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| Sadness Courtesy of Wikimedia CC-3 |
As I cleaned out my filing cabinet so a new year’s worth of valuable stuff will fit
into it, I came across some things I’d kept from my college years. Dried and
cracked and yellowed as they were (see last week’s post on aging), one piece of
paper caught my attention. It was an essay or more likely just the anguished
expression of emotions one of my college classmates had put on paper. He read his
passionate prose to us in a dry, empty tone, and that – alone – caught my
attention. Only later, did I come to appreciate the words themselves.
As I reread his piece,
it occurred to me that perhaps he – I’ll call him James – had seen the future
more clearly than the rest of us. Attitudes about gays have changed drastically since then.
There had been four of us in the little
impromptu group who read our scribblings to one another – a sort of critique
group before we knew what a critique group was. We had all been
discomfited by James’ bold words. This was Texas in a time when such sentiments
could get a fellow killed. But to the best of my knowledge, none of us ever betrayed
his confidence.
Although I long ago lost
touch with James, I have no hesitancy about reproducing his essay because he
gave permission to do whatever we wanted with it at the time of the reading.
His words follow. You can get some idea of how old this is by the fact he used
double spaces at the end of sentences – a carryover from when we did things on
typewriters. For those of you who don’t remember such devices, I’ll refer you
to Wikipedia or an ordinary dictionary.
******
CRY JUSTICE FOR
PETER!
By James
The righteous sneer, “Wicked!”
“Unnatural
deviants!” hiss the virtuous.
“Nay!”
my heart cries. “Tis love as deep and
abiding, as sweet and strong as any that enriches your lives.”
Pitying
their ignorance, I draw close my friend, my lover and move to pass them by. But it is not to be.
This
is the day noble Society and bigoted Religion extract a toll for flaunting archaic
injunctions. And just as with women
stepping beyond accepted boundaries, and Black slaves chafing against their
chains, and Native Americans clinging stubbornly to their lands, the cost is exorbitant!
One
cretin tears away my beloved. Another, an
odiferous, unclean skinhead, pins my arms from behind. A florid man of dark, heavy jowls pummels
bloody my beautiful lover.
Oh,
how proud I am as Peter shakes them off and stands tall and manly to face his
tormentors. A foolish mistake, of
course, but one born of intrepid pride. The
barbarians beat him unmercifully until the growing unease of passive onlookers
give them pause.
Smaller,
weaker, and frankly not so valorous, I cannot fight my way free of him who holds
me helpless. Denied the consideration of
even one bone-crushing blow, I am shoved atop my fallen hero as the thugs
depart, laughing at the life-lesson they’ve taught the queers.
Sobbing
myself into paralysis, I watch helplessly as that precious, sensitive life ebbs
away on the hot, mean sidewalks of this accursed city.
And
who will give justice for this cruel horror?
Not the black-uniformed storm trooper who only considers that there is
one less faggot to plague the world. Nor the dog-collared clergy of the stately
cathedral towering mutely above us on the far corner. Certainly not a shocked
and aroused citizenry wrathfully demanding equity.
For
the first time, I truly understand that dreadful credo of the old West: “The only good Indian is a dead Indian!” It is equally applicable to me and others
like me.
But
beware! I have not perished, at least in
the flesh. And energized by my rage,
emboldened by my crushing loss, I live to plot terrible retribution on the
hide-bound, sanctimonious fools who dare impose their morality even to the
destruction of one superior to them in every way that counts. And do not look down long, blue noses and
proclaim: “Love it or leave it” to me.
For I am legion in your midst, claiming equal ownership of this, my
homeland.
Yes,
I am here to stay. And in my own time, in
my own way, I will raise my voice and Cry Justice for Peter!
******
The incident happened elsewhere, so I do not know if James’
lover was actually killed, as is implied by the writing, and he would not discuss the matter further. But there is no
doubt in my mind that a violent attack took place. James was a scarred
individual, on the inside, at least.
Thanks
for indulging me in some more nostalgia. And keep on reading, guys.
Don
New Posts are
published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
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