Math-A-Thon

Going back to getting kids to do crap for presents, let's discuss the Math-A-Thon.

When I was in elementary and middle school, each year, St. Jude's hospital for kids with incurable, heartbreaking diseases would show up at our door to hawk their cheesy wares. The point was to raise money for the hospital to aid in the research and fight against things like leukemia and other cancers. We were to con our parents and other neighbors into "sponsoring" us on a math test. For each math question answered correctly on the test, a person could donate money, like laps in a walk-a-thon. Most people would sponsor me for a penny or nickel, occasionally a dime. The first year we did it, my uncle sponsored me for a dollar a question. He was unaware that little Curtis was nicknamed "Wayne the Brain" in elementary school, and it ended up costing him somewhere around $70.

All for the sick children.

But the best part about the Math-A-Thon wasn't the fact that we were helping other children who couldn't help themselves. No, it was the swag. Just like with Accelerated Reader, the points that we racked up by answering those questions and making all that money translated into awesome prizes for us. Most of them were cheap, like pencil toppers and erasers, but some were a little swankier, like 12-inch black and white TVs, stereo sets and technicolor cordless phones. I had my eyes on that TV.

The one in my room was actually bigger, but it was one my parents had bought for my sister and that I had eventually inherited. I wanted a TV that was mine and mine alone, that I had worked my fingers to the bone for (this was the closest I would come to actually working in my youth.)

I worked the streets of Williamsburg like an old, experienced prostitute: Nickels here, dimes there, occasionally even a quarter from an old person with nothing better to do with their money. And then came the day of receiving our results from our "Funbook," the workbook full of math problems that we were to complete. I yearned so much for the TV that I had spent too much time saying goodbye to my own and had neglected a few of the problems at the end. When I saw that I was a few hundred dollars short of the TV, my heart was crushed.

Who cared about little Jimmy with fetal alcohol syndrome? I wanted that TV, dammit.

In the end, I settled for the dark teal cordless phone, a set of headphones that plugged into the phone, serving as both the receiver and the transmitter, so it was completely hands-free talking, and an awesome small duffle bag with the Math-A-Thon logo on the side, pictured below:

I used it as my backpack for the entire year. It was handy, and I felt pretty cool carrying something that announced my math prowess with such style and sophistication.

My friends, however, despised that bag. I would usually tail behind them in going anywhere, especially upstairs to our classes. The bag would swing and sway mercilessly, knocking the back of their knees and sending them tumbling onto the steps. The bag had become a weapon, and had to be destroyed.

When they thought I wasn't listening or wasn't in the room, they would plot the bag's demise. 

"We could burn it," one would say to another.

"No, it's protected by magic. Fire can't touch it," the other would reply.

(That line might instead be taken from the movie Hocus Pocus, starring Bette Midler, Kathy Najimy and Sarah Jessica Parker, but I don't doubt that it is reminiscent of what my friends would do.)

When I finally grew out of the bag and it became too cumbersome to lug around with my heavier high school books, I relinquished it into eternal majesty. And by that, I mean I gave it to my friend and she threw it in her fireplace. 

They danced on the ashes.

Teeth

I've never had a perfect smile. I thankfully avoided the pain and suffering of wearing braces through my childhood, but there were other tribulations to be had with my teeth.

Around the time of puberty when my face started taking shape of the adult skull it would become, my jaws started acting funny. Occasionally I would yawn and my lower jaw would painfully spasm and become stuck open. The only way to get it to close was to open it wider or wait for the excruciating seconds to pass before the muscle would calm down and I could once again close my mouth. After a few months of this, I had had enough. My mother took me to the orthodontist to get things checked out.

I can't remember what he said the issue was. What I can remember is that he prescribed a "stint," a yellow, opaque plastic retainer that I would have to wear constantly for the first three months of the treatment. The retainer only extended halfway up my teeth and was very thick and clearly noticeable. I despised wearing it. I rarely spoke for those months, not wanting to open my mouth to reveal the hideousness inside. I was already heckled for having a gigantic head. Balloon boy, they called me. They didn't need any additional ammunition. Thankfully after my sentence had elapsed I was released on probation, only having to wear it to sleep.

My teeth aren't particularly straight either. Most of my teeth are crooked, the front two being the worst. They used to be quite a bit more crooked, but thanks to some cheap dental work from a line drive to my mouth, they straightened up a bit. I was playing third base. The ball was hit hard at my feet and bounced quicker than I could react. It hit me so hard it nearly drove my teeth through my front lip, but I was only out for an inning before coach put me back in.

The worst experience with my dental history is probably when I had to have my wisdom teeth taken out. I was experiencing rather severe headaches, and after a few x-rays, the orthodontist said they were growing in against my jaw bone and needed to come out.  My sister had previously had hers removed, and I clearly remember listening to her sob uncontrollably from her bedroom for hours after her surgery, followed by sipping soup and eating jello for a week.

I was certainly not looking forward to that experience.

The surgery was pretty quick, and I don't remember any of it, including waking up. According to my dad (the one elected to take the day off and drive me to and from the office,) when they brought me out of the anesthesia, the nurses told me to be very careful and take small steps so I didn't fall. On the walk to the car, one nurse flanked my left side with my dad on the right for support. Remembering to be careful, I began taking small steps. Apparently I took the nurse too seriously, as each step was approximately one inch farther than the last. It took me 15 minutes to get to the car.

The waiting room cheered when they shut the car door.

On the way home, I remember finally becoming conscious of my surroundings, but I couldn't see. My eyes had crossed and no matter how hard I tried to focus, would not come uncrossed. My mouth was packed full of gauze, and when I tried to tell my dad that I couldn't see, or that I was hungry, he couldn't understand my muffled pleas. I had learned a little sign language that summer, so I tried some of that out as well. By little, I mean words like giraffe and keyboard. No syntax, grammar or anything that would really benefit me in this situation. Of course, my father does not know any sign language whatsoever, so my mumbled huffs and interpretive dance from the passenger seat were lost on him.

To make things worse, 25 yards from the on ramp to the interstate, the car died. I motioned to my dad that I could steer while he pushed, but considering I couldn't see straight or convey my thoughts to him, it probably was not the best idea. Thankfully a nice man came and helped dad push it off to the side of the road. My uncle (the mechanic) worked at a Ford dealership five minutes down the road, so we lucked out there.

I haven't had too many teeth-related issues since then. But occasionally, while intoxicated, I still attempt to speak in my own dialect of sign language.

The Devil Made Me Do It

What's the best way to make children do stuff? Presents.

Or, in the case of my elementary school, trips to the roller rink. That place was made of magic.

In Kentucky, during the beginning years of KERA (Kentucky Education Reform Act,) teachers were forced to increase our scores on state testing or experience the wrath of the state legislature through fund slashing and lay offs. One way that schools attempted to increase our critical thinking skills and reading comprehension was through a program called "Accelerated Reader." Each student, at the discretion of their teacher, was given a point goal for each trimester/semester that he/she was to reach. Students earned points by reading literature and then taking a standardized test on a computer that would quiz them over specifics from the book, and for students in higher grades, ploy analysis and questions about theme and voice. The larger, more difficult the read, the more points it was worth.

The system worked pretty well. It was difficult to cheat, as there was always someone in the computer lab making sure you weren't looking the answers up in a book or asking a friend while taking the test. In some grades there were "Accelerated Reader Stores," where you could cash in points for cool prizes like Troll pencil toppers and Dollar Store sunglasses.

But not every day was full of cheaply made slinkies and star-shaped erasers. In the 7th grade, my teacher (a hard ass named Mrs. Patrick) had assigned me 40 points for the trimester. This was a pretty hefty amount, one of the higher ones in the class, but I knew I could do it. I decided to work the system: I would read John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath," a book worth 48 points if you scored 100% on the test, and that would be the only book I would have to read that trimester. Even if I only missed three questions, I would still get at least 38 points, and I could read four Dr. Seuss books and take the tests for the remaining two points. I didn't take into account that the book was pretty dense reading, and though it was listed as an 8th grade level read, it was much heavier than my attention-destitute mind could handle. It took the entire eight weeks to read the book, and in the final days of the trimester, I took the test. I missed four of the 10 questions, giving me a 60% and earning me zero points.

I had screwed the pooch.

I was embittered. Incensed. Frustrated. I began badmouthing my teacher, saying how much I hated her and wished she would die. Why would she give me such a high point goal? She wouldn't let me retake the test. Such a bitch.

When report cards rolled out the next week, I expected to see my first ever F. I had even forewarned my parents that they wouldn't be pleased with the grade.

She The saint gave me a C. After all the nasty things I had said, she took pity on me because she knew I had worked hard and had almost received the score I needed to get points. I can't remember if I ever thanked her for that. I do remember later that year she had a stroke and had to be removed from the teaching team for a while, and my poor little worrisome mind couldn't help but think/know that I had something to do with her near-death experience.

But I tell you that story as a precursor to this one. Three years earlier, in the 5th grade, for all the students who achieved their point goals for the grading period, the teachers had planned a trip to the roller rink. That was the cool thing to do at the time, since none of us could drive and really, even if we could, the most exciting thing to do was go to the truck stop and talk to other people who had nothing else to do.

Riveting.

But I digress. We went to the Skate-Away, as it was called. At least before it tragically burned down and left numerous disco-loving roller skaters without a place to boogie. I couldn't roller skate at the time, only roller blade, so I brought my own awesome black roller blades with purple snaps. I was so cool. I enjoyed my time thoroughly, rolling around while listening to the "DJ" (read 45-year-old divorcé, most likely still living at home with his parents) play Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" at least five times. Then it was time to leave.

This trip took place in the dreary days of December, with temperatures dipping low and a thick fog settling over everything. When we got onto the bus, we noticed the windows were all coated with condensation. I took my seat beside my then-friend Travis, a fragile little ginger with his orange hair cut into what looked like a speed skater helmet.

Travis had also noticed the condensation and saw others drawing faces or writing their names in it throughout the bus. We were seated a little more than halfway back in the bus, with the teachers at the front. Travis nudged me, looked over at the window, and said, "Bet you won't write the F word backwards on the window." 

This was make or break time. Travis wasn't very high on the social ladder, but hell, neither was I. I had two choices: wimp out and tell him I didn't want to get in trouble, or do it and live in infamy.

I chose the latter. 

I made it probably 3/4s of the way through the backward C when I was interrupted by my name being shrieked out of the mouth of one of the teacher's assistants. The entire bus turned at once to gawk at me. 

Turning my head slowly, finger still on the glass, my eyes met hers. Her expression told me exactly what her mouth did not say: get rid of it. I quickly wiped the window with my sleeve and all evidence of my crime was gone. I crossed my arms and brooded the rest of the ride home, half annoyed that I got caught, and 75% terrified of the punishment I would receive. 

Yes, I was 125% ed.

We got back to school and my teacher told me that I needed to go to the principal's office immediately. 

Dr. Pate was a terrifying man: 6'5"; broad shouldered; skin made of leather; deep, booming voice. The mere thought of having to stand in front of him made me pee a little. I got to his office and found him sitting behind the desk. Before he could even get out a syllable, the water works started. Tears poured forth from my eyes like rain from angry clouds, and were controlled about as easily. He glanced up from his work, looked perturbed, and asked what I did. A jarbled mess of words and snot came out, but I think I got the basics across. He looked at me with a bit of a smirk and asked, "Did the devil make you do it?" Travis did somewhat resemble the devil in my mind, so I nodded yes and wiped my nose on my sleeve. He excused me from his office and sent me back to my teacher's classroom. 

When my sister came down to pick me up and take me home, my teacher met her at the door and explained what had happened. I was still crying, and furiously scribbling "I will never do bad things again," repeatedly onto a tear soaked sheet of paper. My sister asked if that was the punishment the principal had given me and my teacher shook her head. There had been no punishment. I was punishing myself. 

I was such a badass. 

My Journey Out of the Closet

It's been nearly seven years since I came out of the closet to my parents and sister. You'd think my aspirations to be a rhythmic gymnast - dancing, jumping and twirling through the house with my homemade ribbon of toilet paper - would have given it away, but they were somehow surprised.

I'd like to think that I wasn't a flamboyant child, but I know for a fact that I was. As referenced in an earlier entry, I wasn't terribly strong. Many of the hobbies I held were influenced by those of my sister. I loved playing with her dolls, especially doing their hair. For a long time I wanted to grow up and be a beautician/pharmacist. That's like working in Residence Life, right?

The first time I knew I was different was in the 6th grade. I had a huge crush on a boy in my class, one that a friend of mine also had a crush on. It was hard to see her succeeding where I wanted to so badly. And then, while on an Academic Team bus ride back from a long trip to Harlan, fate swung my way. I had been cutesy flirting with him the entire trip, and in the darkened rear of the bus, I laid down with my head in his lap and repeatedly told him what a good pillow he made. He never once told me to move, pushed me away, made fun of me or called me names. It was sheer bliss. Then, in the weeks following, I suppose his friends caught wind of the way he had been treating me and took to berating him the way they did me: fag, queer, gaymo, etc. I can still remember the look in his crystal blue eyes on the day that he walked away to join his friends instead of standing by me.

The summer after my 9th grade year, I was enrolled in a program called Upward Bound. It was an amazing place that I felt much more able to be myself instead of living in the confines of what everyone else wanted me to be. It was a home. That summer, my mother needed an emergency hysterectomy and didn't want me to attend the camp so that I could stay home and help her around the house when she needed it. But I told her that if I stayed, she wouldn't get any better because she would make me do everything for her. She finally agreed to let me go, so Berea became my sanctuary. During the 6 week program, the students had to go home for a break half way through. The first night I got home, my parents and sister asked me to come into the living room for a "family meeting." Since my family didn't have "family meetings," I was a little confused and very worried. When I sat down and saw my mother holding my journal, I knew what it was about.

Since my mother had had her hysterectomy, she couldn't get in and out of her bed easily due to the wooden water bed frame it was in, so she used mine instead. She asked my sister to change the sheets on the bed for her, and while doing so, my sister found the black and white journal that we had been given in English class that I had filled with random poems and short stories, and adorned with "Curtis loves:", followed by multiple boys names (including that of the boy mentioned above.) My parents castigated me with condescending phrases: We didn't raise you that way; You don't know what love is, you're eleven; How can you love a boy?  In the end, they had scared me enough to force the closet door shut tightly. They made me promise that I would try to be straight, to give girls a chance. And I promise you I did. I prayed every night for God to change me, to make this go away, to make me normal.

As time went on and my attraction and feelings for my male classmates and role models only intensified, I began losing faith in anything or anyone that would be helping me to change. The years of constant teasing, mockery and threats hardened me. I had become angst-ridden and constantly angry, even suicidal at one point. If it weren't for my sanctuary in UB and the people that helped me there, I wouldn't be here to write this blog.

Finally, going into my senior year of high school, I had had enough. I had lost 45 pounds, was feeling good about myself, and on enrollment day when we were picking up our schedules and locker combinations, I cussed out two bullies who told me that my newly grown goatee didn't make me look any less faggy. Three teachers heard, looked at me, smiled, and continued walking. Things started looking up: I started dating a boy at a rival high school that I had met in a gay Yahoo chat room on my HP dinosaur with dial-up internet. He was the field commander of their band and I thought he was just flawless. A month into our relationship, he had dyed his hair Reba McEntire red, had stopped washing his face, and didn't look anything like what he did when we first started dating.

But I digress. Before the days of "the Reba," we would frequent our spot, a road that led to the lake marina near his house. We would sit in my Jeep and do the things that couples do, including kiss. He had an affinity for kissing my neck, something I enjoyed at first. But he would often get a little over zealous with it.

One night after our two high schools played each other in football, he and I, along with two of my best friends, went out cosmic bowling. (There wasn't much to do in rural southeastern Kentucky.) After we were finished, I drove the girls back to one of their houses, as they were having a sleepover, and Mr. McEntire and I went to our spot. That night was particularly neck-heavy, so I asked him to check and make sure there were no marks on my neck before I left to go home. He looked it over and said that I was fine.

I suppose bruises take a little while to rise to the surface.

When I walked past my mother who was playing solitaire on the computer, she asked me flippantly, "Who gave you that hickey?" Shocked, I rushed into my bedroom and looked in the mirror to see a gigantic reddish-purple mark on the right side of my neck. She asked again, and I quickly made a flimsy excuse and went to bed.

The next day, she and I went to my twin cousins' birthday party at my aunt and uncle's house. I had attempted (poorly, might I add,) to cover it with my mother's foundation, but only succeeded in making it look like I had an outbreak of poison ivy relegated to my neck. Thankfully, no one made mention of it at the party. When my mother and I were driving back home, she asked again who had given me the hickey. I said I didn't know.

"...Was it Brandi?" she said with a sheepish, inquisitive tone.
"No," I replied.
"...Was it Susanna?" she continued, raising the ends of her sentences in a playful, questioning manner.
"No," I repeated.
The conversation took a sudden, dark turn as she chose the final name.
"Was it Frank?" she asked gruffly, a slightly annoyed, yet frightened tone in her voice.

I was so tired of running. I couldn't be all of me if I wasn't honest about who I was and who I would ever love. So I chose that moment to take a stand; to not back down from my life. I finally decided to stand up for myself.

"Maybe."

The car swerved slightly as the realization of what I had said washed over my mother. Her head snapped to the side to look at me as she spat the word, "What!?"

My confidence wavered, but as I saw other cars approaching quickly and we were listing into the on-coming lane, I asked her to wait until we got home to discuss it further.

In the 15 minutes it took to make the drive, she smoked an entire pack of cigarettes and had already started on the second when we pulled into the driveway. I made my way to the reclining rocking chair and began methodically rocking while staring off into the distance. I heard her on the phone as she called my sister.

"Get over here, he thinks he's gay." She said the word with such hatred, such malice that it sent chills through my body.

My sister arrived and went to find my mother. I heard hushed, harsh whispers from the other room, and shortly after, they both came into the living room to sit opposite me. I wouldn't look at them. I knew what was coming, especially after the previous diary incident. My heart had already begun the hardening process to protect what was left.

I won't dwell on the discussion. But one phrase still resonates through my head every now and then when I reflect.

"Curtis, it just ain't right. God made man for a woman."

My mother, who before this had never gone to church with anyone, including my father's brother who was a preacher, had suddenly become religious. Not to say that she had ever expressed an atheistic or agnostic view, and I'm now remembering one instance in which she slapped me across the face for calling someone a fool, which apparently in the Bible is a big no-no, but I can't remember her ever doing anything that was overtly Christian. The following Sunday, she and my sister started going to church. She would wake me up each Sunday morning and ask/beg me to go to church with her, but I refused. I wanted no part in going to a place full of people who would judge me, tell me that who I was (or what I was, according to them,) was wrong, and who would attempt to shove me back into the closet I had now come out of twice. Never again.

My father has never been a spiritual person either. When he found out that I was gay two days after my mother and sister, he had an emotional break down. In my life, and even my sister's life, which is seven years longer than mine, my father has never cried. At both of his parents' funerals, he teared up, but did not openly cry. The night he found out, he was a sobbing, near-alcohol poisoned wreck.

When I arrived home from being out with friends, he stumbled through the house, reeking of beer, slapped his hand on my shoulder, and through glazed, bloodshot eyes, told me he was sorry for making me gay. It became a theme between both of my parents, regardless of how many times I tried to explain this wasn't something that anyone did. They often blamed themselves between arguments with me. After apologizing, my father staggered back through the house to the back yard, where he was shortly joined by his brother, the preacher.

About an hour later, they came back in for another "family meeting." I was sitting in the living room again, this time on the couch, and my uncle came over and asked if he could read from the Bible to me. I was already livid that I was having to sit through this a second time, so I nodded and zoned out completely, my anger festering inside me. After a little while, he asked if he could pray for me. When I told him I didn't care, he put his hand on my shoulder, and the whole family bowed their heads. It was then that I heard the little lock on my heart click, all sealed up.

The months following were like autumn in Poland, circa 1939. Every day was another attack, another invasion. I couldn't leave the house without a shouting match with one of my parents. We all said a lot of hurtful things. During one heated argument, my mother told me that she would rather me drink, smoke and do drugs than be gay.  She later tried to salvage her comment by saying if it were any of those things, she could get me help, but with this, she felt helpless. But the damage was done. One night as I was leaving to go out with my boyfriend, instead of telling me she loved me and to be careful, her exact words were, "Don't do anything stupid."

It took about three months for us not to end each conversation in a screaming match. But the screams were replaced with something even worse: denial. When I moved off to college, each phone conversation of my freshman year would include the phrase, "Have you found yourself a pretty little girl yet?" This might have been more painful to hear than the shouting. After having to sternly tell her on multiple occasions that there was no girl and there never would be, she finally stopped asking all together.

For years I tried to reach out to them about relationship issues I had, but was met with cold shoulders and "I-don't-know-ask-your-sister"s. Now, seven years later, we just don't talk about it. I don't bring it up because I know it's not what they want to hear. When I start dating someone new, I don't share it with them because I'm not sure they'll care. But I do know one thing. When I find the man that I'm going to spend the rest of my life with, I'll tell them about him. I'll ask them to meet him. I'll invite them to come to our wedding, to be a part of the family I will build with him. And should they decide that they don't want a part in our life, I will have very little trouble in removing myself from theirs. That rusty lock is still firmly in place.

Seven years this September.

Dad

I should really write more often, but I've already run out of hilarious, poop-related childhood stories to tell. I'll have to think of some more. Or maybe just make them up.

I suppose I could talk about my father. Strap in, kids. This one's gonna get bumpy.

My dad just turned 57, which makes me HORRIBLY OLD. He and I didn't have the best of relationships when I was younger. He went to college and got a degree in sociology that he never used. Basically straight out of college he started working in factory settings. His longest stint was at American Greetings, where he worked the lines that made candles, stickers, plates and napkins. He would often bring home the "defective" items that looked just fine to us.

After AG moved to Kalamazoo, Michigan, he had to find a new job. He started working at a factory that made Mrs. Smith's baked goods, but that ended shortly after as well. He now works at a factory that hosts men coming out of rehabilitation or jail (though he has never [to my knowledge] been in either.) They make important pieces for the army: tents, outfits, parachutes, etc. Anything that has to be sewn. It's backbreaking labor, hours that are far too long, and according to him, far too much work for the limited staff they have and the short deadlines they are given. But it's work.

In my youth, he consistently pushed me into things that I wasn't necessarily interested in. Baseball was the one thing I was ok with. In viewing his relationship with his own father later in my own life, it is easy to see why our relationship was so strained. There wasn't a lot of love shown on the paternal side of my family. I suppose they thought that it was a sign of weakness, as my father would often call me weak, pansy, pussy, etc. when I wasn't able to do something that he felt I should have been.

Case in point, one day he and his friend Roger had gone to get a case or two of beer. I suppose they had picked up other things, as I was asked to carry the beer into the house. Perhaps he was just being lazy. In any case, I was nine and having noticeable trouble carrying an entire case of Coors Light by myself. So about halfway up the steps, Timmy, Roger's middle child who was slightly younger than me, offered to take the beer from me. I smiled and handed it to him, only to have my father yell at me, telling me what I wuss I was for not being able to carry something so light. I broke down, ran through the house into my room, slammed the door shut and locked it, and cried my little eyes out.

My mother eventually made him apologize, but dad wasn't one to mean much of anything he said. Except the biting, snide "jokes" and names he would call us. He constantly picked on my mother, sister and me for our collective obesity. If you ever wonder why I have body image issues, it's because of him. Every day of my high school career he would tell me I needed to lose weight.

"When I was a senior in high school, I weighed 165 pounds. How much do you weigh? 200?! That's too much! You need to stop eating those Big Macs!" he would quip as he popped open another beer.

I asked my mother several times why she stayed with him after all the horrible things he would say, and she would always make excuses for him. He was just joking, she explained. Just picking at you because he knew it got to you.

My father was a bully.

It's amazing the memories that will randomly hit you while doing things you once did. A few months ago while watching an old episode America's Funniest Home Videos, I remembered that my dad would call him Bob Faggot instead of Bob Sagat. I never knew what it meant, and completely forgot that he used to do it until now. I also remember him making jokes about being a fudge packer, and other homophobic slurs and remarks. My dad is also a bigot and racist. Even today he makes comments using the N word, and talks about "spics" or "the towel head who owns the gas station." I don't say all these things to make you hate him; that isn't my intention in the slightest. I just want to paint a picture of the man that I have grown up with as my sole male role model.

Many years later when I came out of the closet, it had a seriously detrimental impact on him. My sister called me the night he found out and told me I needed to come home because he was in bad shape. I came into the house to find him staggering through the kitchen and dining room. The stale stench of beer hit my nose before he got to me. It was probably the most drunk I had ever seen him, which was saying something, as dad was probably a functional alcoholic at that point. He slapped his hand on my shoulder, and through tear stained, bloodshot eyes, looked at me and apologized.

"Curtis, I'm sorry for making you gay."

That's the only time my sister or I have seen him cry. Even during both of the funerals of his parents, his eyes only moistened. There was no sobbing, no strangled moans; only a resigned sadness. But this was horrible.

It's extremely painful to grow up in the south being different, especially if that difference is your sexual orientation. But it's nearly deadly when your parents blame themselves for something you can't convince them is not something you or they decided or did. It might have killed me if I had been closer to my dad, so maybe it's best that we were a little more separated than a usual father/son pairing.

The day I moved into my college residence hall for the first time, my mom stood bawling at the car. She hugged me and told me she loved me and would always love me and to be a good boy and not to party and so on. My dad walked up to me and put his hand out to shake it. My mom snapped at him and told him to hug me. I don't know if it was because he felt awkward because I was gay or because he felt awkward showing emotion, but it was exactly that: awkward.

Ever since then, things have gotten better. I think the distance that I put between myself and my family helped to mend some of the bridges and helped him to realize that he cared for me and missed me when I was away. Our phone conversations still focus mainly on sports teams, but at least there are conversations. There's no more talk of losing weight; no more blame for (or even discussion of) my sexuality. Just the trappings of a father and son.

The Breakfast of Champions

Well, I'm awake. And not horribly tired (damn you, three day weekend.) So I suppose I will write another story from my would-be novel.

The Breakfast of Champions

I have always loved baseball. It was the only sport that I ever had any true talent in, and the only one that I was willing to actually attempt to play. I was too much of a priss to sign up for the football team, even though during my freshman year of high school, the coach actually called my house and asked for me to try out. He only did this because I was about as wide as I was tall, but I digress. Basketball was also out of the picture for me. I wasn't horribly coordinated, so dribbling while running never worked out too well. I also had very little upper body strength: my "shots" were instead two-handed passes at the rim. And then there was the unfortunate accident later in life when my ankle touched the gym floor as I was coming down from a rebound. The echoing sound of my tendon snapping over the bone alone made me never want to touch another basketball. But that story is for another time.

Thankfully, my dad saw some sort of promise in my baseball talents and got me started at a young age. I skipped tee ball. Even then I didn't understand the point in playing a game where everyone got to bat every inning; everyone got to run around the bases; everyone got a trophy.

Horse shit.

Games like that develop a sense of entitlement in children that fosters ill manners and bad behavior later in life. If you suck at something, you shouldn't play it. Don't encourage it just because you think your child should have some sort of pass-time. Teach them to knit or something. Tether them to a pole out back. Encourage them to play in traffic, as my father did. But don't reward their inabilities with spray painted figurines on top of rainbow-encrusted plastic.

When I first started Minor League, a step above tee ball, coaches would feed the balls into a pitching machine, as no child on the team had enough power or accuracy to pitch properly. When coaches and parents argued that the machine was unfair (for some reason unbeknownst to me,) they switched to the coaches pitching to their own teams. If the ball was hit back to the coach, he should try his best to get out of the way, as if it touched him, it was automatically a single.

I've always been a good hitter. I bat left handed even though I throw right handed, which is a good combo to have. I also have always swung late, which means I consistently hit into left field (and for those of you who aren't familiar with baseball, coaches tend to shift the outfield toward right field when lefties come up to bat.) All this was beneficial to my baseball prowess. Oscar, however, was not.

Oscar was my coach for my first year of little league. He was probably 6'2 and weighed 140 soaking wet. If you pictured a 90s dad, complete with pedophile glasses and balding bowl cut, you'd just about have him pegged. He was one of the nicest men I'd ever met, and was a decent coach. He was also best friends with my uncle and dad, so we had known him well.

And then I broke his kneecap.

It was an accident, really. I was batting, he was pitching, per the rules. If my hits don't go into left field, they're usually line drives right back at the pitcher. And since a 40-year-old man doesn't have the sharpest reflexes, the sickening pop of the ball as it shattered his patella was enough for the coaches to decide that they would no longer be pitching the balls.

It was like I broke baseball.

They went back to the pitching machine, with the coach standing behind a net. If the ball went into the net, it was an automatic single. A much safer way of going about things, but a lot of good hits were probably stolen by that net.

With Oscar being out of commission due to his knee, one of the other dads took over coaching the team. He also happened to serve as my boy scout troop leader, so I got a double dose of Mr. Bidwell. He, also, was a nice enough man. His two sons also played on our baseball team. Once, I accidentally knocked his youngest son out by hitting him in the head with my bat.

I'd forgotten what a clumsy, hazardous child I was.

In any case, one night after a rousing game, the plan was to head to a boy scout retreat off in the Daniel Boone national forest. The others had already arrived, and the few of us on the team who were also boy scouts were the last to get there, with Father Bidwell bringing up the rear. Mumbles and grumbles spread throughout the camp as the fathers grew restless. I asked my dad what had happened and he explained that Bidwell had locked his keys in his car without getting any of his own supplies, including a tent, sleeping bags or air mattress. We offered our own tent, and he and his youngest son slept on the ground beside my father and me on our air mattress.

The night was horrible. Not only did I have to sleep listening to the whimpers of the boy I beat in the head with a baseball bat, but I had to ride out a night of severe storms in my baseball uniform. Obviously not a lot of foresight there. We found out later that there was a tornado warning for the area, with an actual touch down a few miles away. We awoke the next morning a little worse for wear, some of the campers drenched from faulty lining in their tents. But we still managed to put on smiles and build the camp fire. One of the older boys was asked to teach us how to make a "rugged scout's breakfast." This entailed us finding a suitable stick in the woods, wrapping a biscuit from a can around it, and allowing it to bake over the fire.

I. Love. Biscuits.

I always have, and probably always will (even if the anticipation of the popping sound when opening a can nearly kills me each time.) I probably ate four of them. So good. But you have to keep in mind, a camp fire is not the most effective means of cooking anything, let alone allowing raw dough to bake. So 20 minutes later when four biscuits-worth of mostly raw Grand's hit my intestines, it was show time.

I stood up calmly and began a very slow march to the bathroom which was situated probably 70 yards away from our campsite. If you're unfamiliar with the need to shit immensely, consider yourself lucky. With my cheeks clenched as tightly as I could muster, I began praying that I could make it before detonation occurred. I stared at the ground, wishing the earth would move faster under my feet. About 30 yards into my journey, I heard a high pitched, mincing voice that belonged to a fellow boy scout of mine named Chris. He was unnecessarily flamboyant, even for a child, and could have been the son of two drag queens for all I knew.

"Wait for me!" he squealed, and commenced skipping from where he stood some 10 yards from me. I began moving again before he met up with me, as I could feel my bowels beginning to anger. I made it probably another 5 yards before my first slip.

Just one. It's just a little. Easily cleaned up. Manageable. I'm fine. Just keep trucking.

Then another. Ok, really gotta hold it in now. No more slip ups. Gotta tighten, gotta squeeze.

Each step was another mini-explosion; another slip. I finally gave up and began to run the remaining distance leaving Chris in my dust.

I busted into the stall door of the bathroom, swung it shut, locked it with a shaky hand and grabbed my baseball pants. If you are unfamiliar with pants worn in baseball, they are made nearly entirely out of spandex, thus making them the perfect material for a slingshot.

Everywhere. Just... everywhere.

On the stall. On the wall. On the floor. On the door. On the toilet. In the toilet. Really any surface that was stationary long enough to bare the load. It was a Grand's nightmare.

I cleaned up as much as I possibly could, leaving my soiled tighty whities in the trash can before heading back to the campsite. I found my father with the other dads gathered around the fire and I snuck over to him to quietly share the bad news. I bent down and whispered and softly as I could in his ear.

"I pooped my pants."

I can tell you I haven't said that line too many times in my life. This was obviously the worst.

"What?" he responded in a harsh, hushed whisper - a disturbed look on his face. I repeated myself.

"I pooped my pants."

His incredulous stare bore deep into my soul, but he eventually raised himself from his stump/stool and followed me to the bathroom.

"Jesus Christ, Curtis!" he said, raising his voice. I attempted to hush him so others wouldn't be drawn to the clatter. I urged him to help me clean it, and tried as we might, there was only so much single-ply toilet paper could do. When the walls began looking more like an impressionistic painting than a bathroom, we cut our losses and gave up.

While washing our hands at the sinks in front of the stall doors, the door to the bathroom swiftly swung open and another scout came in. The bathroom was on the small side, but still held two urinals and three stalls within its cramped space. Like a blood hound, Robert made a beeline for the stall of no return. I watched in the mirror as he pushed the door open, and upon seeing my masterpiece, yelled, "Good Lord, what is wrong with people?" I caught my dad's eye in the mirror and we both nodded profusely in agreement.

And after an unceremonious hosing by my mother in the backyard, it was decided: I had to get a new pair of dark blue baseball pants.

A Clean Break

I've always wanted to write a book. Well, I guess not always. I can't remember playing with Tonka trucks and postulating on the title of my first best seller. But for the last several years, I have wanted to pen my own novel, either fiction or autobiographical of sorts. The desire was really spurred on after reading "My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands," by Chelsea Handler. Not only did she hilariously whip her life into a cocktail of sex, drugs and... more sex, she connected with me on a personal level and helped me to really take a look inside my own life.

Not really. Shit was just funny.

And I want to write that. I want to write a book about the hilarious stories throughout my life, family problems that people probably wouldn't even believe because of the ridiculous nature, the childhood drama of my voyage through puberty... all of it, pure gold.

I actually did write many of these stories in my years of high school for the writing portfolio forced onto us by the great commonwealth of Kentucky. They were funny, but written at a high school level. They need jazzed up. So I've decided to rewrite one here and see how it turns out.

A Clean Break

By the time I was 10, I was a veritable ladies man. I had a girl for each season, each holiday; all lasting approximately three weeks before spiraling to a quick, amiable end. Then, onto the next.

That changed with Beth.

We were in the 5th grade together. We shared all of our classes, as the same group of students would travel from one room to the next, so we spent a lot of time together. Sitting beside each other, passing notes, holding hands under the desk; it reeked of puppy love. Thankfully, Beth had her friends and I had mine. Recess was a time that we spent with our separate friend groups. I could often be found playing Power Rangers (me, starring as Kimberly, the Pink Ranger with a kick ass bow,) or Alligator, a game we had created that was like playing tag on a slide; she, with her friends on the swing set, putting on makeup from Polly Pocket Lockets or some other crap. I didn't care. Recess was my alone time.

Then she started getting clingy. She'd want to play my games with me. She wanted to be the Pink Ranger. She wanted to play on the yellow corkscrew slide. She wanted to do lemondrops off the monkey bars. If you don't know children, 10 year olds get sick of things quickly. I blame my short attention span and horrible memory on the hours of TV I watch(ed). In any case, I was fed up with this relationship. It was nearing Valentine's Day, and I distinctly remember thinking that it would be a waste to stay in this relationship only to have to buy her something, then end it. I was also a penny pinching child. So, since text messages didn't exist to 5th graders in 1997, I called her one afternoon and told her I wanted to break up.

"Ok," she said. Her voice didn't quiver. She didn't sound upset. No tears. Easy as pie, it seemed.

Too easy, really.

The next day was business as usual. We still sat beside each other, but there was no note passing; no hand holding. Things were going splendidly as we went to recess. Beth made her way across the mulch covered playground to the swing set and I raced off with my friends to the adjacent seesaws. Beth sat on a swing, alone, barely rocking back and forth with her head slumped down. She certainly didn't seem as happy and cheerful as she had the day before on the telephone. I watched as her friends, clustered into a large flock, approached her. I couldn't hear anything over the screams and voices of the other children playing, but I could read the lips of Megan, a mutual friend of ours, as she stood in front of the rest of the group.

"Did Curtis break up with you?" her lips formed. Beth looked up sullenly and nodded.

The shit had hit the fan.

Here is where my memory suddenly fills with fog and enters some sort of surreal time warp. As if in slow motion, I see the eyes of 15 girls lock onto mine, bodies twisting to face me in perfect synchronization, and the newly formed lynch mob replete with pitchforks approaching my very seesaw. I catch the eyes of my friends who are suddenly panicking, but I attempt to keep my cool. Megan's arrival by my side, the rest of her posse in tow, sends chills up and down my spine.

"Curtis," she said as my side of the teeter totter hit the ground, "could we talk to you over here for a minute?" She gestured to the clearing beyond the seesaw area in front of a chain link fence that protected the playground from neighboring houses. I agreed, shooting a fast and final look at my friends as I stepped over the wooden plank and walked toward the fence.

"Did you break up with Beth?" she asked in a calm tone. I turned to face this group of cross-armed, angry-faced females, and was suddenly very aware of my surroundings.

"Y..."

Before I could even finish the word, I was thrown backward, off my feet, into the fence. Only, it wasn't just a fence. Growing from the other side was a patch of briars that had looped and woven itself amongst the links, serving as the perfectly painful way of denying my escape. My shirt had become completely ensnared by the devilish thicket and I was now dangling openly in front of a group of vicious animals, lusting for my blood.

Maybe a little dramatic, but thus are the eyes of a 10-year-old.

The girls began screaming at me, none of the words discernible from the next in their high pitch squeals of incredulity. Finally, they organized themselves and instead began taking turns. One girl would step up, give a snide, biting remark, punch, slap or kick me, then head to the back of the line. This continued for a while until a girl named Ashley took her turn. Twice as tall and wide as the other girls in our grade, Ashley would have been something to fear if she hadn't been such a priss. She wasn't the smartest in our grade either, so I really never respected her much. When she asked me, "How could you be so stupid?" I really couldn't help but answer in any other way than, "How could you be so fat?"

The impact of her punch to my stomach was enough to rip my shirt from the fence and send me to my knees, breathless and on the brink of unconsciousness. Incensed by my comment, the girls encircled me and began kicking me, not only causing me harm but succeeding in covering my body with pieces of the painful mulch-covered bed I lay on. Once they considered me sufficiently covered (and I had passed out,) the throng turned and left me in my mulchy grave.

I'm unsure as to how long I was there. My friends had long since run off, leaving me to be beaten bloody (and woody.) My next memory is coming out of my unconscious state to see multiple shadowy figures bent over top of me. I screamed and attempted to protect myself only to hear the voice of my teacher calming me, explaining that everything was alright. As she picked pieces of mulch out of my hair, she asked what had happened to me. I explained the whole story, detail by detail, ending the nightmare in tears. I was sent to the nurse to check my injuries.

Thankfully nothing was broken. Just a pump knot, as my mother called it, the size of an egg resting on my head. The nurse made me hold a pack of ice on it for the rest of the day. I wore it like a crown. I headed back to class where my teacher said that, at her request, Megan had written me a letter of apology.

I opened the note to see six words scrawled by a quick, sloppy hand.

"I'm sorry for beating you up."

I folded the paper neatly, stuck it in my copy of "Where the Red Fern Grows," and adjusted my new diadem.

I haven't dated another girl since.