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  My dad gave me a kiss on my forehead before he left for work. Aw. No. Whatever. I was like don't trip over your ignorance on your way OUT of my room, a thank-you. He's trying too hard, dammit, he wants back in me and T's life … but he should know that he was getting there without doing anything. Now … there's no way, not while we're living under the same roof. Hell no. He told my sister that she can't go to her church. That's the worst thing he could ever say to her. I'll take her. She's so out of here when she turns eighteen. Damn, dude, she'd be out now if she could. My mom's taking me job-searching tomorrow. Yeah, whoohoo. At least I'll be out of the house, right? Right. So … wow, yeah, I gotta get out of here. Moving on … my brother is SO sick, the poor guy can't eat or drink anything without throwing it up. He just had some Gatorade and five seconds later threw it up. He's losing too much weight. He doesn't look right at all. It's kind of scaring me. I like him chubby. Oh God, what's happening here! Three weeks ago we were all healthy and happy and fine, now we're in the shits. Damn. Hmm … well, T's party is today, don't know what I'm wearing. Some repair guy's coming whenever to fix the dryer. I'm gonna go because if I don't, I'll just start writing about my dad again. I still can't believe he knows. My God.

  “He's kicking me out”

  Sunday, January 19, 2003

  Yeah … today hasn't been so good. It's probably been the worst day of my life, actually. I went to church with Dad and T. That was fine. We took Sampson. I love my car. Anyway, so on our way back my sister said something, nothing out of line, I didn't think so, at least. Something about how the Bible is the only book we should be reading, not a book written by some man because the Bible is God's word and that's what we should go by. Anyway, he slapped her across the face for saying that, so I said something and he told me to shut up and then he says something about how I have to give up this gay shit and I just drove and told him that he lost me. That he lost a good thing because I wasn't going back to him. So then we get home, T runs in the house, Dad follows, I sit in Sampson for a little and then I hear yelling so I run out, slip on some ice that's on the walkway to my house, and totally bust my knees and my left palm, it's ugly looking. So I'm out there searching for my glasses and car keys because they went flying when I fell. He comes out to help me and says that he loves me more than anything and I start crying and tell him that he has to love me for everything and he says he won't so I find my glasses, run inside, yell for my mom. When I see her, she's crying so much. I've never seen her cry so much, my mom is so strong, she never cries like that. It breaks my heart, it really does. I keep saying he lost me, I have to get out, Mom, help me. Then my dad comes in and my mom starts SCREAMING at him, I mean really calling him crazy, saying that I'm his daughter, that she loves me no matter what, that he should, too, and he says stuff about how religion is number one to him, that he'll kill me before I live my life in mortal sin and all this stuff. I yell and say I have no father, that if he was my dad he'd love me no matter what, and he runs over to me, right in my face, and is yelling shit, I don't even remember what, but he is spitting as he speaks and he's right there, in my face, I've never had someone in my face like that before. I just stare at him and take it and then he says something about how I'm not his daughter, how he doesn't want me under his roof, I'm getting kicked out, I should go pack up my shit because I have to find somewhere else to go … and that he is going to kill me and I dare him to. Well fuck. So I run upstairs, Tina follows, my mom and he talk/argue. I punch the wall, which I think broke my knuckle. I'm totally screaming “You fucking bastard!” at the top of my lungs because I can't believe it. It's like a Lifetime movie gone terribly wrong. So more shit happens, I don't remember but then my mom comes upstairs to check on my poor brother who's just lying on his bed. THEN my dad starts yelling “EVIL MEN, GAYS AND LESBIANS UNITE! MEN ARE BAD! GAY POWER! MEN ARE BAD, LESBIANS UNITE!” and I'm like WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? and I can hear that he's marching around the downstairs so I run into my mom's room and I'm like “He's gone fucking crazy, Mom! Do something! Get him out!” so she goes downstairs and stops short on the bottom stair and all I hear is “Put it down, Joe, put it down. She's your daughter, you've gone crazy, put it down” and me and T are like what the fuck is going on? So we're yelling for mom to just get him out and then we hear “I have to save her soul, even if it kills her” and I'm like “What the fuck is this? The fucking Exorcist?” and then my mom's like “Joe, put down the knife.” WHAT?!? NO LIE. So I start screaming, I fucking start screaming for my mom to do something. For her to get him out, that he's crazy, that it's him or me, that this, that that. I run down the stairs, grab my jacket, tell my parents that Dad is a fucking lunatic and I run out of the house and to the bridge.

  I have nowhere to go. I have to leave, though. He kicked me out. I think my mom's going to do something. She's not letting me leave. I can't stand him. I hate him. I called my old coach because I had no idea who else to call. We talked for a little. It was nice talking to her. I'm not blaming myself, I did for five seconds but my sister was like “Lo, you're a chosen one, you're here to help people with your writing. God chose you, he made you this way so that you could open people's eyes with your words. Your life, your story, is going to help someone one day. You're chosen.” And I believe her. I believe we're all chosen for something and I believe this and my writing is how I'm going to help people. So that's my motivation to get through this shit. One day, it's all going to be great and make so much sense. I'm gonna look back and laugh because that's what I always do. Everything's changing, but nothing's going to change me, you know? I'm still the same. I'm going to get through this. I'm scared, but I'll be okay. I'm thinking I might go to Richie's … or something. I don't know. I might be sleeping over at Cort's tonight. Maybe, I don't know. I can't look ahead past my foot anymore, shit comes out of nowhere. Wherever I go, that's where I'll go.

  “Hi, I'm M.S.”

  Monday, January 20, 2003

  Since yesterday morning was shit, I left with Tina to go to the mall and watch a movie last night. We didn't go to a movie. After walking around the mall and showing her GoodyGirl (the cute girl that works at Sam Goody), we went to Red Bank to walk around and find Cort's work. We walked for an hour in the freezing cold last night because we couldn't find it but it was kind of fun, except for when these guys said “Hey baby” to us as they walked by. That hurt my ego. I was upset because they weren't intimidated by me. I really was sad. Haha. So we finally found where she worked and stayed there until closing. After, we went back home to get our stuff to sleep over at Cort's. I met her new dog and we looked at pictures. Well, T and Cort did, I was kinda just lying there trying not to think of anything but of course a wave of memories would just hit me out of nowhere. We joked about how people say “hurr” now instead of “here.” “Get over hurr … Are those straight-leg or flurr? … You're mean, that's not furr …” and it went like that for fifteen minutes straight.

  While T was in the bathroom, Cort showed me a naked picture of Mark. My God. I'm sure straight girls would like it but EW. Uuuuh, we went to a diner for breakfast and the waitress was real nice. After that we went back to her place to get our shit and talked about how everything sucks on our drive back. I showed her Sampson when we got home. She loved Sampson. And then we said goodbye. I stayed away from my dad, took a nap, woke up, haven't seen my dad, don't want to see my dad. Tina says he apologized to her, I told my mom to tell him not to talk to me because I don't want to hear it. Yes, I'm bitter. I'm not in a good mood, I'm achy as hell. My hand's real ugly from yesterday and I think I hurt my ankle when I fell, too. I feel useless. I'm trying not to give up but it's getting real hard. I want to cry. I want to get away from everyone because I don't trust anyone anymore except Cort. I'm gonna go.

  Oh, and all yesterday my dad wouldn't call me by my name, he'd say “the Mortal Sin.” So me and Cort were joking that I'd go by M.S.

  “Finally”

  Tuesday, January 21, 2003

  My dad's at work, b
loody hell, finally! My GOD! Last night was corny. I'm having so much trouble sleeping now. I keep waking up, and when I wake up I'm afraid to open my eyes because I always feel as if he's there watching me. He almost fucked out this morning on my mom because he asked her a question about Joe's medicine and it took her a while to answer him. He's going to crack again, he's exaggerating little-little things now. Like my brother has a lot of phlegm because he's sick, so my dad yelled at him and told him to spit it out in the bathroom 'cause he was coughing too much. So he spits it out and was like “I spit, are you happy now?” and he wasn't rude at all, it sounds like it could be rude but his tone was just, “Dad, are you happy?” Jody just wants my dad to be happy. Seriously, that's all he wants. So my dad's like “Are you being wise with me, too?” and Jody's just like “No, Daddy” and he sounded so sad and stuff. I wanted to cry, he said it so sad. So then the bastard goes downstairs and I hear him just walking around and stuff, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

  What have I done? I feel as though I'm losing everything and everyone. And even the people I haven't lost yet, I'm calling them scared and shit and giving them a reason to just fuck me over. I deserve it, I'm being an ass to some people, like Carol I think. What has she done to me? Nothing. So I deserve it if she wants to just … hurt me. But then I think to myself, well, I think you've had enough pain, Lo, but I don't think it will end until I'm out of here. Then I'll just meet someone else to hurt me. Haha, oh God. It's never gonna end. Yeeeeah, I think I'm gonna go listen to music or something. I need to stop thinking about things.

  “On my side?”

  Friday, January 24, 2003

  My dad talked to the priest! And believe it or not, brace yourself, the priest was on my side. So since my dad doesn't have a backbone, he believes the priest even though the priest said the same things I said. “They can't control it. They're born that way. They're not to be hated. All they want is love and support….”Yeah, so the priest asked my dad if I was a good person and he said yes and the priest told him not to worry about it. It could be so much worse. I'm like, no duh. I'm not a whore, I don't smoke, I don't do any sort of drug, I'm here every night, I'm here ALL THE TIME, BASTARD, I don't lie or steal or do anything, I'm fucking boring as hell. Seriously. But yeah, he's gonna leave me alone! Yaaaay, that's all I want. I'm still mad at him. He said everything I had feared hearing, seriously. I still go off into dazes where everything just comes back and I get scared and angry and sad and pissed and everything. And I'm having trouble sleeping and concentrating, well … that's not new, never mind. Ha, anyway, yeah, I can't just forgive that quickly, not him. I usually do, but he FUCKED UP big-time. Sadly, though, he has to live knowing what he did and said, so I'm not rubbing it in. I'm pretending to be okay with him. Whatever. He's there, I'm here, we have to live together. I'm not going to do anything to hurt the rest of the family any more than he already has. Damn. All right. But yeah, the priest was on my side. Dad said sorry. He's leaving me alone. Wishes do come true. Nightmares come true, too, but so do dreams and they make it all worthwhile. I'm sure one day I'm gonna realize why this all happened and its gonna be worth it. I know it is.

  “20 months later …”

  Monday, September 2, 2004

  It's funny how things change. Here I am rereading what I wrote almost two years ago and patting myself on the back. How'd I get through it? How alone was I REALLY? Was I ever really alone, though? I don't think I was but I felt so alone at times. During that period, my mom and sister even asked me to pretend. They wanted me to tell my dad that yes, I was confused. Yes, there was hope for me. Yes, I was normal.

  There is no normal. I knew that before my dad found out about me. I knew that before I ever came out to anyone. THERE. IS. NO. NORMAL. And being different isn't wrong. We are not wrong for falling in love with who we fall in love with. The girl I wrote about in my entries, Carol, is an amazing woman. We were in contact for a few years and during that crazy period in my life she was one of only a handful of people who kept me sane. She was thousands of miles away from me, but closer than most. My sister, Tina, Cortney, Carol, my mom, Jody, and a handful of online friends helped me though it. Of course God did too and the priest who was kind enough to kick my dad's ass with words. It doesn't seem like much, but it was enough. So, to all of those I just named, thanks. And Dad, I don't hate you, I wonder if I ever really did….

  So, though it could have ended up being a traumatizing experience, in the end, everything that happened ended up making my family tighter and me a stronger person. I've changed, no surprise, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Change isn't something to be afraid of. Everything that comes at you comes for a reason. Finding the silver lining is a hard thing to do sometimes…. You want to give up, you want to hide. You feel alone but you're not, you're not alone and things will eventually get better. Self-worth and love are always worth it. Whatever “it” ends up being, hell yeah.

  What makes you different makes you beautiful.

  Crying Wolfe

  by Jack Lienke

  I first met Wolfe Reed in my ninth-grade geometry class. He was a short boy with a round face (betraying the pudgy past of his now slender frame), large, darting dark eyes, and a shoulder-length black ponytail. The pitch-tinted locks framed cedar skin—a result, I think, of a mix of Mexican and Native American heritage, though Wolfe never talked much about his family, so I never knew for sure. In truth, there was very little I knew about Wolfe's life outside of school. I knew his dad wasn't around. I knew his mom had spent some time in jail for drug-related reasons and now worked alternately as a freelance antique dealer and a poodle groomer. I knew his house wasn't far from my own—less than ten blocks, in fact. Mostly, I just knew I wanted to know more. But I also knew that was unlikely. Wolfe didn't answer questions; he belittled them. He greeted inquiry with insult, deflecting even the most banal query with some profanity-laced non sequitur. To illustrate:

  Me: Do you get along with your mom?

  Him: Do you get along with your dick?

  Me: Why didn't you do the assignment?

  Him: Why didn't you shut your ass face?

  And so on.

  Yet there was something about Wolfe's insults. He mimicked and cursed and swaggered and spat, but he never seemed hurtful, never felt unkind. Instead, I found his abuse strangely endearing, almost cute. Those chubby cheeks, that fragile frame—there was no question in my mind that, deep down, he was harmless.

  And I guess that was one big reason we became friends, or a big reason we became whatever it is we were: he didn't scare me.

  All the other boys did. It wasn't that anyone ever attacked me or threatened bodily harm. They didn't even tease me half as much as Wolfe did. But they were frightening all the same. There was a sort of fundamental violence in the way they behaved, the way they talked—loud and aggressive, their conversations heavily peppered with all the words that never failed to make me cringe. Cunt. Pussy. Faggot. Wolfe's speech may have been crass, but theirs was cruel. Negativity and disrespect seemed knee-jerk to them, with teachers, with girls, with each other. I hated it, hated being around it. That was the true menace of those boys for me—not physical pain, but spatial abuse, atmospheric contamination. With girls, I thrived. I joked, laughed, sang at the top of my lungs: I could dominate a room. But the second a boy entered the picture, I clammed up. In an instant, the territory was rendered hostile.

  Middle school had been different. I'd had guy friends there. Unpopular ones, sure, but friends nonetheless. They'd been old pals, though, childhood buddies, leftovers from third and fourth grade, the days when we'd played superheroes in my living room with pillowcase-and-safety-pin capes. As we'd progressed through sixth, seventh, and eighth, I'd felt myself constantly pushed more and more to the fringes. Sleepovers and birthday parties became a chore, trying to share their interest in rollerblading and video games and Internet porn and petty vandalism. Aside from the rollerblading, it wasn't painful, just tiring. Suddenly, having fun with my frie
nds had become hard work. And, try as I might, I couldn't make it look effortless. The reality was clear: I just didn't fit.

  When I chose to abandon our little private school after eighthgrade graduation for the comparably gigantic Clarkson High, there were no tears or heartfelt goodbyes, not even disingenuous promises to keep in touch. We all knew better. Our bond was tenuous at best, and without the insulation of shared experience, a common landscape, it simply dissolved. If we couldn't groan together about Ms. Andrew's math class, what was there to talk about?

  The Oklahoma State Department of Education officially considers Clarkson High an inner-city school, a moniker that never ceases to amuse its students. “Inner city,” after all, conjures up any number of clichéd mental images: a claustrophobic jumble of glass, steel, and concrete; graffitied storefronts and towering apartment blocks; aggressive street vendors and even more aggressive pigeons. More fundamentally, “inner city” implies the existence of a separate and distinct “outer city,” distinguishing a bustling urban center from the various residential suburbs clustered around it. Oklahoma City, in whose inner circle Clarkson is supposedly located, provides no such contrast between industrial clutter and residential sprawl. Missing is the archetypal maze of cracked and stained sidewalks punctuated by the occasional scraggly maple. This is not an asphalt jungle, but an asphalt desert: a sprawling web of gigantic parking lots and double-wide driveways connected by great tracts of sun-bleached expressway and eight-lane interstate. With a population one-sixteenth the size of New York City's spread over a land area two times as large, OKC gives the impression of one mammoth housing development mistakenly dropped in the middle of a prairie, a giant “sub” that has misplaced its “urb.”