August had to have been the worst month of my life. The summer had begun so well. Peter and I had discovered so much about each other. We had really enjoyed exploring sex, but we had enjoyed just as much exploring each others’ minds and feelings. We had so many interests in common. We loved playing the piano together and for each other. Sometimes we gave each other informal lessons, and occasionally my mother joined in. But after Rodney’s death, the summer itself seemed to die.
So I was ready to get back to school. I needed the routine and I needed things to do to take my mind off my sadness. Peter and I were in the same homeroom again and we had several classes together. We began languages that year. Peter chose Latin and I chose French, so we weren’t together there, but we enjoyed trying to talk to each other in our new languages, sticking in English words whenever we didn’t know the right word in our language.
However, despite the school routine, I still found myself dealing with bouts of depression. Sometimes I could barely get out of bed in the morning. I cried often, many times for no apparent reason. My mother was worried and suggested again that I get some counseling, but I refused. I believed that getting help was the same as admitting weakness and that I should be able to work through this on my own. In addition, knowing I was depressed not only about Rodney but also about what Peter and I were doing, I knew I couldn’t share that shame with anybody else.
About a month after school started all hell broke loose. It began innocently enough. Neither my mother nor Peter’s was going to be home at lunch time, so Peter brought his copy of Bach’s Two-Part Inventions to school. The inventions were wonderful creations, consisting of only a treble and bass part. One part, usually the top, began the composition, then the other came in, imitating the first. In the second half of the piece, the parts reversed positions, the lower one beginning and the upper one imitating.
We ate a quick lunch and went to the piano in the auditorium. Peter played the bass line of the first invention while I played the treble. In order to reach the keys, we turned a little, facing each other, putting our spare arms around each others’ waists. We played and laughed and played some more.
As we finished one of the pieces, there was a snicker behind us, and then a voice said, “Oh look, our queer Nigger has found a boyfriend.”
I leaped up, turned, and stared at the source of the voice, Carl Walsh. Carl was a school bully, and now that he was in ninth grade and bigger than most of the rest of us, he took full advantage of his position.
“What did you say!?” I demanded.
“I said,” replied Carl dragging it out, “that our queer Nigger has found a boyfriend.”
With that, I exploded. With both hands I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall.
“What’s the matter, Nigger? Did I say something to upset you?”
I heard Peter cry out behind me, “Christian, don’t!” but I was out of control.
I pulled Carl away from the wall and slammed him back into it again.
“Surely, you don’t think a queer like you can hurt me,” Carl sneered.
At that I moved right up into his face and then suddenly slammed my knee as hard as I could up into his balls.
He screamed and collapsed to the floor, all fight draining out of him.
I turned to the two boys with him and muttered, “Get him out of here.”
Without saying a word they helped Carl to his feet and dragged him out the door, Carl yelling, “You’ll be sorry!”
I went back and slumped into my chair. “Oh damn, Peter, I am going to be in so much shit!”
Peter didn’t say a word. He just held me close until I calmed down. Finally he said, “Wow, Christian, I’ve never seen you like that before.”
“Most of the time I can control my temper, but I just lost it today. I can’t imagine what’s going to happen. I’m scared, Peter.”
“We’ll work through it together, Christian,” he said softly. He held me close again until the bell rang for class.
I don’t know now how I got through the afternoon. As we were leaving school, Peter asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, thanks, Peter. I think I need some time to figure out what I’m going to do.”
I walked slowly home, went in, and went up to my room. A few minutes later, my mom came up.
“Christian, is something wrong?”
“Nothing that I want to talk about right now,” I answered. “Maybe later.”
“Well, OK. You know where I am and I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thanks, Mom.” After she left I sprawled out on my bed and tried to think what I was going to do. I didn’t regret what I did to Carl. He deserved it, and more. But I was afraid of what would happen at school the next day.
I don’t think I slept much that night. By the time it was time to go to school I felt physically sick, but I knew that I might as well go and get it over with. I was silent at breakfast that morning. My parents kept glancing my way and at each other, but they didn’t push me to tell them what the problem was.
If anything, I was slower going to school than I had been coming home yesterday. While I had done a lot of thinking, my thoughts were going in circles, and I had no more idea now of what was going to happen than I had had yesterday.
If I had hoped that nobody would know what had happened, I was clearly wrong. There was a general buzz around the whole school as I walked through it to my locker and homeroom. People looked at me, but nobody said anything to me except little Wally Fitzpatrick, a seventh grader, who came up to my locker and said very quietly, “Congratulations, Christian. He deserved it,” and then walked away.
While we were in our first period class, Mr. Bennett, the Principal, came to the door and asked my teacher if he could see me. Walking out of the room, I felt twenty pairs of eyes following me, and as soon as I was out the door the buzz started again behind me.
I walked behind Mr. Bennett to his office, and, going in, he motioned me to a seat.
I think I should say that Mr. Bennett was usually a pretty nice guy for a school administrator. We had chatted a few times before, and I liked him. Today, he looked very seriously at me for a minute or two.
“Christian,” he began, “I don’t think you will be surprised that I got a very angry call from Mrs. Walsh this morning. She wants me expel you right now. But I’m not ready to do that, at least not yet. First, I want to hear your side of the story.”
I took a deep breath and told him everything that had happened yesterday. I told him what Peter and I were doing and why, and exactly what Carl had said. I told him when Carl said that about a “queer Nigger” I just lost control, and I told him just what I did to Carl.
“Well,” he said, “that’s not exactly the story I got from Carl. He told me this morning that you attacked him for no reason at all. I asked the two boys that were with him and they agreed with everything he said.
“That’s simply not true! Carl’s lying, and so are they! Ask Peter Bradley! He can tell you what happened!”
“Christian, I want you to know that I have a great deal of respect for the way that, up until now, you have handled yourself here. I know it couldn’t have been easy, being the only Negro in the school. I also know that you were very angry when you came here, and that Peter helped you with that. I have had some good conversations with your parents which perhaps you didn’t know about. We have all been very pleased with your progress here. But I cannot ignore what happened yesterday. Yes, I will talk with Peter, but then I will need to decide how to handle the situation. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good. Then I want to ask you to wait in the outer office while I talk with Peter.” We went out together and he asked Mrs. Connors to get Peter.
A few minutes later, Peter entered and looked at me as though he wanted me to tell him what was happening, but I couldn’t. Mrs. Connors showed him into Mr. Bennett’s office. I could hear low voices, both Peter’s and Mr. Bennett’s, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was torture.
Finally, Mr. Bennett came to the door inviting me back into his office. I took the chair next to Peter and we exchanged looks. Mr. Bennett sat down and looked us both.
“Christian, Peter corroborated everything you said, almost word for word. How much did you discuss it together?”
Again, Peter and I looked at each other.
“We didn’t discuss it at all, Mr. Bennett,” Peter replied.
“We couldn’t. There was no time in school and we didn’t see each other to talk after school,” I added.
“Did either of you tell your parents what happened?”
“No Sir,” we answered in unison.
“Well, Christian, since the stories are so different, I don’t know just how this will work out. Regardless of whether or not you were provoked, you did attack Carl. I’m sure, if he said the things you both say he did, that you felt justified, but I can’t tolerate fighting in the school. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Sir,” I answered. “Are you going to expel me?”
“I rather doubt it. You made a mistake and there will be a penalty, but it probably will not be expulsion. I am going to suspend you, at least for the rest of the day, until I get a chance to think this through some more. You will wait in the office while I call your parents to tell them what has happened and to come and get you. How long you will be suspended I’m not yet sure, but I will communicate that to your parents. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, Sir. Are you going to suspend Carl too?”
“Not immediately. I’m sure that doesn’t seem fair to you, but one of the reasons I’m suspending you today is so that you won’t have to deal with Carl and his friends. I do know a few things about Carl, and I will be pursuing this farther. That’s all I can promise you right now. Peter, thank you for your time. You may go back to class. Christian, you may go up to your locker and get what you need, and then please wait in the outer office until your parents come.”
When we got to the hallway, Peter was enraged. “It’s just not fair, Christian! Why should you get punished and not Carl! You don’t deserve this!”
“I’m angry too, Peter, but I’m trying really hard to be reasonable. Mr. Bennett didn’t say that Carl wouldn’t be punished. In fact, I think he implied that he would be, but not yet. I understand that he wants me away from the other boys, and maybe that’s a good thing. If I saw any of them right now, I might do something more that I’d regret. Please don’t make a fuss about this. I think you’d probably better tell your mom when you get home what happened, because I’m sure she’ll be hearing from my parents. I’ll try to talk with you as soon as I can.”
With that, we parted, he to his class and I to my locker. From there I went back to the office, wondering what my parents were going to say and how they would handle the situation.
My mother arrived in about twenty minutes with a very worried look on her face, but she said nothing except, “Come along, Christian.”
The short ride home was silent. When we went into the kitchen, my father was there, and I knew we were in for a serious session.
After Mom and I had sat down, Dad said, “First, Christian, I think you should tell us exactly what happened.”
So I did, just as I told Mr. Bennett. I didn’t leave anything out, but I did add that Peter had talked to Mr. Bennett and had told him exactly the same thing.
“Well” Christian, said my mother, “assuming that everything happened just as you said, and we don’t have any reason to doubt you, I think we both understand why you were angry, but we can’t really condone fighting. That’s one of the things we tried to move away from.”
“That’s just what happened, and I do understand about the fighting. I just lost control!”
“We’ve been very proud of you at this school,” put in Dad, “and we do understand. Carl had no business saying to you what he said. Unfortunately, this is part of the problem of being a minority. Sometimes, you have to keep your control even when unpleasant and untrue things are said.”
Taking a big swallow, I said, in a very quiet voice, “The problem is, Dad, Carl was right. I am a queer Nigger.”
There was a stunned silence.
Dad sighed and said, “Christian, there is a huge difference between being a Negro and being a Nigger. You are not a Nigger, and I don’t want to ever hear you call yourself that again. You are an educated, loved, kind, smart Negro. Niggers are just the opposite. They have no respect for anybody, they have no goals, they’re lazy and dishonest. I hate to say this, but your friends in the city, the ones who got shot last August, are Niggers, and they got what they deserved. You are NOT a Nigger!”
Instinctively I thought to defend my friends. “But, Da…” and then with horror I realized he was right.
“So, are you clear on that?”
“Yes, I guess so. Maybe I’m not a Nigger, but I did act like one, even if it was just five minutes. But what about the other part of the name, the ’queer‘ part?”
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Yes, it means I’m a homosexual. And I am!”
“Oh, Christian,” my mother gasped. “That’s not possible?”
“Why not?”
“Because you weren’t raised to be one. You’re a normal, healthy boy, and in time you’ll fall in love with a girl and want to marry her.”
“I’m afraid not, Mother. My homosexuality has nothing to do with how I was raised. I would give almost anything to be a ‘normal, healthy boy,’ but I’m not. I’m attracted to other boys and I’m even in love with one.”
As soon as I said it, I knew I had betrayed him, and I was ashamed.
“Peter?” she asked.
“Yes Ma’am. I’ve been in love with him since our first bus ride into the city last fall, and he’s in love with me.”
“What have you done, Christian? Have you acted on this ‘love,’ as you call it?”
“Yes, we have. I won’t go into details, but we have acted on it. I love him for so much more than that, though. I love him because we care for each other, we understand each other, and we share a love of music and of learning. Do you remember how he stood by me when Rodney was killed? You really couldn’t help me then. It wasn’t your fault, you just couldn’t. But Peter was there for me. He talked to me, he held me, he showed me how to come out of my grief, as far as I could.”
“Let me get this straight,” Dad burst in. “Are you saying that you’ve had a sexual relationship with Peter?”
“Yes, Sir. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
”In this house? After the way we trusted you both?”
“I know. I guess we never thought of what we were doing as a trust issue, although we did know that you wouldn’t approve.”
“But that’s sinful. It’s an abomination. It’s totally immoral.”
“Not only that,” interjected my mother, “it’s disgusting!”
“Why?” I challenged. “Have we hurt anybody? Is the world any worse off because we love each other? In fact, I think the world is probably better...”
“I will not listen to anymore of this trash,” my father interrupted. “I’m going to make an appointment for us with Reverend Braithwaite. We’ll see if he can talk sense into your head. In the meantime go to your room and stay there until I call you. While you’re up there, pray to God for forgiveness and help to understand that what you are doing is sinful and immoral.”
I knew my parents would be unhappy with my homosexuality, but I didn’t really expect them to be this angry. I did as I was told, and stayed in my room. I was furious. They thought I was disgusting! I prayed to God, but not the way my father wanted me to. I took my anger out on God, asking him why he had made me homosexual in the first place. I hated the idea that I was filthy and sinful. I wanted desperately to call Peter, because I was sure that Mom had called his parents, but there was no way that I could. At dinner time, my mother brought me some food, but I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t eat anything. I was completely miserable. For the first time in my life, my parents hadn’t supported or even tried to understand me, and this was the time when I needed them the most.
I suppose I eventually fell asleep, because the next thing I knew was my mother bringing me breakfast. “We have an appointment with Rev. Braithwaite at 10:00. Eat your breakfast, get cleaned up, and be ready to go on time.”
That was it. No, “Are you OK?” No, “Are you sure of what you said?” And most of all, no, “We love you, no matter what.”
I didn’t eat, but I took a shower and got ready to go. At 9:30 my father called me and we left for the church, my parents in the front of the car and me in the back. There was, of course, no conversation.
When we arrived at the church, we got out of the car and entered the parish hall. Rev. Braithwaite was there to meet us. He invited me into his office.
I went in and we sat on opposite ends of his sofa. I could see that he was trying to put me at ease, but it wasn’t working.
“Christian,” he began, “I have known you all your life. I have known you to be a good, Christian member of the church and to take part faithfully in all of the worship and activities of the church. So I find it difficult to understand how you can say that you are a homosexual.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect, Sir, but I don’t see that my homosexuality has anything to do with Christianity or the church.”
“But it’s a sin, Christian. The Bible is very much against it. Let me read you a few passages.” He did. I thought they were ambiguous at best, but I didn’t say anything.
“I still don’t think that my private life is any business of the church. We haven’t done any harm. We love each other. Doesn’t Jesus tell us to love each other? Where does he say that we should love each other except for homosexuals? If the church doesn’t love me, then how can I love the church?”
“Christian, homosexuality is a way of living. It’s a choice you make. You don’t have to be homosexual. Even if you have urges, you don’t have to act on them, because they’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Reverend, I don’t agree. Why would anybody choose to be a homosexual? Do you really know what society does to homosexuals? Do you really know what it’s like to be teased and rejected by your classmates and to be shunned by adults, including your own parents and your pastor? Why would anybody choose this?”
“I can’t answer that, Christian. Only you or another homosexual could answer that.”
“Then I will. The answer is that we don’t choose it. We are queers because we were born that way. That’s the only reason I can think of.”
“But if that were true, Christian, then you would be saying that God must have made you that way. That’s not possible.”
“Why not? If God made me, then he made me a homosexual. Does God make mistakes? Does he hate his own creation? That doesn’t make sense to me. The only thing that makes sense to me is that God made me this way. I don’t know why. I don’t understand why I have to suffer when others don’t. But that’s the way it is.”
The Reverend thought for quite awhile. Finally, he said, “You’re really sure about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What if I could recommend to your parents a psychiatrist who could cure you of this sickness?”
“I don’t think he could cure me, because I don’t think I’m sick.”
“Very well, Christian. I’m very disappointed in you. I suppose I’ll need to talk with your parents.”
He called them into his office and gave them the name and phone number of a psychiatrist he knew who specialized in “curing homosexuals.”
As we stood up ready to leave, the Reverend looked at me and said, “I certainly hope this doctor will be able to help you.”
I looked back and answered,” He won’t, because I won’t go.”
My father spun me around and slapped me hard in the face. “Don’t you ever talk to Reverend Braithwaite like that again. Do you understand me?”
I put my hand to my cheek. It hurt, but worse than that was the hurt I felt inside because my father struck me. He had never done it before in my life. I yelled, “YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” and raced out the door, out of the building, and down Maple Street. After about ten blocks I slowed to a walk. I was stunned by what had happened. Tears flooded my eyes and poured down my face. I have no idea how far I walked before I became aware of a car moving beside me. I continued walking, not looking at the car. I heard my mother say quietly, “Christian, please get in the car.” I stopped, trying to think what to do. Finally I gave up, opened the rear door, and got in the car.
On the way home, Mom asked my father, “Paul, was that really necessary?”
“Yes. Christian is not going to talk to other people like that and he is going to the psychiatrist to be cured. I will not have a queer son.”
At home again, I stormed up to my room and locked the door. I threw myself on my bed and sobbed and sobbed. I was exhausted. I felt as though everybody thought I was disgusting and dirty. I couldn’t get out of my mind that my own father had hit me. I knew now that nobody truly loved me except Peter, and I couldn’t even talk to him. I had been forbidden to by my parents.
I heard my father come up the stairs and try the door. “Christian, let me in.”
“No. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you; I hate Mother; I hate myself; I hate my life!”
“Christian, we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about! You hit me! You think I’m disgusting and sinful! There’s no more to say!”
After a few moments I heard him walk away.
Later, my mother came to the door. “Christian, I have some food for you. Can I come in?”
I didn’t answer.
“Christian, can we please at least talk?”
I still didn’t answer.
She rattled the door a couple of times and said, “I’ll leave the food outside your door.” I heard her put down the tray and walk away.
I was utterly confused. Wasn’t I the same kid I was two days ago? Why were my parents so angry with me? Why had they turned against me? Why did my father hit me? Did he really hate me that much? Did my mother really think I was disgusting? Is being homosexual really so terrible? I couldn’t help it. I was queer. Was I going to go through life laughed at and despised? Was life really worth that?
All night I lay wide awake, crying from time to time, but mostly feeling despondent. Everything was crushing me—my own feelings of guilt, Rodney’s death, my fight with Carl, and now this.
When I finally got off the bed and looked at my clock, it was nearly 5:00 am. Quietly, I opened my bedroom door and went down the hall to my parents’ bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet and took what I wanted. I unwrapped it, and went back to my bathroom. I started to run warm water into the bathtub. While it was running, I took off my clothes, folded them neatly, and put them on the toilet seat. I didn’t want to leave a mess for anybody to have to clean up.
Then I climbed into the tub and lay there for a few moments, soothed by the warm water. The thought crossed my mind that this would be the last sensation I would feel. It really wasn’t that bad.
Then I took the razor blade and slit my wrists.