The Unexpected Question

something I wrote in freshmen year of college...


The Unexpected Question

It was a day on the second week of my sophomore year in high school. I walked into one of the portables for my AP European History class. My AP teachers say they teach the courses at a college-level, but the classroom still made it feel like a high school class. There was the wooden globe on the bookshelf, the crummy, steel-welded chair desks, boxes of glue sticks and color markers, the same couple ditching class and making out in the corner outside, the P.E. students running by your room, and the random announcements interrupting the class. This is a familiar scene, yes?

Fourth period had started. Mr. Burrell stood firmly behind the straw-colored podium with his belly pressed against it. He was a tall, stocky Caucasian guy, fresh out of college, with combed, gelled brown hair and an earring on his left ear. As Mr. Burrell placed his plumpish hands on the wooden edges, he began the class with a question: “Who here thinks putting all the homosexuals on an isolated island is wrong?”

As a young adolescent, I began to be aware of my own discomfort at the use of stereotypes as a justification for isolating and alienating a targeted group of people. I realized how a discrediting social label can change the way an individual view themselves and how they are viewed by others. Whenever certain people were singled out for ridicule, I would have desires to beat the crap out of the harassers like they owed me money. Metaphorically speaking, I usually give a nice smack upside the head to the fool with the not-so-funny-after-all punch line. But then, there was a struggle in responding towards the twist and abuse to the cliché: a flamboyant, gay man. I did not know much about the demographic involved and I did not have a friend who was gay.

The class was hardly ever quiet, but seconds passed as the silence was broken only by the humming of the air conditioning. My hand raised on its own. It took me by surprise. My friend Jen sat behind me, looking down at her desk with her hands folded. With my right arm still frozen in the air, I turned to my fellow classmates. I realized my hand was the only one raised. I sat petrified. “So Ryan, why do you think it’s wrong?” he asked as he leaned over the podium. A chill started to trickle up my spine. My stomach felt like a giant thimble pinned with a thousand needles. My head shook unsteadily towards the question: Why did I raise my hand? Mr. Burrell leaned farther over the podium, waiting for an answer. His fingers closed around the wooden edges of the podium. Blood pounded thick in my head. I had to say something. I replied, “Um…I don’t exactly know why I raised my hand.” I was not prepared to give my reasons, but my heart knew it was wrong. Especially as a developmentally-challenged adolescent, I became frustrated with not knowing how to articulate my feelings towards such profound topics. My maturing heart was being tested, but its young conviction could not penetrate the reckless ignorance of an authority. A swarm of emotions unleashed a legion of internal vortices.

The fight beneath me enraged, as if I had woken to a thunderstorm. The cheeks rose on Mr. Burrell’s face as it shaped a dismaying smile. “Don’t be saying it’s wrong because your mom told you so,” he said, chuckling. His tone was intimidating. Everyone else sat still in their steel-welded chair desks. The gusty wind rolled the door open and sunlight spilled into the room. I looked above Mr. Burrell’s head, and then the Safe Zone sign loomed and the irony with it. Within me, the storm tossed me back down to the ground. My face was drained of expression. Trying to rally myself, I exhaled, slowed my breath, and crossed my arms. Seriously, he should not have asked that question so lightly. The homosexuals are still people. I held my body still until my heartbeat matched the rhythm of the air conditioner. Mr. Burrell continued to ask the class with more controversial questions. I cared less of what was going on. Muffled voices drifted through the humming of the air conditioner. The thunder has met its clear calm. I knew what was right and I was determined not to step out in his class again. But, I wanted to know more about my fellow human beings in the LGBT community.

Three years later. It was the weekend for some Nathan-and-me time. Nathan is a twenty-six year old gay man that I have become great friends with. He is the usual weekender who liberates me from being a couch potato in the dorms.

“Ryan, I’m gonna take you to my finest dining.”

The white, Dodge pick-up truck stopped at a red light.

Nathan had a grin on his face. “Taco Bell.”

“Really now? Well if you are, I think I’m gonna yell ‘kidnap’ out the window.”

“Die.”

Jerk.

Really, what was I getting myself into? I never thought I would have a friend like him.