Tuesday, September 24, 2013
HANDS ON MY PRIVATE PARTS
Gave me more comfort, than adult sterile stares.
I can still feel the caterpillar crawling up my finger
as I sat on a tree stump in the school yard
as the other kids approached the weird boy that was me.
"What's wrong with him?"
They teased me, they didn't understand me.
They turned the lights off in the locker room
I was in seventh grade...
He, in eighth.
I recall a pair of pubescent hands around my waist
Apparently the cornrowed school bully had feelings erupting inside of him
On a more intimate level than what his boys had in mind.
I also remember,
an older family friend who checked my underwear
on the bottom bunk.
After he lifted me above his body, and made me fly like Superman.
My identity was stolen from me as a baby
I never got to know who birth me, I never got answers
As to why she left?
I heard stories about siblings, real ones.
The one I had, didn't like me at all. I prayed to God
To bring me a brother
I looked up to him like an older brother
As he rubbed my eleven year old stomach
In and out of my clothes.
Still no one knows.
For some reason it never hurt
As much as the neglect I felt from the outside world.
Cookie cutter as it seemed, As blessed as I was
To go from crack baby to Preachers kid
I always wondered why I was so different.
I felt like an alien, in an unknown world.
Surrounded by judgement.
The only brown face in a classroom
The only non-believer in a sanctuary
Humiliated by my own father on the pulpit
Hoping that one day I'll get to take a stage of my own.
Everyone else got attention
My parents with captive congregations
Their daughter took trips around the world.
I was sent to Jesus camp on a ranch in the country.
I grew up too fast. I got horny too early.
I let men who were way too old, TOUCH ME
It was how I was indoctrinated, so I thought it was normal. I went with it.
There was the basketball player who didn't like condoms
The middle aged married man who sodomized me behind a synagogue in the parking lot.
Rico from the school for the arts, who made me sit on his gigantic dick
As he sat on the toilet seat.
He didn't take "I'm not ready" for an answer.
The next day he told his friends I was a faggot
Who kept showing up at his home.
Soon the entire school thought I was an OBSESSED HOMOSEXUAL.
Every day I wanted to die....I didn't want to wake up from my sleep.
Boys touched me. Men touched me.
They would always leave or it would end up in disaster.
All the while my friend died...the one I told my secrets to.
I knew I was lonely when I got to college in a different city
I wanted to sing, but I got laughed at....
I modeled locally, some acceptance there but...At the end of the day
I didn't have a soul. I was merely an image.
A desolate one.
American Idol called my name as I passed the Convention Center in Washington DC
Home from break, already suicidal and on drugs
In a few months, The entire nation saw a comic relief on their TV screens...
I was invisible again.
I felt like that class clown
Who was desperate for acceptance
Because they looked at me, but didn't SEE me.
A sound bite and a bad hairstyle
The voice didn't speak. Yet it cried out for help
With profanities and broken dreams.
And no one was empathetic
They simply had a belly laugh.
But HE had a story.
Everyone who had ever touched me
I just wanted to be loved
By someone else other than my parents
Whose love confused me growing up
Because who I was
They challenged without purposely doing so.
I had a mentally abusive sister
who told everyone I was insane
An informant for our parents
Telling them of every boy who called
Pamphlets on how to repent showed up on my bathroom sink.
She'd be the lesbian mental case in years to come.
And they wondered
Why I sought so much comfort in Pound Puppies
And created Pleasantville with chalk on the driveway pavement.
At an historic plantation.
A nemesis of God at an Episcopal private school
Surrounded by robes and Bibles at home.
A faggot at his locker in a public high school
Who just wasn't Black enough for the fake thugs
An "Oreo" who sat in the back of the bus.
I towered above my immediate family
All the while my grandmothers spirit
Came to me after she died
I was so young, yet my mind needed AARP
She told me I was to achieve greatness
Her perfume followed me
She was a writer
As she left, she bestowed upon me
The gift of the pen.
I feel that silently,
She really understood my young soul.
My thoughts spark like fireflies
One goes on, the other goes off.
But they are everywhere abundantly
The memories, the tragedies
Give me the ability to create characters
Grant me the amazing gift of being wise beyond years
I just wish
I didn't have to write about it.
Since no one ever calls
Social media is fake, the antithesis of networking.
The keyboard is my piano
The melody is the current of my pain.
I hope that one day
There is an audience
Instead of laughing at me,
They'd laugh with me
Relating to me sincerely.
Until this parallel universe embraces
I'm alone in my thoughts.
Wrapped up in the equation that I cannot answer...
My past plus my present equals what?
I remember wanting to be everyone else
I stared at the brutal Phys Ed teacher
and tried to be the athletic boy he'd admire.
Tried to take the painful hits of dodge ball
like a man.
But I was just a boy.
Who anticipated the balls would come my way.
I knew I couldn't be like the rest
I couldn't run with the herd
I had a bed full of stuffed animals
Who gave me standing ovations.
Fifty sheets of paper
With faces drawn
Journals of writing
That read like the works of a sixty year old woman.
(According to my child therapist)
I'd grow up to be a man
Without his shit together
Words still on paper
and a silent audience