It Can Wait

            “So where do you want to go before prom?”

            We were walking to lunch; class had just ended. Spring was making its first real appearance, and all was calm. L was excited that I had asked her out to prom. She wasn't even going to go that year, but since I asked, then of course she would go. She, like most of the girls in my class, was head-over-heels in love with me. It was only a few weeks before prom, and I had never heard my fun-sized girlfriend talk so fast. As usual, I had other things on my mind, so I wasn't really hearing what she had to say… which would be why she smacked my arm.

            “Are you even listening to me?”

            I nodded my head, and suggested a nice restaurant that wasn't so nice that our wallets would be ravaged. There were plenty of cheap places in our small country area, but of course the prom itself would be held out of the area. This meant, to me, an annoying amount of planning: finding somewhere to eat, making reservations, finding directions on how to actually get there. She continued talking after that, but I still had other things on my mind.

For as long as I could remember, it had been like that. Overly excited girl, plus a sweet, loving, nicer-than-he-should-be me, equals one of the cutest couples ever. I had been nominated for homecoming king for two years now, and was on the ballot for prom, as well. People liked me well enough. As long as I kept playing their game, their way, I would be fine.

            The major downside to this equation, however, is that I have never actually been interested in that way. I've known for quite some time that I’m not like most guys. I’m simply not that interested in girls. I mean, most of my best friends are girls. I often found myself liking a girl a lot, and being really great best friends with her, and then she would want to start dating. Of course, I would date her.

            There I would be, time and time again, romantically involved with this girl that I only had feelings of friendship toward, rather than feelings of love. Inevitably, the girl would get upset because I didn't want to make-out, or feel her breasts, or have sex with her.

It just wasn't in me.

            It was at an early age that I discovered how hateful people could really be. I didn't grow up in a bad part of town, just a part where people all shared the same opinions. The community would always get along well, as long as no one challenged their ideas. A peaceful, conservative, white Christian community. That’s what I grew up with.

            I remember times when people would cause trouble. A black person might try to join our church, or a scandal might arise where so-and-so slept with the wife of a different so-and-so. The harshness of my community would deal with these people. One time specifically, the father of one of my friends tried to buy out a bunch of land to build some sort of complex. The community caused such an uproar, that it turned out I couldn’t see my friend any longer.

            Times like those made me realize that my community would rather base their judgments on ideas that others have. No individual person ever had an idea unless they asked their neighbors what they thought first. I couldn’t take that. I knew inside that I was different from these people. I knew that I couldn't just stand by and let hate and bigotry control me like it did those people. I hated the way they thought and acted. Because of their actions, I formed very strong opinions on justice and fairness. It also gave me a sense of fear: a fear that I would be shunned for being different. And no one was more different or less tolerated than gays….

            “Move it, faggot!” Someone gave me a shove, in a hurry to get to lunch. I glared at him running ahead of us.

            “You know he wasn't saying anything about you, right?” L asked me, looking up at me. I just shrugged. Yeah, I know. It’s just one of those terms people use without thinking.

Gays, Faggots, Homos, Pansies, and Queers. It left a sour taste on the tongue. Being called any one of those names would be cause for a fight. And why wouldn't it? Everyone in the area knew what those people were like.

            Faggots were monstrosities on Earth. They wore girls’ clothing and talked with lisps. They were rapists and pedophiles, sexual predators stalking any guy they laid their eyes on. The term described people with limp wrists and condemned them to hell. No one ever wanted to be one of them. In my mind, however, none of those things were true. They were simply stereotypes people had invented to shun a group of people they didn’t like or agree with. I knew, however, that people wouldn't think about that. Back home, in the small country area I lived, there were plenty of hillbilly rednecks who knew exactly how to deal with these freaks of nature…

            She hit me again. “There’s something on your mind—I can tell!”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You just agreed to wear a neon-orange tuxedo to prom! I was testing to see if you were paying attention.” She was good. I had to admit. She knew I would never wear something that bright to a dance.

            “It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about an assignment for English I have to finish.” That’s right Walt. Blame it on school work again. One day you will have to tell her the truth, you know. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

            I really did care about L. I cared about her more than she could know. I cared about her so much that I was actually hiding my true self from her for even longer just so she could be happy. At least, that was what I told myself. The truth was that I was afraid—afraid to let people know how I really felt. I would never be treated the same if they knew.

            I couldn’t be gay, after all. I didn’t wear tight fitting clothing, or dress like a girl. I bought all my clothes at Goodwill, so I obviously didn’t dress that fashionably (unless you are ninety years old). I didn’t have the earrings or the lisp. I was still a virgin too! I couldn’t be one of those creepy guys who look around for sex like those homos do. I didn’t go out and rave to dance music at clubs while hyped up on drugs either. I was just a good student—a nice guy who followed the rules.

            “Why don’t you ever do your work on time? I mean, I know EVERYONE turns Mr. T’s work in late, but you never really struck me as the type.” She never would let go. We turned the corner, walking toward the cafeteria. At least there I might be able to drown my thoughts with the voices of all the students talking over everyone else.

            I often tried to drown out those thoughts, to find distractions. That’s part of why I had a girlfriend. She distracted me, made me feel normal. I hated what I felt inside. I hated who I was—every morsel of my being, I felt, was an abomination. I needed the distraction. It only worked on rare occasions, though, and that day was not one of them.  All around me, I saw those I wanted. People I knew I could never have, not if I wanted to keep my identity. Not if I wanted to stay safe....

            “Oh my god!” L cried. French fries, chicken nuggets, and chocolate milk flew as a guy at a table near us accidentally tripped, flipping his tray into the face of the guy across from him. I pulled L aside so she wouldn’t get in the way of the lunch-covered student who was, at that moment, climbing over the table toward the student who had just tossed his food. Teachers, quickly swarmed to the area, but not before the dairy covered teen landed a punch in face of the other.

            “You dirty faggot!” cried Milk-Stain. Blood dripped down from the nose of the other boy, the one on the ground, the one that everyone at my school knew was gay, even if he wasn’t ‘out’. They were both headed for the principal’s office. They would both be punished, regardless of the fact that only one of them did any fighting.

            There were other reasons that I couldn’t say anything, and one of them had just punched that kid in the face. I knew that the gay community was discriminated against. If people knew I wasn’t interested in girls, then they would, of course, think I was gay. I was mortified of being treated like that. I had already experienced some of that before, and didn’t want to go back.

Two years before, I found myself getting hit by and picked on by a group of guys calling me gay. (There’s no way they could’ve known though, because even I wasn’t sure at that point.) Why were they doing this? Turns out, my best friend had come out of the closet, and everyone assumed that I was his boyfriend. The rumor spread like wildfire and caused immediate repercussion. My current girlfriend, one I had actually had since middle school, dumped me because she didn’t want to be a “fag hag.” I had people kick in my locker, steal stuff from my backpack, and vandalize my belongings. I was even being confronted by my parents and church elders! It all eventually cooled off when J had to transfer to a different school.

J and I were extremely close friends. We did everything together. Thinking back on it now, I believe we connected so well because we both knew we were different. We opened up to each other all the time, and never kept things from each other. Being friends with J made me think about things though. I knew even then that I was different. Seeing all that he had to deal with, just to affirm his identity made me proud. I could see that he had finally come to terms with who he was, and even though he faced hate and torment because of it, he was stronger willed now—stronger now that he was sure of who he was.

            “Did you know that J’s parents divorced because he was gay?” I asked L.

            “What? That’s stupid. I hate people sometimes. It was his dad, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “I never did like him. His dad, I mean.”

            It was when she would say things like that I felt that she loved me enough to be okay with me, no matter who I was. My parents, however, I knew would react differently.

            My mother, paragon of acceptance, would be okay with it, given time. I know she loves me for who I am, no matter who that may be. My father, however, was an entirely different story. I loved him like a son should love his father, but I never could get along with him. He had so many expectations of me. I was supposed to be the perfect son for him—I was the one that he tried for, after all—but I could never be that son he always wanted. I couldn’t be the football star with the girlfriend that would make everyone jealous. I was always sure that, as much as he and my mom fought already, if he were to ever find out about me, the fighting would get so bad that they would divorce.

            Growing up I can see how I must’ve disappointed my father time-and-time again. I was never the sport-oriented son he wanted. I played soccer for two seasons, but I ended up giving that up. He pushed me to be a hard worker then—to be a man. He had me perform tasks well outside my comfort area, such as chopping wood for fire, or working construction with him. I was never the outdoors type, and I often turned out to be pretty lazy as well.

            Perhaps it was because of my father’s desires that I developed a sense of manhood that was almost completely contrary to his own beliefs. For my father, Man was supposed to be big, strong, and powerful. Man chooses a wife and has children. Man provides for his family by having a job, and it is the family’s job to support Man’s home. Man’s son would learn directly from Man in order to become Man himself. Man was above all and therefore could treat all as such.

            My version of Man, however, was based on different morals. I believed that Man is defined by how one treats those around him. Man strives to be the best he can, but would never treat anyone as if they were any less than he. Man can be Man, without needing a wife. All he needs is caring.

            When I told my dad about my version of Man, he called me a pussy. I was a pansy little child, and it was his responsibility to wear that idea out of me. I made many trips to the woods to grab a switch, and would of course have to go back again because I never got one good enough. I fully understood that I was a disappointment to him.

            I did however, excel in one area: academics. I was the smart child, and for that I was praised, but I could always tell that my father wished I had been more of a man than I was turning out to be…

            She was giving me that look again. “You know I love you, no matter what, right?” She could see straight through me. She knew I had something serious on my mind, and that it was about me and her.

            “As I love you with all my heart, darling.” Every time I uttered those words, I felt the guilt build up in me. I couldn’t live with it all. I mean, I did love her, but I wasn’t in love with her. I couldn’t keep living like this. I had to tell her the truth.

            “L, I have to tell you something really important.”

            “Yes?” She looked up at me, cutest smile on her face. She was holding a Prom Girl catalog in her hand, several pages marked with post-it notes. I looked from her, over to the guy sitting across the table, perfect smile and all, chatting away to his friend beside him. This was it. I was about to do it. I was about to tell her everything.

 Looking back at her, I felt a knot tie in my stomach.

 I can’t. I can’t do it.

            “I love you. Just wanted you to know.” She smiled and turned back to her book, giggling because I had made her happy. I guess that was something I was good at: making others happy. Maybe I could live with that. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living a lie. I knew, however, that I couldn’t live being fake. I had to prove to myself who I was. I had to discover myself. I would tell her, but not now. Let her be happy for now.

 It could wait until later.

***

“Do you think I’m preeeetty?” S asked. Our director was throwing a party to celebrate the closing of RENT, so there I sat in his basement-bar: the un-entertained designated driver. I was caught up in my own thoughts when S collapsed onto the couch beside me. She held in her hand the tenth Solo cup that I had seen her with that night. Her breath, as she slurred out her question to me, stank of san gria.

            With the naïve hope she would leave, I told her what she wanted to hear. Instead of leaving, however, she put her arm around me. “You’re a cutie, you know that?” I could barely keep myself from laughing as she sat there and hit on me. I tuned her out when she started telling me her life story.

            Hampden-Sydney had been an entirely new experience for me. College. I had met new people. I had experienced life being out and open. And the year was drawing to a close, too. Soon I would have to go back home and deal with my family again.

They all knew who I was then. They all knew I was gay. They had heard it through the grapevine, and I confirmed it. They claimed they weren’t mad. They claimed that everything was the same. But I knew that things were different now. I noticed when the phone calls became less frequent. I noticed the way that, when we did talk, they were careful with their words. My ever-faithful siblings relayed to me about our parents’ fights. They used to fight about money, alcohol, and my older sister’s shenanigans.

Now they fought about me.

“I bet all the boys fight over you!” S was practically in my lap at this point. She had spilled a bit of her fruity drink down my leg, and the wetness had brought me back from my thoughts. I grabbed a randomly discarded shirt and used it to mop up my leg. I then coaxed the drink from S’s hand and placed it on the table. She began to whine for her ‘juice’, but I laid her head down and began to stroke her hair, alleviating her complaints. “You’re so sexy from this angle!” she told me.

I had always had a hard time believing that I was physically attractive. I still do. But when I came to college, I drew the attention of every man-loving guy who went to the school, as well as some from the neighboring towns. Suddenly, I was given any guy I wanted, and I took advantage of that. My first months were spent trying to find and keep a guy. I kept trying to form a relationship, but it turned out that they weren’t interested that way.

A good three months into the year, I realized that I didn’t really care anymore. There were still guys who wanted me, but I wasn’t interested.  At first, I thought that I just wasn’t interested in the guys around the school anymore. I tried contacting guys from back home again, but after speaking with them, I found that they were all the same: sex-starved horn-dogs who could care less about forming an actual relationship. And since I didn’t have the same desires as them, they lost interest.

So now, I was stuck. I didn’t seem to have any interest in guys, and I still had no interest in girls. All I had was this label.

            “Why aren’t you drinking, silly? It’s yummy!” S’s hangover was going to be terrible, I could tell. She was switching topics every five seconds at this point. “How come I never see you at any parties, huh?” If she wasn’t intoxicated, I probably would’ve tried to answer her questions. It’s not like I didn’t answer them almost daily, anyway. But my explanation would be lost on her.

Back home, my coming-out didn’t even have an effect on the relationship I had with my community, because I was still fairly unknown. I wasn’t the type of person to go out and meet new people. I stuck to my home, and left only for work.

            Now that I was at college, however, I had no choice but to face the community. Unfortunately for me, these people were even less accepting than the ones back home. When I got to Hampden-Sydney, they already knew I was gay. It was on my Facebook, after all. I didn’t think it would be a problem.

            Now my fears of being gay had been realized. People here don’t just ignore me like the people back home. Now people go out of their way to call me faggot, queer, homo. I get pushed as I walked by people. I can’t make friends.

My roommate was occasionally hostile, even to the point where I had to switch rooms for fear of my safety. I felt alone. I had a few friends, but they were pretty much all gay, themselves. The only reason, it felt, that we bonded is because we were in the same boat.

            And even within my group of gay friends, I was further put out of the crowd. These guys were the gays that people talked about: fashion-obsessed, bitchy, and snobbish. They treated ‘gay’ more like a lifestyle than a way of life. I had nothing against them, but since I was none of those things, they often picked on me as well. I was alone and trapped.

            I dropped S off at her dorm. I even walked her inside and passed her off to her roommate, who thanked me for bringing her back safely. The drive back to my school was short, but plenty long to think about everything. What did I actually want? Would I ever be able to figure myself out?

            I thought about how the day had gone. I thought about how, when I went to turn in a paper earlier, a group of guys had called me names. That paper had me so proud. I didn’t bother remembering their faces. I didn’t listen to their torment. I was past that.

            I left. I left the paper sitting in the box outside my professor’s office with those guys who called me faggot, who threatened me with words. My breath drew short as I thought about my paper. I raced to my professor’s office to check on the paper. It was there. But it wasn’t in the box outside his door. It was on the floor. Balled up. Like trash for the janitor to find in the morning.

            I picked the trash up, folding open my desecrated pride. Scrawled across the front in black ink was the word FAG in large letters. I turned with the paper and began to walk back to my room. I was shaking and crying before I even realized. I had been vandalized. This work that I was so proud of had been attacked. It hurt worse than if they had actually hit me. The product of several nights’ worth of digging through painful memories had been vandalized, balled up, and discarded as though my work didn’t matter.

            I could always print out another copy. I told myself that over-and-over, but still…. I shook violently and cowered behind a bush. I was afraid. I looked down at the paper. “It Can Wait”, I read. “’So where do you want to go before prom?’”

            At that very moment, there was nothing more I wanted than to go back to that point. prom. When the most important thing was where I wanted to take L to dinner. I read my paper. It felt like an old story. Uncompleted. It ended. Without an end. There was no real resolution. It left the reader wanting. I had had no more to write, but now, after what happened, I felt like I had an ending.

This paper has taught me to be strong. I can endure through the issues I’ve been presented. I know I’m gay. I know it’s hard to deal with, but I believe I’m strong enough to survive the trials. I never thought I’d be able to say that to myself, but I finally have. I know that there will still be hate against me. There will probably be more violent acts to come. But I will have to deal with them when they come.

            I wiped my tears and marched back to my room. I went directly to my computer, and began to write. I had to get it all down while it was still fresh in my mind. When I was done, I went to sleep. In the morning, I typed these last few sentences to wrap it up. In a minute, I will print it and turn it in.