The Past is a Herniated Disk in the Lower Back
I’ve been thinking about you, Javier. Where are you? Eternal tormentor? I hate that name — it’s simply beyond me.
“Stop looking at me with those gay eyes.”
I wasn’t. Trust me, I knew where my eyes should be, the ground.
‘Don’t make eye-contact.’ A daily liturgy.
Every morning. Sit near the front — near the bus driver; she likes me. Do my homework. Pretend to be searching for something in my bag. Make shapes, from the weird polyester stamp on those pleather seats, in my head. Be normal. Why can’t I be normal? Read animorphs. I wish I could change to something … anything else. Be something else.
‘Don’t make eye-contact.’
I didn’t see him after middle school — thank God — only from third to eighth.
But it’s okay. I remember Albert and Chris. Misfits, I guess. There was Peter, he was always nice to me. There was Pokemon and the Greek Gods. Merlin and Sailor Moon. Zelda and Mario. There was the wind on my face as I shot down the side of the bridge. There were the waves hugging me, forcing me towards the sandy ocean floor. My poetry. My stories. My inner haven.
I had Dayana.
“Why do you let them talk to you like that?” she asked when she discovered how they would speak to me. “Stand up for yourself.”
Easier said then done when you are so beat down.
Javi, where are you? How are you, no — I don’t care. Do you know how much damage you did to me? Do you know, I carry your words with me? I was an empty vessel and you filled me up. Every day you had a drop — sometimes a glassful — of hate.
But I get it. You were young. I was annoying? Probably. It’s the culture. I was weak, easy prey? Deflect? Were you deflecting? Were you just having fun? Were you just being a boy? You know how boys are? I do.
“Oh, he is crying. Stop Javi. Leave him alone.” I don’t remember her name.
That’s the thing about hate. It carves a prominent place in your head — it brands you.
Do I forgive you, Javier?
“And forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”
I’ve tried … I’ve tried.
