"People say things happen for a reason, but I say there's a reason things happen. And it wasn't all good way back in the day. Struggle then, struggle now. Still standing." (Blue Scholars)
He wore brass knuckles in 7th grade,
let red hair flame wild from his head.
In High School he fucked the prettiest girls
and never talked about it--they did.
Once we had a class together.
I listened to the stories of his horrific home life
where mom had her head held under water by dad just
for coming home wearing a new perfume.
He thought I was funny and athletically gifted for a girl.
My crush ran deep.
He talked about loving his momma and
being willing to throw down for his friends.
I admired his grit and the way his body
moved without restriction, illustrating his points,
proving his hardness, highlighting his strength.
Probably an Aries.
With a low-pitched voice he'd say "what up girl?"
in the hallway and flick his head back all rugged and masculine.
I watched him like a hawk, learning and sometimes
mimicking intonation, chest-puffing and effrontery
gestures rising up from the guts. Like any young queer,
my gender confusion turned admiration into desire:
I didn't want him; I wanted to be like him.
Eventually he joined a white supremacist gang
like so many of the disillusioned white boys from
poverty stricken neighborhoods ten miles from my
middle class house between Foothill and Baseline.
He no longer gave me head nods and I no longer
wanted to be like him.
Last I heard he'd left gang life,
but alcoholically dismissed himself from giving a fuck
about anything. This Christmas, on an unexpected
trip down South, I drove the city streets of my home town
to find his name flying high on an outstretched banner:
"Claremont salutes its heroes: Thank you _________
for defending our freedom." Army, stationed in Basra.
I could have guessed that when some fool declared war,
he'd go running.
It is, after all, a "voluntary" military now, right?
I'm sure his dad is proud.
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