F*ggot

                At the age of 8, the word never meant anything to me. Words in and of themselves were simply catalysts of conveying a message, a systemic runway for carrying emotions and history. But this word? It was simply a word. The term was often used as an insult by younger boys and girls, never really analyzed for its meaning until children entered their teenage years. By then the words began to take shape, given color and meaning in places that previously were grey and shapeless. For most people, it remained as a negative connotation, an insult. It was the same for me. Until I met him.

 

In the far reaches of southern Texas lies a small little town called Santa Fe, a predominantly white town with drops of Mexican blood stirred into the pot. It’s just south of League City, the birthplace of Baseball player Nolan Ryan and a little north of Galveston, between Alvin and La Marque. It was a fairly quaint little town with independent businesses, a noble religion, kind people, and a fiery passion instilled in every child under the sun. I, of course, dreamed of becoming bigger than Santa Fe, going out into the world and shooting my name into the stars. I still do. But that means nothing right now, because the story I want to tell does not concern what I wanted.
                In the midst of 8^th grade, a boy of unknown origin moved into the town. He was a pale, thin kid with short blonde hair and green eyes the color of emeralds sparkling under fluorescent light. He called himself CJ, but his real name was Charles. He never did say where he was from, only that he would leave again soon. He would say that for the next 3 years.
                He came up to me on a Wednesday, weeks later during lunch and asked if he could sit next to me. There was a sense of cruelty in me that I never quite forgave, and it told him to go f**k himself. My friends laughed and so did I. CJ didn’t laugh, though. And I don’t know why, but whenever I would tell people those things, it never instilled any emotion in me, but the look on his face after I had finished my laughter made me feel something that I had never felt before. Regret. He didn’t cry or anything, he just stood there, a misery in his eyes that seemed like it had lived there his entire life, and I had only made it stronger. The next day I invited him to sit with my friends and I. He was happy. They were not.
                Roughly a year later I no longer called those boys my friends, and instead I called that of CJ. He wasn’t my only friend by any means, but he was definitely one of the more interesting ones. He rarely spoke, always standing quietly in the background. I had to directly invite him into the conversation before he would begin speaking. He was never really any good at it, always stuttered and went off on tangents, but none of that mattered to me. It was good just to hear him try.
                When 9^th grade had come and gone, he shared with me a secret, one that I had always known in the back of my head, but was still surprised when he confirmed it. CJ was a homosexual. As I write this, I understand that to many people nowadays this is nothing to be ashamed of. Unfortunately for CJ, it was. You must remember that we live in a very southern small town in Texas, and nearly the entire population committed whole-heartedly to Christianity without a second thought, myself included. So for him to tell this to me, I couldn’t help but to feel appalled and disgusted, as was my upbringing.
                “So you’re telling me you’re a f****t?” I asked him. He showed no offense to the term. He didn’t try to correct me or tell me I’m an a*****e for saying that. He just nodded, his eyes glued to the ground like a puppy that knows it’s in trouble. Much like that Wednesday 2 years ago, regret clung to my heart almost instantly. I put my hand on his shoulder and apologized, telling him that his secret was safe with me. And for the most part, it was. There was of course, in my idiotic, teenage mind, an exception to this promise.
                On a heated Sunday the following week, I went to church. We sang our songs, stood when we were told to, sat when we were told to, clung to our bibles like chains and repeated the same verses we had uttered for countless years. I had never once questioned these rituals, as they were instilled in me from birth, that I was a child of God. After service, I approached the pastor and told him that I wanted to confess. I told him the usual stuff that happened, as was my weekly ritual. It was my time to atone for all of my sins, and to begin anew with a fresh heart to taint with debauchery the following week. This time, however, I let it slip to my pastor that my friend, CJ, was a homosexual. I didn’t use his name, of course, but that didn’t stop him from trying to pry it out of me. He asked me why I felt it was necessary for me to confess somebody else’s sins. I told him that I felt just as dirty for allowing my friend to suffer the infernos of Hell. The pastor absolved me of my sins and allowed me to leave.
                The next morning at high school, a rumor had started that one of the sophomores was a f****t. It never crossed my mind that they were talking about CJ, and that I had been responsible for this rumor. I simply met CJ in the art room like always, and we ate lunch in there with some of the drama kids. They were an odd bunch, but not in a bad way. They had pride in what they did, and what they did was good. Until they began talking about the rumor.
                When CJ heard the term “f****t”, he immediately looked at me with quizzical eyes. At least I think they were quizzical. I couldn’t help but to shake the feeling that there was a layer of fear over those emeralds in his sockets, that he had been discovered. I assured him I had told nobody. A lie to absolve myself of next weekend.
                A month went by, and I met CJ again for lunch. This time, though, he had a black eye.
                “What happened?” I asked him.
                “Nothing. Leave me alone.”
                We were silent that entire lunch.
                Things went on like this for the rest of the year, bruises and cuts all over the place, appearing out of nowhere. By now, the term “someone is a f****t” had been replaced by “CJ is a f****t”. And it was all my fault.
                CJ had begun to grow distant from me and his other friends. I saw him, one day, in the hallways, being beaten on by a couple of Juniors and a Senior. They shouted things at him, obscenities and such, letting loose a flurry of punches and kicks that made me flinch with each one landing.
                Apparently, CJ had seen me and had been looking my way for a while. One of the kids noticed and came up to me, a big hunk of meat, red in the face with delight.
                “You gonna help your boyfriend?” He asked me.
                “He ain’t my boyfriend.” I muttered back, fear moving my lips. My eyes flicked back up to CJ. He was crying.
                There was a sense of cruelty in me that I never quite forgave, and it said “I ain’t no f****t. 

    

    They found him dead in his room the following morning, lacerations on his arms and pills on his nightstand.

    I confronted my pastor next Sunday in confessional, asking him if he had any sins he’d like to confess. When he acted confused, I accused him of sharing my confession with people. I accused him of breaking my trust. I accused him of being the devil. I accused him of killing my friend. And in all of those accusations, he never once denied any of the things I told him. Instead, he told me that God had a plan for everyone, and though it saddened him to hear of a soul being lost to the devil, it was for a reason, and we should not question God’s will.

 

    Needless to say, I lost my faith that day.

 

    At the age of 15, the word never meant anything to me. Words in and of themselves were simply catalysts of conveying a message, a systemic runway for carrying emotions and history. But this word? It was simply a word. The term was often used as an insult by younger boys and girls, never really analyzed for its meaning until children entered their teenage years. By then the words began to take shape, given color and meaning in places that previously were grey and shapeless. For most people, it remained as a negative connotation, an insult. It was the same for me. They were only words though, and they had no real impact on anybody, right? On that day I learned that it’s not the words, but the hate carried behind them. I learned that through my words, layered with fear and hatred, I killed my best friend. All because he was different from me.