defined. I'm terribly short, however. I'm barely 5'3” although dad tells me I'll grow more in the next few years. I hope he's right. Isaac, in my opinion, complements me. He's blonde—well dirty blonde—with green eyes. He has a round face too, like mine, and he’s about five or six inches taller than me. Looking at both of us, you would never declare us automatically as being gay teenagers. We’re both fairly masculine and wear normal clothes. Neither of us act overly feminine nor have high pitched voices.
We met at the library about a month ago. I was there to look for a book I was interested in reading. I’m a bit of a classic book junkie, so I was looking for a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I had heard it was quite an exceptional piece of writing, full of teen angst, longing and all of those wonderful emotions we hormonally charged adolescents experience. I was walking to the shelf when I noticed Isaac poking through the classic shelves. He was immediate eye candy. He was dressed casually, actually more urban styled. His hair was falling in his face as he bent down to look at the books on the lower shelves. Timidly, I walked over to the shelves and tried to look for my book. As soon as I pulled it off the shelves, Isaac looked at me and then said, “That's an excellent book. Let me know if you like it.” I froze for a second, feeling my cheeks immediately blush red. I knew Isaac from a few of my classes, but he seemed like he was quiet, and as a result, I'd never talked to him before. But now I was here, inches away from me, and this very cute guy was talking to me. I responded, “Sure, I'll do that.”
He smiled, “You're Elijah, right? From my science class? I sit behind you.”
He knew who I was too. I stuttered, but continued the conversation. “It's Eli, and yes, you do. You're Isaac.”
“Okay, Eli. Nice to meet you. Well, talk to you. Have you ever read this?” he asked me, turning around the paperback book he was holding. He revealed a very used and beaten copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Charles Dickens. Very well written. Very powerful. An idol for any classic book junkie. I smiled, and told him, “It's one of my favorites. The passion contained those pages is simply phenomenal. Have you read it?”
“Five times,” he smiled, “I don't have my own copy, so I'm just taking it out again.” The conversation continued, as we walked downstairs, checked out our books and walked outside. We just talked and talked. Talked about movies. Talked about history. Talked about each other. We exchanged email addresses and kept in touch. About two weeks later, Isaac told me that he was gay. I smiled, reading the words I'd been hoping to hear since I'd first ran into him at the library. I typed him back two words: Me too. And that was that. That was the beginning. Another week went by with us enjoying simple acceptance. Then, in one note passed to me in science class, Isaac made it complicated once again. His note basically told me I was the cutest boy he ever met, even if I was short. He wanted to know if I'd like to see a movie this weekend. I didn't have to think. I wrote “YES” on the piece of paper and passed it back to him over my shoulder. The teacher gave me a look and I smirked. I'm going out with Isaac on Saturday. I'm nervous. I told dad I was going to see a movie with a few of my friends. IT made me even more nervous that I had to lie to him. I really hope I don't screw this up. I really like Isaac.
Lovingly from your son,
Elijah (Eli) Greene
Here it is! Sneak Peek of LETTERS TO MOM part 2
September 2, 2010
Dear mom,
Thank you, thank you, thank you for responding to my letter. I’m pretty sure I was checking the mailbox every day since I sent you the last letter, waiting for a response, anything, from you like a child waits for Christmas morning to arrive. Every day, I checked the mail. And every day, until yesterday, I was disappointed. Yesterday, however, I was leafing through the mail when I saw your envelope, addressed to a Mr. Elijah Greene in handwriting that I was just beginning to recognize. I flipped it over and saw your address, neatly penned in medium black ink, probably a felt tip pen. I was excited, but also nervous. I’d been waiting for your response, but now I had to see what your reaction was to me. To Isaac. To everything. I was close to puking right there on the sidewalk.
Nevertheless, I rushed down our walkway and into the house. I quickly said hello to dad and then rushed up the stairs into my room. I threw my stuff onto the floor and jumped on my bed. I took my letter opener out from my drawer (I’m not one of those people who tears through an envelope. To me, they’re just as precious as the letter themselves) and carefully opened the letter. I pulled out your letter, two pages of standard sized letter paper that contained the words of a typed letter. I prefer to handwrite my letters, but that’s really a decision of personal preference. Then, I read the words, hoping that they would spell out an acceptance of me rather than a rejection.
I cried, mom. I really did after reading your response. You really have a way with words. I can understand that you feel responsible, but mom, it’s not your fault. I was always like this and whether you were here, there or anywhere, it wasn’t going to make a difference. I need you to know and understand that. I was always gay and always will be. There’s nothing you could’ve done to change that. And of course this process is going to take time. I didn’t expect you to go out and buy a rainbow flag to hang outside your house or anything. I simply wanted you to know and to accept that I’m your son, regardless of whom I’m attracted to. The understanding can take time. We can work on that together. I really love you, mom.
I’m glad I was able to tell you, but what now? Dad still doesn’t know and I know it’ll be a hard journey for him to fully understand me. I’m his only son, his only child. I’m afraid he’ll think he did something wrong too, even though in reality he had nothing to do with it. I’ve tried to tell him a few times, but I always back out. Maybe I just need some more time. Maybe I need to evaluate myself a little more before I’m at that point where I can start to tell other people.
Mom, I’m scared. I’m very worried too. I’m worried about that fact that who I am as a person is going to affect nearly every aspect of my life from this point on. That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Isn’t that what the founding ideals of America were supposed to prevent? For a nation built on the pillars of liberty and freedom, this country has been led by some pretty bigoted people. It’s not right that I have to be scared of being who I am in school because I have to be worried about how the kids I’ve been going to school with since kindergarten are going to react. It’s not right that colleges, not all of them, but some, will judge me based on my sexual orientation. The same thing goes for my career. And what if I meet someone who I love? What then? Gays can’t get married everywhere. We can’t be rewarded the same legal rights as straight couples. Why should I be penalized as a citizen of this country for something I didn’t choose? How can people say something is wrong if I was born like this? I just don’t understand. You can’t even understand, and you’re my mom.
Isaac has the same fears that I do. He’s just as scared as I am. He doesn’t express them as openly as I do, but I can tell that he’s scared too. Mom, I really like him. I haven’t known him very long, but what we have seems special. I know it sounds cliché and corny and immature, but it’s true. Isaac is not the first boy I’ve liked, but he is the first boy that I’m beginning to love as a person. He’s more worried about his family than I am about you and dad. He’s going to have a harder time in the world than I am. I can tell. He takes things very personally. We’ve sat at lunch together with a few other guys who’ve made fag jokes and I can just see the anger bubbling underneath the surface in him. The jokes hurt me too, but I understand that they’re the product of ignorance. He doesn’t understand that. It’s like every insult or joke he hears about it rips into him a little bit deeper. I want to help him. I want to be there for him and help him through it. I know I can’t make Isaac love himself, but I can love Isaac. Isn’t that what matters?
Speaking of Isaac, or writing of him, we went on our first date together last week. As I mentioned already, Isaac asked me to go to a movie with him about two weeks ago. I told him to call me later that night to set up a date and time, decide what movie, where to go eat, etc. The typical things that need to be decided when one goes on a date with someone else. And of course, as soon as we said goodbye and I hung up the phone, I needed to find the perfect outfit. I’d never been on an official date before. It was exciting, mom. Very exciting. I eventually decided to go urban casual the night of our date. I’m sorry, but I just love the way that sounds. I wore my dark green button down with all the fancy pockets and my favorite dark wash jeans. I spiked my hair, as usually, but left it a little less spiked than usual. I don’t know if I was getting lazy or if I just liked the way that it was hanging in my face a little bit. I didn’t want to add too much bling, so I just put on my silver cross that grandma gave me when I was a baby. It makes me feel comfortable and I needed that because my legs were just completely turning to jello. I sprayed myself with a bit of cologne, nothing musty but rather fresh and clean. A look in the mirror and I was done.
As I was walking down the stairs, dad saw me as he was walking back in the living room to watch the game. He laughed when he saw my outfit and asked me, “Where is mister hotshot going tonight?”
I froze and immediately got nervous. I felt myself blush and I decided being vague was the best way to go. I mumbled, “Out.”
“Out where?”
“On a date.”
“With who?”
“Someone.”
He laughed and told me to have a good time, and to make sure that I didn’t get home too late. I was very thankful for Dad’s lenience on my activities. Again, I hate lying to him. I hate lying in general. Sooner or later, I slip up and then everything turns to just complete and utter crap. It made me more nervous actually. Isaac said he didn’t want me to meet his family, so he’d meet me at the mall. We were both able to drive, so it really wasn’t an issue. I didn’t mind that Isaac didn’t want me to meet his parents yet. Everyone knew they were influential members in the town’s largest church. Dad and I aren’t very religious. We believe in the whole God thing, but we don’t go to church every Sunday. We get ready to watch football. Also, Isaac and I weren’t serious yet. If we got more serious, then we could talk about it. Right now though, it was time to have fun.
I drive a pretty cool car, mom. My dad said he’d buy me a used car if I could pass the road test in his stick shift on the first try. I studied so hard for that test, learning all of the gears and how to parallel park and do k-turns. I went in to take the road test and I did it nearly flawlessly. That’s another thing you missed mom. Dad was so impressed. We went to look at used cars and I found a really pretty Jeep that was affordable and had good mileage. Dad agreed and after talking to the salesman, he filled out all the paper work and made it all official for me. That’s the thing I really admire about Dad. He knows how to do things just right. He told me how proud he was of me and that I really deserved it. Making your father proud is perhaps the greatest feeling in the world. That’s why I’m afraid to tell him that I’m gay. I don’t want to disappoint him.
I was meeting Isaac in a mall that was about half an hour away. There’s a mall in our town that’s about five miles away, but everyone goes there. People would wonder, and as I said, Isaac and I aren’t ready for that yet. We want to enjoy each other first. Besides lying, I hated the feeling of feeling like I had to sneak around with Isaac. Like it was something that had to be hidden. I know we weren’t serious at all yet, but it still just didn’t feel right. The drive was long, dark and windy. As you know, mom, I live in New Jersey. In a small town in Bergen County to be exact. This mall was in New York a few miles past crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge. As soon as you cross it, the roads becomes very dark and windy. My hands were clenched on the steering wheel, as I was concerned about the chance of a deer darting out in front of my car. Finally, I saw the lights of the mall ahead and I immediately felt just a little bit safer. I pulled into a spot not too far from the entrance (it was a Tuesday night so it wasn't too crowded) and pulled out my cell phone as I entered the mall.
The Palisades Park mall is huge, at least for our area. It's not exactly the cleanest mall in the world, but it has a lot of neat stores, a Ferris wheel and a huge movie theater. Plus, it was a little out of the way from where Isaac and I live so we didn't have to worry as much about running into people we knew. That was a good feeling. I called Isaac and let him know that I was t the mall and that I'd meet him in front of the movie theater. He had just made it to the mall too and was coming in from another entrance. I waited for a few minutes on a bench outside the movie theater and watched people walk by. There were tons of families. A mother, a father and their children. I realized that Isaac and I would never be that if we were still together. We would never be that stereotypical family, unless of course...but no, we were both guys inside and out. One day I would be walking through a mall with another man and our adopted children. I hoped we would live in a world where that was more widely accepted by then, but I know it will never be perfect. I'll always get those looks one way or another from someone, whether they're an adult or a child. Mom, that scares me. But at the same time, I can't change who I am, so I'll just have to deal with it. I couldn't imagine being someone who I'm not.
Just as I was caught in philosophical thought, I saw Isaac walking towards me. I stood up and flattened out my shirt. I actually ironed it. I took out the ironing board and iron while dad went out with some of his work buddies to watch the game and ironed my shirt for tonight. I think grandma showed me how to iron once, and it just stuck. Isaac looked absolutely adorable to say the least. He was wearing some band's t-shirt with black skinny-legged pants and a pair of classic converse. He walked right up to me and laughed. We were both obviously excited.
“Oh my god. I hated the ride here, but now it's worth it. I can't wait until we can go to malls in our area, though,” he told me, only with a slight tone of flirtation. The butterflies quickly flew back.
I nodded, “The roads are so dark and windy. That's why we live in Jersey. I know. I'm going to tell people soon. I don't want to hold it in anymore. I'm ready.”
He nodded back, slowly, “I'm not ready yet. I don't know when I'll be.”
“Take your time. Only do it once you are.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil,” he laughed, flashing me a smile. I giggled back and we walked towards the ticket booth. The movie we settled on seeing started in about twenty minutes, so we decided to just grab some popcorn real quick and then get our seats in the theater. After much discussion, we settled on seeing The Other Guys. We had it narrowed down to that and Scott Pilgrim, but we decided Scott Pilgrim was more of a rent for the weekend kind of movie. Besides, The Other Guys looked hysterical. I don't know if you plan on seeing either movie, though. I don't know what your preference in movies is.
Luckily, both Isaac and I are middle of theater kind of people. I hate sitting in the front because the screen feels much brighter up there, not to mention it's much louder and your neck hurts after the movie from having to watch the movie from a practically vertical position. On the contrary, I don't really like the back either. I feel detached from the movie. The middle is the perfect balance, and Isaac agreed with my logic. We grabbed our seats and both smiled nervously at each other. We wouldn’t seem unusual anyway. No one here would think any different of the two of us. We just looked liked two guys who decided to go see a very funny movie together. That’s all. Right, mom? Still, Isaac looked tense and I was worried I was doing something wrong. I really don’t think that either of us really knew what we were doing. I was so worried that all of this was just some horrible mistake.
Isaac noticed. I don’t think anyone else noticed that I felt like I was going to puke except him. As the lights dimmed and the hour-long previews started, he grabbed my arm and whispered for me to just relax. I nodded slowly, but gosh, I was still as nervous as hell, which just made him giggle. Luckily, the movie immediately calmed my nerves. After about five or six previews for some very manly movies (I wondered how the group of girls who were sitting about three or four rows away from us felt about that), the film we came to see finally began. Within twenty minutes, Isaac and I were on the ground laughing with every one else in the movie. Everything suddenly felt much more comfortable. Isaac began to throw in his own jokes, whispering them in my ear during the movie. I suddenly didn’t care that I was in a public movie theater and began to whisper jokes back. No one could here us. They were private lines volleyed back and forth between the two of us in perfect harmony. It actually hurt to breathe by the end of the movie because I’d been laughing so hard. We finished every crumb of our popcorn and as soon as the credits appeared on the screen, we began to leave. As we were passing by some of the other people leaving as well, I heard a single word that felt like it was directed toward Isaac and I as we were laughing: Faggot.
I’ll admit, I am a profound lover of the English language, mom. I think that was established when I told you that I was looking for a book to read, on my own, in the classics section of the library. But with every thing of beauty, there is also an ugly side to it. And to this day, mom, I have not been able to discover a word that is more hurtful, degrading, and ugly as that. It hurts to write it because it’s such an insult to who I am as a person. I’ve seen other gay people toss it around casually, almost as a tease, and that just makes me sick. I don’t think Isaac heard it since he gave no indication of it, but it nearly made me sick. We’d come so far to be away from all the people we knew and yet, it didn’t seem as though it was far enough. The word burned in my mind for the rest of the night, leaving a scar on my memories of my first date with Isaac.
After the movie, we both decided we needed to go somewhere where we were certain that we would be alone. Because we couldn’t think of any parks that would be open late, we decided to go to the playground at the elementary school we’d both attended in our town. We both pulled in the parking lot at the same time and the memories just flooded back to me as we did so. I remembered the lines we used to walk in when we were in the hallways, the rainbow rugs in the kindergarten rooms, the colorful charts and graphs that hung on the walls. Most of all, I remembered the innocence of every one. For the most part, we all liked each other. We all played together at recess and played games in class. It wasn’t until we got older, until we really started observing, that we began to separate from one another into groups. It was a sad part of growing up, mom. It gives the same feeling as the moment when you realize Santa isn’t real or that your parents aren’t going to live forever. It’s a sadness of childhood that causes us to grow up just slightly, an imperceptible change in outlook on life.
The two of us walked silently to the bleachers in the back of the schoolyard by the baseball diamond. The air was cool outside but still had a warmness to it. We both sat on the third row of the bleachers in the dark. We were able to see each other, but not much else. It was calming.
“I really like you,” he told me softly, adding an air of intimacy to the conversation.
I laughed, “I like you too.”
“I just wish we didn’t have to sneak around like this. I mean…I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
I sighed, “Me neither. I mean, I’m ready to come out. I just don’t know how exactly.”
“How will your parents take it? I mean, will you be okay?” he asked me, obviously concerned. I was able to feel his warm breath due to the proximity that we were sitting next to each other.
I thought for a second, and then answered, “I think so. I already told my mom, but I haven’t told my dad yet. My mom took it okay, I guess. I mean, she blamed herself for it and that hurt me a little bit, but we’re working on it. It’s a process. I haven’t told my dad yet. I’m not sure how he’ll react. What about yours?”
“That’s good. I’m glad your mom took it well,” he smiled at me, but then frowned, “I can’t tell my parents. They wouldn’t understand. And forget about my older brother Peter. I don’t know how to tell any of them. I just want to be with you.”
“This shouldn’t be so difficult.”
“I know.” We spent another hour talking to each other. We talked about everything; we talked about nothing. We talked about home; we talked about school. We talked about books; we talked about music. Our words filled the emptiness of the night. I was saddened when it was finally time to depart. We both stood up from the bleachers. I didn’t know what to do, but then I felt Isaac hug me. I didn’t know how to react for a second, but then I hugged him back. It was the greatest hug I’d ever received in my entire life. I felt safe and comfortable, especially since he was so much taller than me. After we separated I could still smell his wonderful citrusy cotton scent. He giggled about petit I was and then we walked back to our cars. I didn’t want to go back home, mom. I wanted to be with him forever. I know it’s really soon to say this, but I think I’m falling in love.
Lovingly from your son,
Elijah (Eli) Greene
Dear mom,
Thank you, thank you, thank you for responding to my letter. I’m pretty sure I was checking the mailbox every day since I sent you the last letter, waiting for a response, anything, from you like a child waits for Christmas morning to arrive. Every day, I checked the mail. And every day, until yesterday, I was disappointed. Yesterday, however, I was leafing through the mail when I saw your envelope, addressed to a Mr. Elijah Greene in handwriting that I was just beginning to recognize. I flipped it over and saw your address, neatly penned in medium black ink, probably a felt tip pen. I was excited, but also nervous. I’d been waiting for your response, but now I had to see what your reaction was to me. To Isaac. To everything. I was close to puking right there on the sidewalk.
Nevertheless, I rushed down our walkway and into the house. I quickly said hello to dad and then rushed up the stairs into my room. I threw my stuff onto the floor and jumped on my bed. I took my letter opener out from my drawer (I’m not one of those people who tears through an envelope. To me, they’re just as precious as the letter themselves) and carefully opened the letter. I pulled out your letter, two pages of standard sized letter paper that contained the words of a typed letter. I prefer to handwrite my letters, but that’s really a decision of personal preference. Then, I read the words, hoping that they would spell out an acceptance of me rather than a rejection.
I cried, mom. I really did after reading your response. You really have a way with words. I can understand that you feel responsible, but mom, it’s not your fault. I was always like this and whether you were here, there or anywhere, it wasn’t going to make a difference. I need you to know and understand that. I was always gay and always will be. There’s nothing you could’ve done to change that. And of course this process is going to take time. I didn’t expect you to go out and buy a rainbow flag to hang outside your house or anything. I simply wanted you to know and to accept that I’m your son, regardless of whom I’m attracted to. The understanding can take time. We can work on that together. I really love you, mom.
I’m glad I was able to tell you, but what now? Dad still doesn’t know and I know it’ll be a hard journey for him to fully understand me. I’m his only son, his only child. I’m afraid he’ll think he did something wrong too, even though in reality he had nothing to do with it. I’ve tried to tell him a few times, but I always back out. Maybe I just need some more time. Maybe I need to evaluate myself a little more before I’m at that point where I can start to tell other people.
Mom, I’m scared. I’m very worried too. I’m worried about that fact that who I am as a person is going to affect nearly every aspect of my life from this point on. That’s not right. That’s not right at all. Isn’t that what the founding ideals of America were supposed to prevent? For a nation built on the pillars of liberty and freedom, this country has been led by some pretty bigoted people. It’s not right that I have to be scared of being who I am in school because I have to be worried about how the kids I’ve been going to school with since kindergarten are going to react. It’s not right that colleges, not all of them, but some, will judge me based on my sexual orientation. The same thing goes for my career. And what if I meet someone who I love? What then? Gays can’t get married everywhere. We can’t be rewarded the same legal rights as straight couples. Why should I be penalized as a citizen of this country for something I didn’t choose? How can people say something is wrong if I was born like this? I just don’t understand. You can’t even understand, and you’re my mom.
Isaac has the same fears that I do. He’s just as scared as I am. He doesn’t express them as openly as I do, but I can tell that he’s scared too. Mom, I really like him. I haven’t known him very long, but what we have seems special. I know it sounds cliché and corny and immature, but it’s true. Isaac is not the first boy I’ve liked, but he is the first boy that I’m beginning to love as a person. He’s more worried about his family than I am about you and dad. He’s going to have a harder time in the world than I am. I can tell. He takes things very personally. We’ve sat at lunch together with a few other guys who’ve made fag jokes and I can just see the anger bubbling underneath the surface in him. The jokes hurt me too, but I understand that they’re the product of ignorance. He doesn’t understand that. It’s like every insult or joke he hears about it rips into him a little bit deeper. I want to help him. I want to be there for him and help him through it. I know I can’t make Isaac love himself, but I can love Isaac. Isn’t that what matters?
Speaking of Isaac, or writing of him, we went on our first date together last week. As I mentioned already, Isaac asked me to go to a movie with him about two weeks ago. I told him to call me later that night to set up a date and time, decide what movie, where to go eat, etc. The typical things that need to be decided when one goes on a date with someone else. And of course, as soon as we said goodbye and I hung up the phone, I needed to find the perfect outfit. I’d never been on an official date before. It was exciting, mom. Very exciting. I eventually decided to go urban casual the night of our date. I’m sorry, but I just love the way that sounds. I wore my dark green button down with all the fancy pockets and my favorite dark wash jeans. I spiked my hair, as usually, but left it a little less spiked than usual. I don’t know if I was getting lazy or if I just liked the way that it was hanging in my face a little bit. I didn’t want to add too much bling, so I just put on my silver cross that grandma gave me when I was a baby. It makes me feel comfortable and I needed that because my legs were just completely turning to jello. I sprayed myself with a bit of cologne, nothing musty but rather fresh and clean. A look in the mirror and I was done.
As I was walking down the stairs, dad saw me as he was walking back in the living room to watch the game. He laughed when he saw my outfit and asked me, “Where is mister hotshot going tonight?”
I froze and immediately got nervous. I felt myself blush and I decided being vague was the best way to go. I mumbled, “Out.”
“Out where?”
“On a date.”
“With who?”
“Someone.”
He laughed and told me to have a good time, and to make sure that I didn’t get home too late. I was very thankful for Dad’s lenience on my activities. Again, I hate lying to him. I hate lying in general. Sooner or later, I slip up and then everything turns to just complete and utter crap. It made me more nervous actually. Isaac said he didn’t want me to meet his family, so he’d meet me at the mall. We were both able to drive, so it really wasn’t an issue. I didn’t mind that Isaac didn’t want me to meet his parents yet. Everyone knew they were influential members in the town’s largest church. Dad and I aren’t very religious. We believe in the whole God thing, but we don’t go to church every Sunday. We get ready to watch football. Also, Isaac and I weren’t serious yet. If we got more serious, then we could talk about it. Right now though, it was time to have fun.
I drive a pretty cool car, mom. My dad said he’d buy me a used car if I could pass the road test in his stick shift on the first try. I studied so hard for that test, learning all of the gears and how to parallel park and do k-turns. I went in to take the road test and I did it nearly flawlessly. That’s another thing you missed mom. Dad was so impressed. We went to look at used cars and I found a really pretty Jeep that was affordable and had good mileage. Dad agreed and after talking to the salesman, he filled out all the paper work and made it all official for me. That’s the thing I really admire about Dad. He knows how to do things just right. He told me how proud he was of me and that I really deserved it. Making your father proud is perhaps the greatest feeling in the world. That’s why I’m afraid to tell him that I’m gay. I don’t want to disappoint him.
I was meeting Isaac in a mall that was about half an hour away. There’s a mall in our town that’s about five miles away, but everyone goes there. People would wonder, and as I said, Isaac and I aren’t ready for that yet. We want to enjoy each other first. Besides lying, I hated the feeling of feeling like I had to sneak around with Isaac. Like it was something that had to be hidden. I know we weren’t serious at all yet, but it still just didn’t feel right. The drive was long, dark and windy. As you know, mom, I live in New Jersey. In a small town in Bergen County to be exact. This mall was in New York a few miles past crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge. As soon as you cross it, the roads becomes very dark and windy. My hands were clenched on the steering wheel, as I was concerned about the chance of a deer darting out in front of my car. Finally, I saw the lights of the mall ahead and I immediately felt just a little bit safer. I pulled into a spot not too far from the entrance (it was a Tuesday night so it wasn't too crowded) and pulled out my cell phone as I entered the mall.
The Palisades Park mall is huge, at least for our area. It's not exactly the cleanest mall in the world, but it has a lot of neat stores, a Ferris wheel and a huge movie theater. Plus, it was a little out of the way from where Isaac and I live so we didn't have to worry as much about running into people we knew. That was a good feeling. I called Isaac and let him know that I was t the mall and that I'd meet him in front of the movie theater. He had just made it to the mall too and was coming in from another entrance. I waited for a few minutes on a bench outside the movie theater and watched people walk by. There were tons of families. A mother, a father and their children. I realized that Isaac and I would never be that if we were still together. We would never be that stereotypical family, unless of course...but no, we were both guys inside and out. One day I would be walking through a mall with another man and our adopted children. I hoped we would live in a world where that was more widely accepted by then, but I know it will never be perfect. I'll always get those looks one way or another from someone, whether they're an adult or a child. Mom, that scares me. But at the same time, I can't change who I am, so I'll just have to deal with it. I couldn't imagine being someone who I'm not.
Just as I was caught in philosophical thought, I saw Isaac walking towards me. I stood up and flattened out my shirt. I actually ironed it. I took out the ironing board and iron while dad went out with some of his work buddies to watch the game and ironed my shirt for tonight. I think grandma showed me how to iron once, and it just stuck. Isaac looked absolutely adorable to say the least. He was wearing some band's t-shirt with black skinny-legged pants and a pair of classic converse. He walked right up to me and laughed. We were both obviously excited.
“Oh my god. I hated the ride here, but now it's worth it. I can't wait until we can go to malls in our area, though,” he told me, only with a slight tone of flirtation. The butterflies quickly flew back.
I nodded, “The roads are so dark and windy. That's why we live in Jersey. I know. I'm going to tell people soon. I don't want to hold it in anymore. I'm ready.”
He nodded back, slowly, “I'm not ready yet. I don't know when I'll be.”
“Take your time. Only do it once you are.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil,” he laughed, flashing me a smile. I giggled back and we walked towards the ticket booth. The movie we settled on seeing started in about twenty minutes, so we decided to just grab some popcorn real quick and then get our seats in the theater. After much discussion, we settled on seeing The Other Guys. We had it narrowed down to that and Scott Pilgrim, but we decided Scott Pilgrim was more of a rent for the weekend kind of movie. Besides, The Other Guys looked hysterical. I don't know if you plan on seeing either movie, though. I don't know what your preference in movies is.
Luckily, both Isaac and I are middle of theater kind of people. I hate sitting in the front because the screen feels much brighter up there, not to mention it's much louder and your neck hurts after the movie from having to watch the movie from a practically vertical position. On the contrary, I don't really like the back either. I feel detached from the movie. The middle is the perfect balance, and Isaac agreed with my logic. We grabbed our seats and both smiled nervously at each other. We wouldn’t seem unusual anyway. No one here would think any different of the two of us. We just looked liked two guys who decided to go see a very funny movie together. That’s all. Right, mom? Still, Isaac looked tense and I was worried I was doing something wrong. I really don’t think that either of us really knew what we were doing. I was so worried that all of this was just some horrible mistake.
Isaac noticed. I don’t think anyone else noticed that I felt like I was going to puke except him. As the lights dimmed and the hour-long previews started, he grabbed my arm and whispered for me to just relax. I nodded slowly, but gosh, I was still as nervous as hell, which just made him giggle. Luckily, the movie immediately calmed my nerves. After about five or six previews for some very manly movies (I wondered how the group of girls who were sitting about three or four rows away from us felt about that), the film we came to see finally began. Within twenty minutes, Isaac and I were on the ground laughing with every one else in the movie. Everything suddenly felt much more comfortable. Isaac began to throw in his own jokes, whispering them in my ear during the movie. I suddenly didn’t care that I was in a public movie theater and began to whisper jokes back. No one could here us. They were private lines volleyed back and forth between the two of us in perfect harmony. It actually hurt to breathe by the end of the movie because I’d been laughing so hard. We finished every crumb of our popcorn and as soon as the credits appeared on the screen, we began to leave. As we were passing by some of the other people leaving as well, I heard a single word that felt like it was directed toward Isaac and I as we were laughing: Faggot.
I’ll admit, I am a profound lover of the English language, mom. I think that was established when I told you that I was looking for a book to read, on my own, in the classics section of the library. But with every thing of beauty, there is also an ugly side to it. And to this day, mom, I have not been able to discover a word that is more hurtful, degrading, and ugly as that. It hurts to write it because it’s such an insult to who I am as a person. I’ve seen other gay people toss it around casually, almost as a tease, and that just makes me sick. I don’t think Isaac heard it since he gave no indication of it, but it nearly made me sick. We’d come so far to be away from all the people we knew and yet, it didn’t seem as though it was far enough. The word burned in my mind for the rest of the night, leaving a scar on my memories of my first date with Isaac.
After the movie, we both decided we needed to go somewhere where we were certain that we would be alone. Because we couldn’t think of any parks that would be open late, we decided to go to the playground at the elementary school we’d both attended in our town. We both pulled in the parking lot at the same time and the memories just flooded back to me as we did so. I remembered the lines we used to walk in when we were in the hallways, the rainbow rugs in the kindergarten rooms, the colorful charts and graphs that hung on the walls. Most of all, I remembered the innocence of every one. For the most part, we all liked each other. We all played together at recess and played games in class. It wasn’t until we got older, until we really started observing, that we began to separate from one another into groups. It was a sad part of growing up, mom. It gives the same feeling as the moment when you realize Santa isn’t real or that your parents aren’t going to live forever. It’s a sadness of childhood that causes us to grow up just slightly, an imperceptible change in outlook on life.
The two of us walked silently to the bleachers in the back of the schoolyard by the baseball diamond. The air was cool outside but still had a warmness to it. We both sat on the third row of the bleachers in the dark. We were able to see each other, but not much else. It was calming.
“I really like you,” he told me softly, adding an air of intimacy to the conversation.
I laughed, “I like you too.”
“I just wish we didn’t have to sneak around like this. I mean…I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
I sighed, “Me neither. I mean, I’m ready to come out. I just don’t know how exactly.”
“How will your parents take it? I mean, will you be okay?” he asked me, obviously concerned. I was able to feel his warm breath due to the proximity that we were sitting next to each other.
I thought for a second, and then answered, “I think so. I already told my mom, but I haven’t told my dad yet. My mom took it okay, I guess. I mean, she blamed herself for it and that hurt me a little bit, but we’re working on it. It’s a process. I haven’t told my dad yet. I’m not sure how he’ll react. What about yours?”
“That’s good. I’m glad your mom took it well,” he smiled at me, but then frowned, “I can’t tell my parents. They wouldn’t understand. And forget about my older brother Peter. I don’t know how to tell any of them. I just want to be with you.”
“This shouldn’t be so difficult.”
“I know.” We spent another hour talking to each other. We talked about everything; we talked about nothing. We talked about home; we talked about school. We talked about books; we talked about music. Our words filled the emptiness of the night. I was saddened when it was finally time to depart. We both stood up from the bleachers. I didn’t know what to do, but then I felt Isaac hug me. I didn’t know how to react for a second, but then I hugged him back. It was the greatest hug I’d ever received in my entire life. I felt safe and comfortable, especially since he was so much taller than me. After we separated I could still smell his wonderful citrusy cotton scent. He giggled about petit I was and then we walked back to our cars. I didn’t want to go back home, mom. I wanted to be with him forever. I know it’s really soon to say this, but I think I’m falling in love.
Lovingly from your son,
Elijah (Eli) Greene
My Book
First and foremost, I should probably mention I'm a writer. I love to write. I love the challenge of it, the feeling, everything. I just wish I could do it for a living because it's such an amazing feeling to sit down and hash out some new ideas, but you know, it might not be practical. I'm in the process of writing my "first" book. There have been other attempts, but this is the first one where I said hey, I'm gonna do this. And I have.
Letters to Mom is almost finished. In a nutshell, it covers the status of LGBT issues as they are in 2010-2012. I don't want to sound too egotistic, but I do hope that in 50-100 years, people will look back and say, "Wow. I'm so glad we made things better for such an amazing and diverse group of our society." So yeah. I have my first two chapters up so far, just to give people a taste of what Letters to Mom is all about.
Letters to Mom is almost finished. In a nutshell, it covers the status of LGBT issues as they are in 2010-2012. I don't want to sound too egotistic, but I do hope that in 50-100 years, people will look back and say, "Wow. I'm so glad we made things better for such an amazing and diverse group of our society." So yeah. I have my first two chapters up so far, just to give people a taste of what Letters to Mom is all about.
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