Tag: Gay rights

Locker 8

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Ollie hated swimming lessons. But it was summer, and he promised his mother Jill that he would commit to one structured activity while school was out.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning in June and July, Ollie packed his swim trunks, towel, and goggles begrudgingly. At 8:55, his older sister Lydia, fresh from earning her driver’s license, dropped him at the curb outside Chaparral Pool.

Ollie wasn’t afraid of the water or physical activity. What bothered him was getting naked in front of the other middle school boys and showering near them when their lesson was over.

To soothe his anxiety, Ollie hatched a plan. He decided to stash one of his tiny butterfly drawings—pink wings, beady red eyes, black antenna, and blue thorax on a white sticky note—in his bag. Then, when he arrived at the pool, he would post it discreetly inside locker 8.

An hour later, when he returned to the locker room after class, he twirled the dial on his lock—16 then 8 then 32—popped open the latch and rediscovered his prized artwork hanging there. This ritual distracted him as he peeled off his wet royal blue trunks, then scampered to the nearest open shower stall.

***

Ollie’s meticulous butterfly drawings covered his desk at home. Each one was unique in size, color, and configuration, but all were Ollie’s creations.

Before dinner one night in late May, Jill passed Ollie’s bedroom door. She knocked, then peeked in to check on her son and his homework progress. Before she left, she declared, “I love your drawings, Ollie! What do you love most about butterflies?”

Caught off guard, Ollie shrugged. He couldn’t find the precise words.

Was it their fragility? Their freedom? Their gentility? Their rare ability to transform from a cocoon and flit about—unfettered—floating above a weighty world that discouraged everyone around him?

Or simply that Ollie’s preoccupation with his art quieted his nerves even as he felt excitement stir in his growing penis?

***

On July’s last Thursday after Ollie’s final swimming class, he showered quickly to avoid contact with Jake. Weeks before, he made fun of Ollie’s oversized beach towel. It featured a canary yellow smiling sun wearing funky sunglasses.

“Did your mommy buy that big, beautiful towel for you, Ollie?” Jake chided.

What would Jake say if he found my butterfly tucked inside my locker door? Ollie wondered.

Undeterred, Ollie wiggled into his gym shorts, threw on his Arizona Diamondbacks jersey, slipped into his flipflops, and folded his belongings in his bag.

Rather than plucking his prized butterfly drawing from locker 8 and bringing it home to cluster with his other creations, Ollie left it hanging there. He left it clinging inside the metal wall for unknown days, weeks, or years.

Ollie left his art—his reassuring beauty—for another boy who might one day appear and appreciate it. For another boy who might feel threatened by a world of ominous clouds that surrounded him and what he didn’t yet understand about himself.

***

Lately, I have been writing short fiction, exploring and developing stories with a social statement that fit within the realm of my reality. It helps me feel I am making a small difference in this country I live in and still love … even as the madness within and outside our borders continues to spin out of control.

Visual prompts (like this photo I captured in July at my community pool in Scottsdale, Arizona) open an alternative world of creative possibilities for me. This is a technique I recommend to participants in my memoir writing workshops. So, in this instance, you might say I am wearing several hats … student, teacher, writer, gay man, concerned citizen.

I’d love to know what you think of this story. How does it make you feel? As always, I appreciate your insights and feedback.

In my memoirs, I’ve written about discovering and embracing my gayness later in life … remembering that horrific feeling of squashing my true self to fit into a prescribed notion of “all-American” masculinity.

I worry about the Ollies in the United States … the poets, artists, visionaries … the young, emerging, gay, lesbian and trans members of our society … all who face growing up in our country that is turning a blind eye toward anyone who isn’t a straight, white, MAGA male.

I worry for them. I worry for us. Every day.

One Step Closer to Midnight

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At six, I ducked. I covered. When Cronkite broke the news, I grieved for JFK. I wondered what might have been. I watched John-John salute his dad’s horse-drawn casket as it passed by.

At sixteen, I drove and grew. I discovered the stage. My long hair hid my face, but through the blond strands I watched the lies and disgrace of Nixon and Watergate unfold and consume our nation.

At twenty-six, I cradled my first-born son. I played ad man in the tallest building in the world. I watched the AIDS epidemic rage without relief. Reagan stood by to pontificate.

At thirty-six, I grieved for my father and raised two little boys–alone. Clinton signed Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. In short order, I watched the military expand its closets. Meanwhile, I found a way out of mine.

At forty-six, I climbed the ladder, fed our dog, and paid more child support. I watched my weight escalate. My blood pressure and responsibilities soared as George W fanned the flames in Iraq.

At fifty-six, I grieved for my mother. I shed my corporate skin. I wrote. I sang again. I photographed dragonflies. I watched Obama change course and support marriage equality. I felt hopeful.

Now, six days before my sixty-sixth, I cleave to my husband and pray that the masses will continue to support Biden–our buffer from total mayhem–while insanity lurks on the horizon.

We watch and sigh as another wave of misguided declarations from the misnamed Supremes–and their perpetrators–land on the doorstep of freedom and turn back the clock on once-protected classes.

What has become of our red-white-and-blue country? The country I still love–that beacon of hope–no longer exists. Now we are black and blue. Punch drunk from the previous administration. Bruised from an insurrection that took us to the brink nearly thirty months ago.

Still, we watch and wait for justice and accountability. Will it ever come? Or are we simply poised for another distraction? Another round of fireworks to illuminate our darkness and denial?

It certainly feels like we are one step closer to midnight.

***

If my poem moved you, check out my latest book A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.