PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I cannot remember the exact date, sometime in

one of the warmest Octobers on record---nineteen

seventy's:  fifth period, seventh grade English, and

I cannot recall what Old Lady Borscht was teaching

us about on that day.  I was the unpopular kid, hated,

second of five years that the homophobic epithets,

"faggot" and "queer," and some others too obscene to

be printed, had attached to me.  For the very first

time in my young twelve years, my Adolescence asserted

itself unbidden, immediately, and rather unexpectedly.

Muscles, some feeling internal, contracted sharply.  My

mouth became suddenly dry; my pits and palms began to

sweat.  Eyes and ears became acute at their assigned

sensations, but thought itself seemed to break down to

basic, even primitive, components.  An overwhelming

awareness of Desire, which identified itself in a

quick whisper as Homosexual (and glad to be so) set---in

silence defiance the haters and wannabe thugs who

surrounded me---its seal of approval upon the whole

process.  On the other side of the small room, but well

within my line of sight, Anthony, the most beautiful

male in fifth period English (where Bumbling Borscht

continued to make an attempt to lecture), had slipped off

his shoes.  With blonde long hair that violated the

archaic dress code, in the Student Handbook (Copyright

nineteen fifty-nine by the School Board); clad in a

form-clinging sweater shirt and baggy, bell-bottom jeans,

his feet were sheathed in midnight blue crew socks---my

initial experience with that style and color, and one I

never, ever, forgot; a standard by which many other

socks were placed along my personal spectrum.  As he

stretched his legs out in front of him, I imagined that

he wanted to flaunt the beauty of his unshod feet; and

then, I imagined---well, it was hope robed in the garb of

imagining---that he had done so.  Suddenly, Borscht asked

him to distribute a hand-out of several stapled pages.

He did so with a most seductive smile on his face, as if

he enjoyed the footsteps required to fulfill the directive.

When he moved next to my desk, he said---audibly and

without rancor or prejudice---"Hi," to the very obvious

surprise of Debbie E. and Debbie C., two bitches seated

strategically around me who made it their daily practice to

embarrass me with remarks that positively dripped with

verbal venom.  But none of that, for a few moments,

blessedly mattered:  Anthony had taken his shoes off; the

whole Cosmos had gladly and joyously contracted to the

space traced out by his feet, gliding over the linoleum

floor.  Anthony had bestowed upon me an abiding gift, a

first memory, and confirmation of my soul's nature, that

has never abandoned me . . . not even in fifty-five years.