Queer Greer

by A J Walkley

  “I dunno, Greer. It depends I guess.”

  Here goes!

  I stuck my arm in his face, pulling up the sleeve.

  “Are these beautiful?” I demanded. Nick looked at me, boring into my eyes with his, and grabbed my arm.

  “What the hell are these, Greer? Did you do this to yourself?”

  “Answer me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What makes that sunset beautiful and these not?”

  “That’s stupid. They’re completely different.” Nick tossed my arm away.

  “What if I painted that sunset?” I asked him, not really sure where I was going with it.

  “What?”

  “If I painted that exact sunset, would it be beautiful?”

  “I guess. What are you getting at, Greer?”

  I put my arm in front of his face again.

  “I painted these. Aren’t they beautiful?” He shoved it away again.

  “No, they’re not. Quit it. They’re ugly.”

  “Why?” I had pushed him too far. I hadn’t expected him to be happy about it, but I thought he might understand. I had never spoken about cutting to anyone except Mr. Riley before. I wanted my best friend to know what I was going through.

  Instead, he ignored me and started back through the window. He turned around halfway through.

  “Why? Why do you even have to ask that? I don’t know why you do that. Do you? That’s not a fucking painting, Greer. That’s your body and you’re hurting yourself!”

  “Not anymore!” I told him.

  “Really? How long have you been? And why?” He looked hurt himself asking me each question.

  “It was after Becca.” I looked away from Nick and focused on the giant Saguaro in our front yard. “I wanted to feel something else.” “Something else? Why didn’t you, I don’t know, go running until you couldn’t run anymore? Or go swimming, like you used to love so much?” Nick crawled back out and sat next to me again. He took my arm and traced the scars with his finger. “You should have told me, G. I would have helped you.”

  “How? I couldn’t even help myself,” I mumbled in reply.

  “This is over though? You really promise?” He turned my head toward him and made me look him in the eye.

  “I promise. In fact…” I started through the window and motioned for him to follow me.

  I walked to my nightstand and opened the drawer, revealing the tools I had collected. I picked them all up: the scissors, the knife, the box cutter and the razor blades. I threw them in the garbage, tied it up and brought it outside. It was Wednesday. The garbage men would be by the next day to pick it up.

  Nick waited for me at the top of the driveway. When I returned to him, empty-handed, he enfolded me in his arms.

  “That’s my girl.”

  ***

  You know that saying, “If you love someone let them go, if they come back it’s meant to be”? Well, it makes sense logically; my brain gets it. My heart on the other hand is not so easily persuaded.

  It had been three months since Becca called it off between us, and every time I glimpsed her in the hall, saw her screen name pop up on my Buddy List, or even so much as heard someone else say the name “Rebecca,” I was reminded how strongly I still felt about her. A knot would instantly form in my stomach, making me feel like I was either nauseous, or in need of a good cry. The aches of love compared to nothing else in my opinion; they crippled me.

  I was even driven to poetry one particularly lonely night. I took out my journal and wrote:

  Your skin is like a Clementine rind

  That I peel off with my mind

  Searching for the truth

  The light

  That night we clung, sweat dripping

  Sipping, sucking on the hallow of your neck

  Drinking you like a sweet song

  Staring in your eyes for a second too long

  Until I saw the truth

  The light

  It didn’t put up a fight

  Didn’t beg

  Didn’t plead

  I didn’t get down on my knees

  I just knew

  As I clutched you tighter

  You began to draw away

  Your name

  As thick as jelly

  Was all I needed to say

  Before you packed up

  Shipped out

  Leaving me on my own

  All I grasped within my clutches

  Were hardened memories

  Thick as stone.

  Not my best, but love can make you do crazy things, like write crappy poetry.

  It was nearly impossible for me to believe that she had any feelings for me anymore, even platonic friendship. How could she if she had busted my heart so badly?

  It was not until several years later when I unintentionally broke a few hearts of my own that I understood – sometimes you cannot help your feelings for a person one way or the other, and people are hurt in the process even if you explain the circumstances.

  People cannot help falling in and out of love just as they cannot help who they fall in and out of love with. Again, the logic is there, but knowing these truths does not make it any easier when you are the one with your heart in a bloody mass inside your chest. Add the guilt of hiding like a coward in the closet and the heartbreak is all the worse, knowing part of the blame was on me.

  In a very big way, Cameron had been my mask, or, what do they call it in Hollywood? My beard? He made it look like I was just like most teens at our high school – straight and happy. Subconsciously, I think I always knew we were never anything more than an expectation to be met.

  When my relationship with him dissolved, he knew I had been fooling around with Becca, but he did not know the extent. Once Cameron heard the full-fledged gossip, I was already alone, without her or him. Therefore, I had no one to stand up with me when he finally confronted me about cheating on him – with a girl.

  ***

  I had just gotten out of work at the supermarket when I saw someone running toward me out of the corner of my eye. Before I realized it was Cameron, I was being pulled backwards by my left arm to the side of the brick building.

  “You really are a fucking dyke, Greer! How could you do this to me?” He was screaming and I backed myself against the wall. I was stunned speechless by the suddenness of his appearance and his anger. I hadn’t spoken to him for weeks.

  “Say something, bitch! What are you thinking? Do you have any, any idea what the guys are saying about me? Calling me a ‘fag hag’ and a ‘lesbro’ and all this shit. It’s so fucked Greer! Say something!”

  But he didn’t let me. His fist swung and hit the building to the left of my head, cuffing my ear in the process with the ring he wore on his middle finger. I stood still, my ear stinging. I looked up at Cameron, half expecting more.

  He stared at me, his eyes tearing, before he ran away across the parking lot.

  I had never taken Cameron for a violent guy. Sure, he loved roughing people up on the football field, but what testosterone-fueled male didn’t? I wondered if he intended to do more damage, or only meant to scare me. But there I was, holding my hand over my bloody earlobe. Twisted as I knew it was, I actually luxuriated in it for a while. Physical pain always trumped the emotional in my book – always has, always will.

  ***

  I looked at the damage in the mirror when I got home. Cameron had torn my little hoop earring out in his fury. I probably could have used some stitches, but the thought of asking my mom to take me to get them gave me pause. I settled for a Band-Aid and the hope that nobody would notice. It would heal eventually.

  I walked downstairs to raid the fridge, assuming my mother had made dinner. To my surprise she was there herself, in the flesh, making some fruit smoothie concoction in the blender.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said, sitting down at the table.

  “Hi Greer. How was your day?” she responded without turning around.

  “Oh, yo
u know, same-old, same-old.”

  There was a pause as she poured her drink into a glass before looking at me. With a sharp intake of breath, she saw the damage.

  “GREER! What happened?” She rushed to my side, dropping the glass she was holding into the sink. She tilted my head to the side. I felt a trail of blood sink down my neck.

  She pulled off the bandage slowly.

  “How did this happen?” she asked again.

  “Cameron.” Now that the time had come to open up about it, I was having doubts. “He came to work.”

  “Why though? Why would he do this?”

  “Well,” I started, looking down before taking a gulp and meeting my mother’s eyes again. “I’m pretty sure it was because I like girls.”

  My mother recoiled as if shot. “What did you say?”

  I wondered why she’d want me to repeat it if she was so upset by the truth.

  “I like girls, Mom. And guys.” With another deep breath I admitted, “I’m bisexual.”

  She turned from me, placing her hands on the counter and bowing her head as if conjuring up strength from within.

  “Mom.” I looked at her back, trying to tell if she was going to cry. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Pssh!” she scoffed, refusing to look at me. “That’s a God damn hate crime, Greer!” My eyes widened at her word choice. Never had I ever heard her swear. “This could just be the beginning! Worse things could happen if you continue this.”

  “Don’t!” I cut her off. I stood up and turned her around by her shoulders to face me. Looking her straight in the eye, I made my point. “This is the last time I say this, Mom. I like women. There is nothing wrong with that. This is the 21st century for fuck’s sake!” If she could swear, I figured all bets were off. “I can get married in California, Massachusetts or Connecticut if I want to! This doesn’t change anything – I still want a family and children. The only difference is that the person I will spend my life with might not have a penis. Big fucking deal.”

  “But, honey -”

  “No, Mom. Talk to Dad. He gets it.”

  I turned to leave, but my Mom put her hand on my back.

  “I just, I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “We need to talk about this,” I said, facing her. “I know you don’t want to, but-”

  “Greer, you’re young and this is probably -”

  “Don’t! Don’t say ‘phase’.” I shook my head and pinched the top of my nose in an attempt to prevent the headache that had already begun to form.

  “Well.”

  “Mom, you talk to Jill every weekend!” This was my secret weapon, my only secret weapon. Jill came out to her after they had graduated, and from what I had heard my mom never seemed to have any trouble accepting this aspect of her friend.

  “I don’t look at Jill like that,” she said, folding her arms in front of her.

  “Don’t look at her like what? A queer?”

  “GREER! Don’t say that! You’re my daughter. It’s not the same.”

  “It’s exactly the same. Mom, I’m telling you this because it’s important to me. This is me. I want you to accept it.” I looked at her, piercing her, willing her to say something, anything I could take comfort in.

  “Just come off it, honey, okay?”

  “Come off it? Are you kidding me? I’m showing you who I am and that’s what you have to say?”

  I paused for effect.

  “Whether you accept it now or not, this isn’t going away. It’s not a fucking ‘phase’!”

  “GREER!”

  “You’re going to have to face this sooner or later. But, get this: I have learned to accept you for your innate disregard for anyone else when it comes to your job.”

  She was all ears for once, having gone stone-faced at my barb. I paused again, this time anticipating a retort; actually hoping for one. Nothing came.

  “This is me. Greer MacManus. Your daughter. You birthed me, remember? I am the same person now that I was in your belly. What’s the problem? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  The question hung between us. I could have gone on – believe me, I had a lot to say – but I just looked her in the eye. A hot second before I ran back upstairs, she spoke.

  “Of course I want you to be happy.” She looked at her hands, wringing them anxiously, uncomfortably in front of her. “That’s why I don’t want to believe this. Greer, do you know how people out there treat -” she stopped short.

  Will she say it? I wondered.

  “You could get hurt! It’s happened before! There are evil people out there! People are cruel. People aren’t as open-minded as you think, sweetie. People who are - ‘out’ have gotten beaten. Raped.” She paused once more, her last word nothing more than a whisper. “Killed.”

  “I know, Mom,” I said, putting my hands on both of her shoulders. “But no matter who is out there, I’m not going to change. The only thing I can do is try to make those who don’t understand see the world from my point of view.”

  She reached for me, holding me tighter than she ever had before. I felt like our roles were reversed, but then I realized how long it had been since Karen MacManus held me in her arms.

  “It’s going to take me time, G-bee. Just give me some time.”

  “Take all the time you need,” I smiled.

  “But, can I just ask you one question?”

  I pulled back to gauge whether to brace myself or not.

  “Anything.”

  “You say you’re bisexual, right?” she said, only slightly hesitating on the label.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, so say there was a nice, handsome and intelligent guy you met. Would you go out with him?”

  I smiled to myself inside. Anything to keep that heteronormative dream alive, right?

  “There’s always a possibility, Mom.”

  Baby steps.

  ***

  When I first went to The Hatch, I did not see myself as one of the performers on that stage. I had no voice. But then I found it.

  Talking to my mom about my sexuality was the final incentive I needed to speak up, and this was the perfect venue.

  I was alone, but for once I preferred it that way. This was for me and only me.

  I heard Hallie announce my name, and even though I could see people clapping while I walked to the mike, I swear I never registered the sound. Instead, I was overly aware of my own breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  Without further introduction, I started reading:

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know whether to be hairy or bare. She has a flowing mane of kinky, auburn hair that she felt proud of… until she was told she might be sexier without it. She wants her hair or her nudity to be her decision. She wants to feel empowered by that decision. But my Vagina is schizophrenic and has trouble choosing.

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know if it should feel pleased or unfulfilled. She doesn’t know enough to know what she wants, or who she wants it from. She wants to please herself, but sometimes she’s too tired, or she doesn’t feel deserving. She wants to feel pleased on her own, but she doesn’t always feel comfortable doing so. My Vagina is schizophrenic and wants to understand whether she is displeased or content with her discontent.

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know if she should feel beautiful or lacking. She wonders how she measures up to other vaginas. Sometimes she feels beautiful when she doesn’t worry about comparisons, but other times she feels like she might be strange or abnormal. Sometimes she has image problems. Her feelings about her appearance vary day-to-day. She wonders if she should seek counseling. My Vagina is schizophrenic and wants to figure out whether she is pretty or not, on her own - and she’s pulling for pretty.

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be accepted as is, or will have to conform to another’s standards. She does her best to stand on her own, uncaring of what others say or do or think… but, sometimes, she is insec
ure. She is holding out for a partner who will accept her unconditionally, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t worry that that partner doesn’t actually exist. My Vagina is schizophrenic and is sometimes deeply concerned about how she is perceived.

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She feels strong and weak at the same time. She has come a long way through childhood, puberty and adolescence. She knows she has become the vagina she is now through many tests and takes power from that knowledge, but she also doubts herself. ‘What if my strength is gone?’ she thinks. ‘What if my weakness takes over?’ she worries. My Vagina is schizophrenic and cannot see herself as tough without agonizing over being overcome by weakness.

  My Vagina is schizophrenic. She is confused by the messages she takes in from all around her. She doesn’t know how to look or feel at any given moment. My Vagina, however, is intelligent. She knows right from wrong. She is compassionate. She is loving. She is trying to justify her thoughts with herself. She knows that she can count on herself over anyone else. It is her decision whether to be hairy or bare. She can fulfill herself and tell herself, ‘I am beautiful.’ She can accept herself, faults and all. And all of these thoughts and actions add up to her unwavering strength, no matter what has happened before, no matter what may come in the future.

  Within five seconds of finishing, chairs were scraping against the floor as people rose, clapping and shouting. A standing ovation. I couldn’t have smiled broader if I had tried.

  “Woo! Yeah, girl, that’s what The Hatch likes!” Hallie screamed over the applause. “Fierce, baby! Totally fierce!”

  Making my way back to my seat, I was congratulated by throngs of people I had never met before.

  “Fucking awesome, man!”

  “Did you really write that?”

  “I could never read something like that!”

  By the time I was seated and listening to the next Slam poet, I was already thinking about what I would write about next.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book could not have been completed without the help of several people. First and foremost I need to thank my editors, Cara Frazier, Melania Falcon and Jenna Clark Embrey, for providing me with critiques of utmost importance to my completed manuscript; Alysha Bologno, Megan Kettmann, Jesse Kimmel, Zachary Lahey and Lorena Yeves Di Carlo for their inspiration, friendship and support; and last, but certainly not least, I thank Patrick Micinilio for being my English teacher and role model, never doubting my potential.