The Color Purple....

When I was in junior high school I contemplated suicide (actually earlier than that.) Unlike the gay teens who took their own lives in one week’s time a few weeks ago I was not out at the time. I knew I wasn’t like everyone else but I didn’t know why or even what made me different. What I did know was each day at school was hell. If it wasn’t people refusing to let me in the school while I stood in the freezing snow, it guys tripping me in the hallway or chasing me home almost every day.

When I was growing up, I was a shy, skinny, pigeon toed kid with glasses and an egg shaped head. I wasn’t athletic or coordinated and would jump if you said “BOO” at me. Like a predator stalking its prey, bullies zero right in on the weakest one in the herd. That was me. I was called sissy, girl, baby, wimp, wuss, pussy, fag, queer, faggot, four eyes, egghead and any number of names a youthful mind determined to beat you down can come up with. I was pushed down, chased, kicked, spit on, hit, slapped, slammed, grabbed, hair pulled, dunked and had things thrown at me (rocks being the most popular.) These were not occasional encounters; this was six hours a day, five days a week during the school year. Gym class seemed to be the worst time of the school day, the locker room especially. The one place in school where we were essentially unsupervised, so the gloves came off and torment began. It was a coin toss which was worse gym or taking that long walk home after school. There were some days I wondered if I would make it home without something happening to me or breaking out into tears.

It just before winter break, the snow was falling and I had made it to school without being chased or pelted with snowballs filled with gravel. I walked over to the usual spot where my friends and I hung out before school started. Once I was in sight of them (“my friends”) they began to spit at me to see who could hit me first. Something snapped that morning, if there was any such thing as a blind rage I was in one. I ran over to the smallest one of our gang, grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against a brick wall. I told him, “KNOCK IT OFF MOTHER FUCKER!” He didn’t see that coming and to be honest neither did I. I dropped him on the ground and walked away. I heard one of the other guys say to the kid, “You had a perfect shot man. You could have got him in the face.” He knew better at the time. He wasn’t sure what I would do and neither did I. I don’t remember what happened the rest of the day in school; one because it was so long ago and two I’ve blocked most of that time in my life out.

After the last bell and the school day was done it was time for the nervous walk home. Granted it wasn’t far from the junior high to my house but it felt like forever. Unfortunately this day was no different from the rest. The slush and snow balls came flying at me about a block away from school. I couldn’t throw very hard or far so my only course of action was to run home. The one thing I could do best when I was younger was run FAST. Even in six inches of snow while wearing boots. But no matter how fast I ran they seemed to keep up calling me chicken while continuing to hurl wads of slush and snow at me. One of them hit me right in the face. During the chase I ran passed a couple of older kids from my neighborhood that happened to be home in early from the high school. Seeing me being chased by a couple of other boys who were throwing snowballs at me they decided to join in the fun. They started throw snowballs too, at me. By the way, by this time I’m wet, scared, hurt and crying. After seemed to be a chase that lasted an hour I made it home. Once I was safely on the other side of the door I collapsed on the stair leading up to our apartment and broke down. While I was there someone knocked on the door, it was the two older neighbor boys. I opened the door standing there wet, out of breath and sobbing. They tried to apologize for throwing snowballs at me (I guess they thought it was all in fun) but I didn’t want to hear it. I screamed at them to, “GO TO HELL!” and slammed the door then ran upstairs.

After changing into some dry clothes and washing the dirty snow off of my face I ran into my bed room then closed the door. I laid down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling wondering how I was going to go back to school the next day. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take another day of living in fear. It seemed like no one was on my side. My friends spit on me that morning. Every time I mentioned something like this to an adult I was met with, ‘Don’t be a cry baby!” or “Are you sure it was that bad?” or the best one was “Just ignore them.” That’s kind hard to do that someone pins you down while the other one punches you in the stomach HARD. I just wanted it to stop. I didn’t understand why they came after me all the time. I started to cry again. That’s when I decided to end it. It would make it all go away, right? They could hurt me anymore, right? That’s what I would do to make it all go away. So I hopped off the bed and headed to the bathroom.

I opened the medicine cabinet and took out every pill bottle I saw. I figured I would take all of them, lay down and it would all be done. In the back of my mind I thought I would end up in a better place. Next I grabbed some water and headed back to my room. I took out a bunch of pills from each bottle and put them on my bed. I had at least twenty-five pills easy, oh and some Nyquil I figured I would down that too. I didn’t write a note. I thought I would just take all of this and the rest of the world would take care of itself. They could find someone else to pick on now. Years of all that shit heaped on me each day built up to this moment. I was ready. Until I thought about who would find me first, my mom. Then I thought about how my grandmother would feel and my aunt. I would be able to go back to our family diner anymore. I would see the sweet, old Italian ladies who stopped in everyday for coffee, who would give me huge hugs and who were ALWAYS happy to see me. Then I thought about the next day and how there wouldn’t be one, it was Friday. I usually spent the weekends at my grandmother’s house and the diner. I wouldn’t be able to do any of those things again. I looked down at the pile of pills on my bed, scooped them up and put them back in their bottles. I returned everything back to the medicine cabinet including the Nyquil, went back to my bedroom, turned on my TV and fell asleep.

The next day I went back to school, the bullying continued and didn’t’ stop for the next few years until the last semester of my senior year of high school. I’m not sure how it happened but that’s when (to borrow a passage from Kirk Read’s book “How I Learned to Snap”) I found my tribe. The choir, band and stage geeks became my family (and most still are to this day.) We all hung out in this little hallway just outside the band and choir rooms. It was our haven, where we could laugh, sing, dance and just be ourselves without fear of persecution. We had parties, called each other, went to football games (not that we knew what was going on) and to the movies. No one cared what you wore, if you were gay or straight, people liked you warts and all. We stood by each other and we made sure no one felt alone. After I stumbled into that world things got better. To be honest I cannot remember most of what happened to me my years in elementary, junior high and some of high school. But I can tell you everything that happened in the last semester of my senior year. That is the time I’ll remember. The time things got better.

http://www.thetrevorproject.org/
http://itgetsbetter.org/