You're just a faggot No history faces you this morning A faggot's dreams are scarlet Bad blood bled from words that scarred (1) SCENE ONE:
A home room in a Catholic High School in South Philadelphia. The boy sits quietly in the first aisle, third desk, reading a book. He does not look up, not even for a moment. He is hoping no one will remember he is sitting there. He wishes he were invisible. The teacher is not yet in the classroom so the other boys are talking and laughing loudly.
Suddenly, a voice from beside him:
"Hey, you're a faggot, ain't you?"
The boy does not answer. He goes on reading his book, or rather pretending he is reading his book. It is impossible to actually read the book now.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!"
The boy still does not look up. He is so scared his heart is thumping madly; it feels like it is leaping out of his chest and into his throat. But he can't look up.
"Faggot, I'm talking to you!"
To look up is to meet the eyes of the tormentor.
Suddenly, a sharpened pencil point is thrust into the boy's arm. He jolts, shaking off the pencil, aware that there is blood seeping from the wound.
"What did you do that for?" he asks timidly.
"Cause I hate faggots," the other boy says, laughing. Some other boys begin to laugh, too. A symphony of laughter. The boy feels as if he's going to cry. But he must not cry. Must not cry. So he holds back the tears and tries to read the book again. He must read the book. Read the book.
When the teacher arrives a few minutes later, the class quiets down. The boy does not tell the teacher what has happened. He spits on the wound to clean it, dabbing it with a tissue until the bleeding stops. For weeks he fears some dreadful infection from the lead in the pencil point.
The boy is walking home from school. A group of boys (two, maybe three, he is not certain) grab him from behind, drag him into an alley and beat him up. When he gets home, he races up to his room, refusing dinner ("I don't feel well," he tells his mother through the locked door) and spends the night alone in the dark wishing he would die....
These are not fictitious accounts--I was that boy. Having been branded a sissy by neighborhood children because I preferred jump rope to baseball and dolls to playing soldiers, I was often taunted with "hey sissy" or "hey faggot" or "yoo hoo honey" (in a mocking voice) when I left the house.
To avoid harassment, I spent many summers alone in my room. I went out on rainy days when the street was empty.
I came to like being alone. I didn't need anyone, I told myself over and over again. I was an island. Contact with others meant pain. Alone, I was protected. I began writing poems, then short stories. There was no reason to go outside any more. I had a world of my own.
they'll single you out Their laughter will leave your ears ringing like the church bells which In the schoolyard...