The Walk
“Why do you walk so fast?”
I smile, “when I was a child, kids would say I walked gay. I started walking faster to compensate.”
“You walk funny,” followed by loud obnoxious laughter.
“It’s sad that you have three boys and can behave like that,” I turn to her kids, “that is the same type of question and attitude I faced daily when I was your age. Laughter. Mocking and worse. When you see a bully, call him or her out.”
“Have you noticed you walk,” pause as if they are trying to be discreet.
“Gay,” I interject, “right?”
“Well,” feigned embarrassment, “yes.”
“Not today, okay. Just, I can’t, today.”
“You walk like a girl.” Out of nowhere.
“Thanks.”
My grandfather, “why do you walk like that?”
“I can’t help it,” crying.
“You walk funny,” giggling.
“Your face is funny,” rolling my eyes.
“Have you noticed you walk—.”
Walk away.
“Your such a fag. Keep you faggety eyes off me.”
Walk away.
“Look at his gay ass. Fruitcake. Can you walk gayer?”
“Why are you crying?”
Through sobs, “they were making fun of me.”
“Well have you tried being or walking less—you know?”
My mother, “when we get there, you know?”
Shaking my head.
“You walk like a faggot.”
“Sure.”
“Why are you such a gaylord, gaylord.”
“What?”
“Gaylord.”
“Fucking faggot, where are you walking off to? Look at him,” pointing, “look at his gay ass walk.”
The other kids laugh.
“How was school.”
“Good.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why do your feet do that? It makes you walk weird.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”
“Hahaha, look,” more laughter, “look how he walks.”
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Tears welling up. No. Don’t let them see you crying. Tears streaming down my face. Just keep walking.
“God, we were just joking.”
“Why do you cry? Don’t let them see you crying”
“I can’t help it.”
“Have you noticed—.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you sitting there?” Snickers, “afraid to walk to the back of the bus?” Other boys laugh.
“I’m fine here.”
“They keep calling me gay.”
Teacher, “stand up for yourself.”
“I hate my life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I hate how I walk, talk, am.”
“You walk fruity.”
“And you’re an idiot.”
“Stop walking like a sissy.”
“It’s the only walk I have.”
“Sissy fag.”
I was just trying to sharpen my pencil.
“But you do walk kind of girly. I’m sorry. It’s the truth. I’m just trying to help you.”
“Well, I know that already.”
“Why do you walk like that?”
“Hmm, how? I hadn’t noticed.
“You know, like that”
“Every day?”
“Yes.”
