On Being Queer in High School in 2023
A Sociological Prose Poem
They sit in a circle, in bean bag chairs, on couches, in rainbow socks, tall lace-up boots, sketched on Converse.
They are trans and pan and ace and bi and queer and gay.
They are twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and seventeen.
They show up as their full selves, green hair, spiked hair, goth make-up, flannel pajama pants, colorful shirts, bright shoelaces.
But still young enough to carry around a stuffed animal, too.
They are asked where they feel safe in their community, and they say the bookstore and they name a gaming store.
They are asked what makes them feel unsafe in their community; where they feel unsafe: High School.
They are barked at.
People throw things at them.
They are harassed in the hallways, on the sidewalks, at their houses.
They are followed.
In the hallways, on the sidewalks, at their houses.
They are insulted.
“Fag”, “queer”, “fairy”, “freak”, “it.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
(Said the harasser without a mirror, or morals.)
They are pushed.
Their peers, in clumps, in groups, as a team: bark at them, throw things at them, harass them, follow them, insult them, push them.
Their teachers do nothing.
The principals do nothing.
The harasser’s parents have money.
The pusher’s parents have lawyers.
The barker’s parents have blinders.
Certainly blinders, protecting their own kids at all costs.
“Mine is one of the good ones.”
There are security guards.
The security guards join in.
They stand too close, they insult, they ignore.
“This is your own fault, kid, for being a freak.”
The kids–and they are kids, remember–cry and shake and worry and fear.
They drop out of school, get their GED.
They are homeschooled.
They comb the internet, and find groups.
Like now, where they sit in a basement in bean bag chairs holding hands.
Protected, for a breath.
Where for three hours a week they can be free.
