My intent was to use a clever metaphor to tackle this particular subject. I was going to
use the Crimson King – still will use. It’s a truly beautiful tree. A species of the Norway
Maple, with deep red, almost purple leaves – crimson, like the name says. According to
the experts, it doesn’t fare well in Edmonton. I have one in my front yard. Healthy,
vibrant. Non-homogenous. Absolutely beautiful. A vital splotch of red in a sea of green.
A practically perfect metaphor.
Fags don’t fare very well here either. Many are dead. Others have fluttered off with their
light feet to Vancouver, or perhaps Toronto, drawn by others like them, yearning for
homogeneity.
Good riddance, I say. I hate faggots. Despise them. Fruits. Sissies. Pansies. Poor
excuses for men.
All good Christians know for a fact that homosexuals are evil. Abominations, no less.
Moses says so in Leviticus, Chapter 18, Verse 22. In fact, about a thousand years before
anybody thought to write it down. I hated faggots before I even knew what one was. I
was a good Christian. I can’t even say the word homosexual without feeling ill.
I never did have the pleasure of being called a faggot at school. I was about twelve when
I was rudely informed that only sissies have lisps and limp wrists. I wasn’t no faggot, so
I spent my adolescence getting rid of any tell tale signs. Accidentally got rid of myself
too.
If I could have rolled myself into a tiny ball and transformed into a puff of air, I would
have made it so. Did you know that if you wish yourself dead long enough and hard
enough, you’ll be dead enough. Poof. Although your body keeps going.
I became an expert at hiding in plain sight, even from myself. It had its advantages. No
sneers. No fag beaters.
There were some unintended consequences, however. Watching my cousins actually
torture a faggot or two was quite horrific. The terror I felt and the compassion and the
cowardice and the self-hatred for not helping in anyway whatsoever, destroyed whatever
I had left.
Denial became survival.
I have a ring. I don’t wear it because I hate being asked about my wife. Her name is
David. I feel guilty, like I’m a liar or something, deceiving women into thinking I’m
single. I notice their subtle passes, but purposely ignore them, knowing I’m hurting them
in some small way.
I feel guilty using the men’s change room. I try not to look, at least not too long. Do I
have any other choice? I’m not comfortable around eyeliner, so the women’s change
room is out. If I was limp wristed and lisped, at least they’d be warned.
However, any noble thoughts of honesty are extinguished when I see the look of disgust
on some guys’ faces when a fem swishes in.
I can’t look people in the eye. Too afraid of what they might see. The only time I’m
comfortable in my own skin is when I’m alone.
Sometimes I feel sorry for those of colour. They can’t hide, even if they are Michael
Jackson. Lately, I don’t feel sorry for them. They can’t hide. Especially from
themselves – unless they’re Michael Jackson. He soaked the die in so deep and kept it in
so long he forgot his original colour.
Just how do you lie to yourself without getting caught?
I’m tired of hiding behind the metaphors. Revealing little bits of myself in ambiguous
poetry. I have spent a lot of energy to become a poor facsimile of the homogeneous. A
fruitless exercise, I have finally come to realize.
So, here I am, struggling to recover the me that I am. Parts of me are buried so deep I
think they’re dead. I reach into my guts as far as I can go. Sometimes I find a piece, a
shell. Then it becomes a game of cat and mouse, life and death. If I get hold of it, I hold
on tight as it claws and tears at my skin. But I pull anyway. And God does it hurt. Oh
God does it hurt.
I finally manage to yank it out into the sunlight where it starts to scream and thrash – like
a vampire exposed to the sun. And then I start screaming in agony watching the agony,
feeling the agony. Oh God it’s hard. It’s so hard. And there is only me to save it. And I
pick me up and I hold me and I hug me and I say over and over again, its okay, its okay, I
love you, I love you – not knowing if I mean it. I love you. We are the Crimson King. I
am the Crimson King.
I am still closely held, exposing myself slowly, but only when it’s safe. I bundle this
piece of me up nice and tightly and bring it here.
And I expose it in the darkness of this bar, where the poets expose their guts and their
hearts and their minds. I test it. Show it that it’s safe, in here at least. Oh God it’s so
hard. Where they cry and hold each other up, week after week. Where I have learned
that the first step to accepting yourself is to be yourself. I am the Faggot Tree.