To all of my loyal readers here is my new lesson not learned. If you are new to the site I invite you to read this story and the other two (which you will find in the short stories section) I will also be adding a few of my previous posts to permalinks in published articles.
Finally I will do my best to keep up with content, however with my impending conference most of my work will be coming after tax day.
So without further ado here is the latest installment in: A Lesson not Learned: Relationship Advice from the Deep South.
Alec Degnats
“You here Tom?” I hear Lauren call out to me. Arriving home from a long day of work.
Staring at our chipped porcelain sink, full of my own blood, I can not bear to face Lauren right now. Our relationship is responsible for my current condition and Lauren will take it to heart. Lauren will take my attack to heart and make a foolish decision that will doom us both.
“Tom? Where you at?” Lauren calls out again. Still scouring the house trying to find me.
Wiping the last cut clean I look into our scuffed mirror to see a muddled face that I barely recognize staring back at me. My dark complexion obscures some of the blood as it melts into my chocolate skin, however even that can not cover up the carnage on my face. My eyes have newly minted cuts beneath them. Cuts that run the length of my chin. Feeling my skull I can make out the letters “Slugger” from where the bat made contact. I'm not good in a good state, I can even see that through my swollen lids. However with how limited my VA benefits are all I can hope is that these are superficial and aesthetic wounds. All I hope is that they are not as cruel and serious as the hate that inflicted them.
“Here you are....” Lauren trails off as I feel my hand slip from the sink. My consciousness fading as Lauren’s face comes into view. Rushing over to me I know there is no need to explain what happened here. My condition is a product of our choices. Choices we pay for everyday.
“Ya know if you stopped hanging round that white girl and her friend’s this wouldn't happen,” My grand mother reminds me. Examining my assailants handy work from the day before.
“ Lauren and Pat had nothing to do with this,” I lie. “I tripped when I was jogging yesterday.”
“Mhmm... I'm sure that is it,” she remarks. My grandmother sees through my lie as clear as she can see her reflection in the sterile, metal that lines my hospital room. “You know in my day we didn't broadcast these type of things...”
“Ma, Dr. King has changed all that. So please don't remind me of some tall tale back in the day when you were some disgraced piece of meat. Thing's are better now, that is what I fought for. I’m home, the war is over, and thing's are finally getting better.”
My grandmother scoffs at my dismissal of her. Looking away from me she goes back to her book with both of us thinking the same thing. Dr. King has done a lot, but not enough for what I face. For what I sacrificed. It has taken a long time for people to think of us as any thing but dogs or property. Let alone equals. Ideas that are the product of ignorant hate, carried over from generations before. It took my fellow soldiers weeks to accept me into their battalion. It took them weeks once they knew what Lieutenant Thomas Johnson actually was. Many of them simply tolerated me, but never accepted me. Considering how long it has taken people to get this far I don't know what Lindsey and I have will ever be accepted.
My grandmother leaves without breaking the awkward silence between us. Even in this silence I can tell that we each ponder the what truly motivated the attack. My grandmother thinks it is part of God's mysterious ways. She thinks he is sending me a message to change my ways. I do not think that divine intervention spurred my attack. It was a product of the world of hate we live in.
Watching her leave I can not help notice that she is carrying a new old hand bag. Purchased second hand or taken out of years of storage. Seeing that purse I can not help but think about the problems that plague this small town, the problems that plague the neighborhood she calls home. The neighborhood I grew up in. The neighborhood I fought to save.
Its funny that I would sacrifice so much for a neighborhood over run by petty crime and gangs, but in the end it is my home and where my grandmother still lives. It is a rundown house in a rundown ghetto. Of course ghettos pretty much make up everything our small town has to offer. Ironically enough regardless of how backwards and racist our town is I can say one thing when it comes to money- our politician's do not discriminate. Their money never comes to these run down Hooverville neighborhoods. Black, white, Hispanic or other, the money in this town will only goes to the areas that don't need it.
Laying in this hospital wing I see the fruits of my towns labor. I lay in the latest bed designed for comfort. Televisions have been recently added to every room bring patients a luxury they really don’t need. A new communication system connects us too much, considering the old system was more than sufficient. I will never be able to afford the bill and nor would I want to. The money that supports the T.V.’s and lobby renovation could have gone to books and desks or repaving the roads.
Looking at this new color t.v. all I see is inequality and ignorance. This inequality and ignorance is what my Purple Heart protects and stands for. The first time I walked my old streets when when I arrived home I was reminded of this. My old “friends’” eyes were full of disgust, arrogance, and a little pride. Like the people who beat me into this bloody pulp and the men I served with, the people I grew up with share a portion of their feelings. They think I’m unnatural, different, and unworthy. I am unworthy of respect or humanity. To them I live in sin which is a crime that justifies all of their hate.
“Lauren, Pat...” I greet my friends as they arrive in my hospital room.
“You can press charges,” Lauren reminds me yet again as Pat investigates my fresh inflictions for the first time.
Looking back at my friends I do not want to break their caring hearts, but know that there will be no justice for me. Staring back at me Lauren is beautiful as the day we met overseas. We me the same day I was treated for my injuries that awarded me my Purple Heart. The first day that Lauren treated me was the first day I fell in love for the first time.
“It is not worth it.” My response comes after a minute of silence, as I look back at Pat our greatest friend in the world. Our rock.
No one responds to me as silence overcomes us allowing my nurse to care for me in silence. My nurse is a clone of the waitress at our favorite coffee joint: Young, beautiful, and ignorant. They share the same twinge as Lauren takes my hand; biting her lip and giving us that look of unnatural disgust. They try to be polite and accept us, but in the end they can not see us as anything but sin. They visibly fight against their upbringing as they try to serve us with servility and cordially.
A twinge of pity forms in my stomach as the hospital coffee’s bitter taste reminds me of why we pay the outrageous prices charged at our favorite hang. The coffee and the food is not much better there, but in the end we are accepted. No matter what the server believes we get taken care of with a smile. We do not have to worry about people talking behind our backs or someone spitting in our food because of the people who own the joint are just like us.
The owners of our little hang blazed a trail similar to Lauren and mine years ago. They were the first open interracial couple in our small town. They did not hide their relationship from the world, but challenged it head on and won.Instead of hiding from the world they opened a coffee shop together. They run it with open arms and an open heart, mirroring the beliefs they hold about life. They have shown everyone in our small town that love and life goes far beyond the color of ones skin.
“Lauren may be right this time. I can draft the papers in the morning, so when they catch the....”
I cut off Pat as she breaks me out of my daydream. I know the offer is coming from a loving heart, however I can not bear to hear any more of my friends fable. The cops in this town will never find my assailants. Coming out of a bar at eleven o'clock last night dozens of people observed my attack and a single witness does not exists. I can guarantee you a video of my attack will show up on a Klan website within the week. It's existence will not make a difference in finding justice. That video could appear on the six o'clock news and it would not make a difference. That is why I did not report my assault because justice is impossible for someone whose life style is considered sin and corrupt.
“This can not go uncounted for. We have to stand up for ourselves. We have to show them that g...”
I do not hear any more as my head goes woozy. My sight blurry. A sharp pain on the back of my skull is all I feel before I pass out again.
Waking up, more tubes are connected to my arms and my head is pounding. I wake up alone in the sterile room trying to figure out what happened. Looking around there are no cards or flowers; it appears that I have changed rooms once again.
“You are awake Mr .Johnson, and that is good to see.” A faceless doctor says to me as he enters. My vision still blurry I can barley make him out as he continues to speak to me.
“You had a complication and were taken into emergency surgery last night. You had a slow bleed that would have killed you if you had not been here last night.”
My eyes may be blurred, but my ears make out the accent of my new neurologist. He is Indian and struggling with mastering a new language. I chuckle, daggers striking my head with every laugh, this doctor is one of the few people in town who does not hold a horse in the civil rights struggle. He is simply trying to assimilate himself as quickly as possible. Trying to overcome his accent and master the English language. My doctor wants to become part of our small town before America assimilates he and his people as an axis of evil.
The doctor’s struggle to assimilate himself reminds me of how hard it is living in the deep south. Even though my platoon never truly accepted me into their brotherhood, we had a common enemy at least. Here at home my “friends” from the neighborhood, family, the towns people, hospital staff, and even my own grandmother share the same feelings about my lifestyle that my platoon did. The only difference is that here my choice is the common enemy.
Its funny- after I returned from the war I thought it would be different. I gave everything to my country and my people, I found my love in the war. I was injured and almost killed. I sacrificed everything and yet nothing changed. I always thought that with so many men returning from war the fighting would subside. You would think that they were tiered of seeing blood shed and pain after being immersed in it for so many years. I was wrong. In reality soldiers are soldiers no matter where they are its seems. All that changes are the targets. When we returned home they shifted their focus from a malicious, militant dictator to a war on morals and race. Their guns replaced by petitions and pickets; ammo by sermons and speeches. Their new war is a war to condemn everything that Lauren and I have together.
Opening my eyes from an eternal slumber the light in the room blinds me. Stirring slowly I hear a voice scrambling in.
“Good Lord boy.. you are finally awake.” My grandmother's genuine concern for my safety is a nice change from her usual covert disappointment. “When Ronnie came by and told me you were here I could not believe it. He said he saw that boy and girl here earlier today when you crashed.” Her concern is replaced by disappointment as quickly as it had appeared. “I wish you would hang out with people like Ronnie more often. He is a good boy, comes from a good home, has a nice sister. You two would make the cutest kids...”
My grandmother trails on as I stop listening. Right now I can not take any more of her bi-polar approval. If she only knew the truth about Ronnie she would not speak so highly of him. Ronnie is our neighbor hood king pen. He runs the gang and the drugs through most of our small town and he recently expanded his business by opening an “escort service” on Middle Avenue. Ronnie calls himself a people-pleaser and knows how to keep up appearances. Whether it be with the grandmother next door or the heroine addict down the street Ronnie always knows how to say the right thing. It is amazing how some people can lead such double lives. Amazing how they can be so dishonest to themselves, fully aware that they are showing the world two different faces. Of course I can not blame him considering I wear a mask myself.
“Ma, have you seen Lauren?” I ask, interrupting her continuous babble about the beautiful children Ronnie's sister and I would have. Curiously wondering where my love may be.
“I haven't seen that boy since I left the house to visit you. He was walking in the neighborhood when my cab left. He may have been coming to see me now that you mention it. Probably to tell me about your surgery.”
My monitors jump to life as fear grips me. “Coming to see you...” My grandmother does not know the truth about us and there is no time to tell her now. Straining against my tubes, doctors and nurses rush in to restrain me as they sedate me. Yelling in terror I am trying to get my thoughts across before I lose consciousness. I have to get to my neighborhood. I have to get to Lauren before he dies.
Rolling thought the church doors I am in tears the entire way. Ashamed, lost, and missing the one man in this world who I loved more than anything. Looking around the chapel there are some genuine tears and a majority fake. Inside these holy walls the greatest irony does not come from the fake mourners or the fact that many people are here to see a dead faggot. No the greatest irony is that today Lauren will be accepted into a place we both have been shunned from for years.
That is the problem with people like Lauren and I; we are on the edge of acceptance. On the edge of morality. Some may think that what killed Lauren was just blind, ignorant prejudice and hate, but I know better. It is our entire culture that killed him and there is nothing ignorant about it.
I served my country in many wars, in the Gulf, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I was a decorated soldier and the second I came out I became an outcast. If they had not been in such desperate need for soldiers I am sure I would have been sent home during my last few tours, especially after I came out. In the end though fortune shined on me and I took that bomb for my platoon. I received a Purple Heart, and met Lauren, instead of a dishonorable discharge. He was my nurse and never saw combat, but from the moment we saw each other I knew he was the man for me. We both knew of the struggles the other faced and in the end he was the only one who got me through everything.
Overseas we prayed together and went to church. Over seas the sermons were about war and the enemy. Church held us together, it gave us a reason to fight. Back here when we go to church our preacher tries to talk me out of our choices through his sermons. Every week I scoff back at him wondering how a man of God could turn his back so quickly on one of his flock. I always knew it would take time for the churches down here to adjust and accept us. Here in our small town it took decades for people to accept a black and white sheep walking together. Two men sharing God’s love would of course be resisted more, however I never expected this. After all that we had done though for this country and all the love we gave them I thought we would have been shown support and compassion instead of abandonment. I wish that my small town and so many like it would see beyond our attraction, our skin color and instead see the gift of true love God has bestowed upon us.
Lost in the sermon that means nothing to me I am waiting for my chance to speak. Without a prepared statement I do not know what to say. Everyone expects me to keep the statement short and sweet, to discuss what a great man he was, but I’m not sure I can do that. I do not want to disgrace his memory today, but I also do not want to support this facade any further.
“My children now I would like to invite our son Thomas to the pulpit to share a few words.”
Caught off guard I feel the congregations attention turn to me as I roll up to the stage. Looking across the congregation the church it is as segregated as ever. Dr. King would be ashamed to see that his message fell on deaf ears. My injuries, Lauren’s death were both caused by the same thing. The two factions that attacked us were united around a singular cause of hate. Part of it was about race, but at its core we both know that it is because we are gay. Finally up here I feel dirty and dishonest, still struggling with what I want to say. I put my hand on his casket one last time to tell him I love him before I let him go.
“Lauren was one of my best friends. We met in a....” I lose my place as my eyes tear up. “Sorry... This is just very hard for me. We were very good friends and...”
I hear a chuckle in the church that stops me. A quick scan shows me all I need to know as I locate Ronnie and his crew admiring their handy work while chuckling at my misfortune.
Even though it will never be proven I know that a week ago while I strained against my tubes, Lauren was being beaten to death by Ronnie’s gang. Lauren went there to spread the news of my health, but never got the chance. On his way there Lauren’s car broke down. He grabbed a cab and took it as far as it would take him. The cabbie would never drive through my old neighborhood and Lauren was forced to walk the rest of the way on his own. My grandmother was gone by the time he arrived at her house, but Ronnie and his gang weren’t.
Despite their hate for me, Ronnie and his crew could never stand by and watch someone from their neighborhood get beaten. Ronnie had to protect his turf and more important had to retaliate for what had happened to me. Bottled up anger from my attack boiled over into an interracial gay bashing that started the second Lauren entered the ghetto.
Lauren’s teeth were kicked in to the point where they scratched his throat as he swallowed them. His arm's and faced smashed with tire irons. Knees blown out by baseball bats. Cut, tortured, murdered the cops tried their hardest to find those responsible, but they were never able to find the alley Lauren’s brutal attack happened in. Lauren was dumped in the river a corpse. He became a sacrifice to the artificial sins our community placed upon us.
“Lauren was a fagot.” I scream out to the congregation, not able to hold back the anger any more. “Don’t look so shocked. Don’t recoil. We all knew it. Hell anyone here who denies it is more delusional than the facade that this funeral really is. We all know the real reason most of us came here today was to watch the sinner, to watch the fagot get what he deserves.”
An eerie silence settles over the congregation as they wait for me to say something. Out of the corner of my eye I see preacher getting up to stop me, but nothing can stop me from finishing my peace.
“I wish I was dead. Instead I am crippled into a wheelchair to watch the worst that mankind has to offer. Everyday I have to live with the fact that the shrapnel that sits and inch from my heart stands for nothing more than hate. Over forty years ago Dr. King gave his own life so we could all live in peace together. Myself and countless others have given their lives in countless battles so each and every one of you can be free to practice and live how you want. And how do you use this freedom? By showing ignorance and hate. People in this city would have hated us even if Lauren had been female. All that this small town, has shown is ignorance, hate, and disrespect. You are all the same regardless of what your skin shows. If anything you are a perfect hypocritical example of Dr. King’s vision. You are all the same, united by ignorance and hate. You are all responsible for what happened to Lauren and me. It is your teachings that encouraged these attacks and more importantly it is all of you who showed up here today only to get one final kick out of seeing the fagot buried.”
The congregation hangs on my every word as I am transported back to the day that I jumped on that grenade for my platoon. The day I watched the faces of those I killed flash before my eyes before I thought I was about to die.
“I hope you all feel the disrespect that you have shown not only to Dr. King and your Lord, but also to yourself. You have all shown that you do not know what to do with the freedom Lauren and I gave you. I have fought in three wars, killed countless numbers of people. For a long time I thought I had seen the worst of humanity overseas, but I was so wrong. You people here today, the people who put me in this wheelchair and Lauren in this casket have demonstrated the worst this world has to offer. In war there is a goal an enemy, but in your war against fagots and dikes what is your goal? To delay the discovery that we are people just like you. No matter what you say I know what all of you are and have to live with it. You are ignorant and blind. You have shown that you are poor students of everything this country stands for. Prime examples of a lesson not learned.”
Finally I will do my best to keep up with content, however with my impending conference most of my work will be coming after tax day.
So without further ado here is the latest installment in: A Lesson not Learned: Relationship Advice from the Deep South.
Alec Degnats
A Lesson Not Learned:
Relationship Advice from the Deep South.
“You here Tom?” I hear Lauren call out to me. Arriving home from a long day of work.
Staring at our chipped porcelain sink, full of my own blood, I can not bear to face Lauren right now. Our relationship is responsible for my current condition and Lauren will take it to heart. Lauren will take my attack to heart and make a foolish decision that will doom us both.
“Tom? Where you at?” Lauren calls out again. Still scouring the house trying to find me.
Wiping the last cut clean I look into our scuffed mirror to see a muddled face that I barely recognize staring back at me. My dark complexion obscures some of the blood as it melts into my chocolate skin, however even that can not cover up the carnage on my face. My eyes have newly minted cuts beneath them. Cuts that run the length of my chin. Feeling my skull I can make out the letters “Slugger” from where the bat made contact. I'm not good in a good state, I can even see that through my swollen lids. However with how limited my VA benefits are all I can hope is that these are superficial and aesthetic wounds. All I hope is that they are not as cruel and serious as the hate that inflicted them.
“Here you are....” Lauren trails off as I feel my hand slip from the sink. My consciousness fading as Lauren’s face comes into view. Rushing over to me I know there is no need to explain what happened here. My condition is a product of our choices. Choices we pay for everyday.
. . .
“Ya know if you stopped hanging round that white girl and her friend’s this wouldn't happen,” My grand mother reminds me. Examining my assailants handy work from the day before.
“ Lauren and Pat had nothing to do with this,” I lie. “I tripped when I was jogging yesterday.”
“Mhmm... I'm sure that is it,” she remarks. My grandmother sees through my lie as clear as she can see her reflection in the sterile, metal that lines my hospital room. “You know in my day we didn't broadcast these type of things...”
“Ma, Dr. King has changed all that. So please don't remind me of some tall tale back in the day when you were some disgraced piece of meat. Thing's are better now, that is what I fought for. I’m home, the war is over, and thing's are finally getting better.”
My grandmother scoffs at my dismissal of her. Looking away from me she goes back to her book with both of us thinking the same thing. Dr. King has done a lot, but not enough for what I face. For what I sacrificed. It has taken a long time for people to think of us as any thing but dogs or property. Let alone equals. Ideas that are the product of ignorant hate, carried over from generations before. It took my fellow soldiers weeks to accept me into their battalion. It took them weeks once they knew what Lieutenant Thomas Johnson actually was. Many of them simply tolerated me, but never accepted me. Considering how long it has taken people to get this far I don't know what Lindsey and I have will ever be accepted.
My grandmother leaves without breaking the awkward silence between us. Even in this silence I can tell that we each ponder the what truly motivated the attack. My grandmother thinks it is part of God's mysterious ways. She thinks he is sending me a message to change my ways. I do not think that divine intervention spurred my attack. It was a product of the world of hate we live in.
Watching her leave I can not help notice that she is carrying a new old hand bag. Purchased second hand or taken out of years of storage. Seeing that purse I can not help but think about the problems that plague this small town, the problems that plague the neighborhood she calls home. The neighborhood I grew up in. The neighborhood I fought to save.
Its funny that I would sacrifice so much for a neighborhood over run by petty crime and gangs, but in the end it is my home and where my grandmother still lives. It is a rundown house in a rundown ghetto. Of course ghettos pretty much make up everything our small town has to offer. Ironically enough regardless of how backwards and racist our town is I can say one thing when it comes to money- our politician's do not discriminate. Their money never comes to these run down Hooverville neighborhoods. Black, white, Hispanic or other, the money in this town will only goes to the areas that don't need it.
Laying in this hospital wing I see the fruits of my towns labor. I lay in the latest bed designed for comfort. Televisions have been recently added to every room bring patients a luxury they really don’t need. A new communication system connects us too much, considering the old system was more than sufficient. I will never be able to afford the bill and nor would I want to. The money that supports the T.V.’s and lobby renovation could have gone to books and desks or repaving the roads.
Looking at this new color t.v. all I see is inequality and ignorance. This inequality and ignorance is what my Purple Heart protects and stands for. The first time I walked my old streets when when I arrived home I was reminded of this. My old “friends’” eyes were full of disgust, arrogance, and a little pride. Like the people who beat me into this bloody pulp and the men I served with, the people I grew up with share a portion of their feelings. They think I’m unnatural, different, and unworthy. I am unworthy of respect or humanity. To them I live in sin which is a crime that justifies all of their hate.
. . .
“Lauren, Pat...” I greet my friends as they arrive in my hospital room.
“You can press charges,” Lauren reminds me yet again as Pat investigates my fresh inflictions for the first time.
Looking back at my friends I do not want to break their caring hearts, but know that there will be no justice for me. Staring back at me Lauren is beautiful as the day we met overseas. We me the same day I was treated for my injuries that awarded me my Purple Heart. The first day that Lauren treated me was the first day I fell in love for the first time.
“It is not worth it.” My response comes after a minute of silence, as I look back at Pat our greatest friend in the world. Our rock.
No one responds to me as silence overcomes us allowing my nurse to care for me in silence. My nurse is a clone of the waitress at our favorite coffee joint: Young, beautiful, and ignorant. They share the same twinge as Lauren takes my hand; biting her lip and giving us that look of unnatural disgust. They try to be polite and accept us, but in the end they can not see us as anything but sin. They visibly fight against their upbringing as they try to serve us with servility and cordially.
A twinge of pity forms in my stomach as the hospital coffee’s bitter taste reminds me of why we pay the outrageous prices charged at our favorite hang. The coffee and the food is not much better there, but in the end we are accepted. No matter what the server believes we get taken care of with a smile. We do not have to worry about people talking behind our backs or someone spitting in our food because of the people who own the joint are just like us.
The owners of our little hang blazed a trail similar to Lauren and mine years ago. They were the first open interracial couple in our small town. They did not hide their relationship from the world, but challenged it head on and won.Instead of hiding from the world they opened a coffee shop together. They run it with open arms and an open heart, mirroring the beliefs they hold about life. They have shown everyone in our small town that love and life goes far beyond the color of ones skin.
“Lauren may be right this time. I can draft the papers in the morning, so when they catch the....”
I cut off Pat as she breaks me out of my daydream. I know the offer is coming from a loving heart, however I can not bear to hear any more of my friends fable. The cops in this town will never find my assailants. Coming out of a bar at eleven o'clock last night dozens of people observed my attack and a single witness does not exists. I can guarantee you a video of my attack will show up on a Klan website within the week. It's existence will not make a difference in finding justice. That video could appear on the six o'clock news and it would not make a difference. That is why I did not report my assault because justice is impossible for someone whose life style is considered sin and corrupt.
“This can not go uncounted for. We have to stand up for ourselves. We have to show them that g...”
I do not hear any more as my head goes woozy. My sight blurry. A sharp pain on the back of my skull is all I feel before I pass out again.
. . .
Waking up, more tubes are connected to my arms and my head is pounding. I wake up alone in the sterile room trying to figure out what happened. Looking around there are no cards or flowers; it appears that I have changed rooms once again.
“You are awake Mr .Johnson, and that is good to see.” A faceless doctor says to me as he enters. My vision still blurry I can barley make him out as he continues to speak to me.
“You had a complication and were taken into emergency surgery last night. You had a slow bleed that would have killed you if you had not been here last night.”
My eyes may be blurred, but my ears make out the accent of my new neurologist. He is Indian and struggling with mastering a new language. I chuckle, daggers striking my head with every laugh, this doctor is one of the few people in town who does not hold a horse in the civil rights struggle. He is simply trying to assimilate himself as quickly as possible. Trying to overcome his accent and master the English language. My doctor wants to become part of our small town before America assimilates he and his people as an axis of evil.
The doctor’s struggle to assimilate himself reminds me of how hard it is living in the deep south. Even though my platoon never truly accepted me into their brotherhood, we had a common enemy at least. Here at home my “friends” from the neighborhood, family, the towns people, hospital staff, and even my own grandmother share the same feelings about my lifestyle that my platoon did. The only difference is that here my choice is the common enemy.
Its funny- after I returned from the war I thought it would be different. I gave everything to my country and my people, I found my love in the war. I was injured and almost killed. I sacrificed everything and yet nothing changed. I always thought that with so many men returning from war the fighting would subside. You would think that they were tiered of seeing blood shed and pain after being immersed in it for so many years. I was wrong. In reality soldiers are soldiers no matter where they are its seems. All that changes are the targets. When we returned home they shifted their focus from a malicious, militant dictator to a war on morals and race. Their guns replaced by petitions and pickets; ammo by sermons and speeches. Their new war is a war to condemn everything that Lauren and I have together.
. . .
Opening my eyes from an eternal slumber the light in the room blinds me. Stirring slowly I hear a voice scrambling in.
“Good Lord boy.. you are finally awake.” My grandmother's genuine concern for my safety is a nice change from her usual covert disappointment. “When Ronnie came by and told me you were here I could not believe it. He said he saw that boy and girl here earlier today when you crashed.” Her concern is replaced by disappointment as quickly as it had appeared. “I wish you would hang out with people like Ronnie more often. He is a good boy, comes from a good home, has a nice sister. You two would make the cutest kids...”
My grandmother trails on as I stop listening. Right now I can not take any more of her bi-polar approval. If she only knew the truth about Ronnie she would not speak so highly of him. Ronnie is our neighbor hood king pen. He runs the gang and the drugs through most of our small town and he recently expanded his business by opening an “escort service” on Middle Avenue. Ronnie calls himself a people-pleaser and knows how to keep up appearances. Whether it be with the grandmother next door or the heroine addict down the street Ronnie always knows how to say the right thing. It is amazing how some people can lead such double lives. Amazing how they can be so dishonest to themselves, fully aware that they are showing the world two different faces. Of course I can not blame him considering I wear a mask myself.
“Ma, have you seen Lauren?” I ask, interrupting her continuous babble about the beautiful children Ronnie's sister and I would have. Curiously wondering where my love may be.
“I haven't seen that boy since I left the house to visit you. He was walking in the neighborhood when my cab left. He may have been coming to see me now that you mention it. Probably to tell me about your surgery.”
My monitors jump to life as fear grips me. “Coming to see you...” My grandmother does not know the truth about us and there is no time to tell her now. Straining against my tubes, doctors and nurses rush in to restrain me as they sedate me. Yelling in terror I am trying to get my thoughts across before I lose consciousness. I have to get to my neighborhood. I have to get to Lauren before he dies.
. . .
Welcome to the service for
Lauren Thalemes
1978-2013
“In memory of a loving friend and loyal son.”
Rolling thought the church doors I am in tears the entire way. Ashamed, lost, and missing the one man in this world who I loved more than anything. Looking around the chapel there are some genuine tears and a majority fake. Inside these holy walls the greatest irony does not come from the fake mourners or the fact that many people are here to see a dead faggot. No the greatest irony is that today Lauren will be accepted into a place we both have been shunned from for years.
That is the problem with people like Lauren and I; we are on the edge of acceptance. On the edge of morality. Some may think that what killed Lauren was just blind, ignorant prejudice and hate, but I know better. It is our entire culture that killed him and there is nothing ignorant about it.
I served my country in many wars, in the Gulf, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I was a decorated soldier and the second I came out I became an outcast. If they had not been in such desperate need for soldiers I am sure I would have been sent home during my last few tours, especially after I came out. In the end though fortune shined on me and I took that bomb for my platoon. I received a Purple Heart, and met Lauren, instead of a dishonorable discharge. He was my nurse and never saw combat, but from the moment we saw each other I knew he was the man for me. We both knew of the struggles the other faced and in the end he was the only one who got me through everything.
Overseas we prayed together and went to church. Over seas the sermons were about war and the enemy. Church held us together, it gave us a reason to fight. Back here when we go to church our preacher tries to talk me out of our choices through his sermons. Every week I scoff back at him wondering how a man of God could turn his back so quickly on one of his flock. I always knew it would take time for the churches down here to adjust and accept us. Here in our small town it took decades for people to accept a black and white sheep walking together. Two men sharing God’s love would of course be resisted more, however I never expected this. After all that we had done though for this country and all the love we gave them I thought we would have been shown support and compassion instead of abandonment. I wish that my small town and so many like it would see beyond our attraction, our skin color and instead see the gift of true love God has bestowed upon us.
Lost in the sermon that means nothing to me I am waiting for my chance to speak. Without a prepared statement I do not know what to say. Everyone expects me to keep the statement short and sweet, to discuss what a great man he was, but I’m not sure I can do that. I do not want to disgrace his memory today, but I also do not want to support this facade any further.
“My children now I would like to invite our son Thomas to the pulpit to share a few words.”
Caught off guard I feel the congregations attention turn to me as I roll up to the stage. Looking across the congregation the church it is as segregated as ever. Dr. King would be ashamed to see that his message fell on deaf ears. My injuries, Lauren’s death were both caused by the same thing. The two factions that attacked us were united around a singular cause of hate. Part of it was about race, but at its core we both know that it is because we are gay. Finally up here I feel dirty and dishonest, still struggling with what I want to say. I put my hand on his casket one last time to tell him I love him before I let him go.
“Lauren was one of my best friends. We met in a....” I lose my place as my eyes tear up. “Sorry... This is just very hard for me. We were very good friends and...”
I hear a chuckle in the church that stops me. A quick scan shows me all I need to know as I locate Ronnie and his crew admiring their handy work while chuckling at my misfortune.
Even though it will never be proven I know that a week ago while I strained against my tubes, Lauren was being beaten to death by Ronnie’s gang. Lauren went there to spread the news of my health, but never got the chance. On his way there Lauren’s car broke down. He grabbed a cab and took it as far as it would take him. The cabbie would never drive through my old neighborhood and Lauren was forced to walk the rest of the way on his own. My grandmother was gone by the time he arrived at her house, but Ronnie and his gang weren’t.
Despite their hate for me, Ronnie and his crew could never stand by and watch someone from their neighborhood get beaten. Ronnie had to protect his turf and more important had to retaliate for what had happened to me. Bottled up anger from my attack boiled over into an interracial gay bashing that started the second Lauren entered the ghetto.
Lauren’s teeth were kicked in to the point where they scratched his throat as he swallowed them. His arm's and faced smashed with tire irons. Knees blown out by baseball bats. Cut, tortured, murdered the cops tried their hardest to find those responsible, but they were never able to find the alley Lauren’s brutal attack happened in. Lauren was dumped in the river a corpse. He became a sacrifice to the artificial sins our community placed upon us.
“Lauren was a fagot.” I scream out to the congregation, not able to hold back the anger any more. “Don’t look so shocked. Don’t recoil. We all knew it. Hell anyone here who denies it is more delusional than the facade that this funeral really is. We all know the real reason most of us came here today was to watch the sinner, to watch the fagot get what he deserves.”
An eerie silence settles over the congregation as they wait for me to say something. Out of the corner of my eye I see preacher getting up to stop me, but nothing can stop me from finishing my peace.
“I wish I was dead. Instead I am crippled into a wheelchair to watch the worst that mankind has to offer. Everyday I have to live with the fact that the shrapnel that sits and inch from my heart stands for nothing more than hate. Over forty years ago Dr. King gave his own life so we could all live in peace together. Myself and countless others have given their lives in countless battles so each and every one of you can be free to practice and live how you want. And how do you use this freedom? By showing ignorance and hate. People in this city would have hated us even if Lauren had been female. All that this small town, has shown is ignorance, hate, and disrespect. You are all the same regardless of what your skin shows. If anything you are a perfect hypocritical example of Dr. King’s vision. You are all the same, united by ignorance and hate. You are all responsible for what happened to Lauren and me. It is your teachings that encouraged these attacks and more importantly it is all of you who showed up here today only to get one final kick out of seeing the fagot buried.”
The congregation hangs on my every word as I am transported back to the day that I jumped on that grenade for my platoon. The day I watched the faces of those I killed flash before my eyes before I thought I was about to die.
“I hope you all feel the disrespect that you have shown not only to Dr. King and your Lord, but also to yourself. You have all shown that you do not know what to do with the freedom Lauren and I gave you. I have fought in three wars, killed countless numbers of people. For a long time I thought I had seen the worst of humanity overseas, but I was so wrong. You people here today, the people who put me in this wheelchair and Lauren in this casket have demonstrated the worst this world has to offer. In war there is a goal an enemy, but in your war against fagots and dikes what is your goal? To delay the discovery that we are people just like you. No matter what you say I know what all of you are and have to live with it. You are ignorant and blind. You have shown that you are poor students of everything this country stands for. Prime examples of a lesson not learned.”
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