What Happens After

by Dennis Abrams

  “But how can I tell him?

  “Can someone please tell me what to do?

  “Please? Can someone… anyone….” He fell back into his seat with his head between his hands.

  No one, including me, knew what to do or say. He needed help, but we all froze.

  Except for Nguyen.

  He quickly got up and went over to Rafael, knelt in front of him so he could look directly into his eyes, and said, “It’ll be okay, man. We’re here for you. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  And he reached out to hold him. That’s all. Just hold him.

  Rafael wasn’t crying or anything. I doubt he’d ever let himself do that. Even in private.

  But being held seemed to be what he needed. Human contact. Touch. Someone reaching out to let him know they were there for him.

  Sometimes that’s all anyone needs.

  I know I do.

  When Nguyen finally got back up, he looked into Rafael’s eyes again. “Here’s my number,” he said. “Take it. Text me anytime… okay?”

  And then he looked at me, looking at me for… approval? Trying to tell me something I wasn’t getting?

  But then it was time for the next order of business.

  “I’d like to propose,” I said, “two things for us to get involved with this semester.

  “The first is this: we need to organize for the annual Day of Silence, which is in only a few weeks… you guys know what it’s all about?”

  Some people nodded yes; others did not.

  “I’ve got to confess,” I said, “that I’d never heard of it until recently, but I’ve done some research.

  “Basically, it’s a day when students like us and our friends help to let others in our school understand how their bullying and harassment silence us and prevent us from making our voices heard.

  “So we take a vow of silence for one full day to represent all those who have been silenced. To make it even more clear and obvious and to make an even stronger statement, I think we should all wear black masking tape across our mouths for the entire day.

  “Yes? No?”

  Yes!

  Done.

  Next item of business.

  “I’ve already talked about this with Ms. Hernandez, and we’ve got her permission to do it….

  “What would you all think if we threw our own party, a final dance before graduation? Open to everyone, straight, gay, bi, and everything in between. Bring a date without worrying about getting looks all night, dance with who you want, wear what you want…. Plus, I promise the music will be better than anything that they’ll be playing….

  “Now… who wants to dance?”

  The broad smiles and roar of approval said it all.

  “Okay… we’re going to need a treasurer for the group… we’ll accept donations to buy enough masking tape for everyone who wants it on our Day of Silence, and we’ll have to sell tickets and maybe have a raffle to do the dance right.”

  Naturally, Laura volunteered to be our treasurer, and to help publicize both events as much as possible here at school.

  “I think that’s enough for our first meeting. See you all next week.”

  Nguyen stopped to talk before he left. “Thank you for doing this,” he said. “I totally respect what you’re doing.” And then, with that same shy grin he showed me earlier, he gave me a piece of paper with his phone number. “Shoot me a text if you ever need anything. Or if you ever need to talk. You can even call.”

  He smiled again, looking at me for… something, then left.

  Rafael stopped as well.

  “I… I wanted to apologize for what happened at the assembly, man. I couldn’t stop them and I… couldn’t not join in… you know….”

  “It’s cool. No worries.”

  And with a fist bump, which seemed to be the appropriate gesture, he left as well.

  Everything went, I thought, way better than I’d expected.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  WORD QUICKLY got out about our plans for a gay/straight/everyone is welcome dance.

  And there were some who were not happy about it, to say the least.

  A few parents, including, as I heard, Rafael’s dad, called to complain. The minister at Nate’s mom’s church took the opportunity to rage against sinners from his church pulpit, urging his parishioners to write to the school board, to the local paper, to anyone and everyone who might be able to put a stop to such an abomination.

  Nate’s mom, naturally, did as she was told, writing a letter to the paper asking why her tax dollars should be spent encouraging, as she put it, “sin and sodomy,” calling in to local talk radio stations, attempting and failing to start a petition drive, doing everything she could think of.

  And while she had stopped texting me briefly after I lashed out at her, she had started up again, reminding me every few days one way or another that I was alive and Nate wasn’t.

  That at least I couldn’t ask him to be his date for the dance.

  That he was in hell thanks to me and I’d be joining him there, hopefully very soon.

  At any rate, Ms. Hernandez stood strong and politely told anyone opposed that the dance would take place as planned.

  Period.

  A local paper, The Piney Oaks Weekly, a kind of alternative arts liberal politics weekly, ran an article on the controversy, interviewing Ms. Hernandez, the school superintendent, a couple of angry parents, a couple of supportive parents, a couple of representative students (one opposed, one in favor) and me.

  This time, I didn’t have to be asked twice. I was happy to speak out. It mattered. And my voice needed to be heard. And more importantly, I wanted my voice to be heard.

  Here’s what I wrote.

  My name is Collin. I survived the shooting at Pacific Coast. Twenty-eight people, including my best friend, Nate, died that night. Many others, including myself, were badly wounded.

  Physically and emotionally.

  The physical wounds will heal in time; the emotional wounds will leave scars that may never fully heal.

  I’ll proudly bear my scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of my life.

  And that is why I decided to devote my life to helping make sure that what happened to me never happens to any other gay youth.

  Which is why I started the Nate Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance. To honor my best friend, who was killed that night, who I know with absolute certainty would want me to be doing this.

  I hope to make him and his memory proud.

  By speaking together, by working together, and by standing up and fighting for our right to be and for our right to be heard, I think we can make a difference and help prevent another Pacific Coast. We can save lives.

  By coming together in celebration and to celebrate who we are with music and dance, men and women, gay and straight and everyone else, we can save the world.

  The article just received some local attention first, but then a couple of papers in Houston and Dallas and Austin picked it up.

  They also published letters from a few parents congratulating me on my “bravery” and “courage.” I got messages from kids my age and younger on social media telling me they looked up to me, asking me how to open gay/straight alliances in their schools, asking me for advice, even asking to be my date.

  And of course there were the haters. Telling me, naturally, that I was going to go to hell. That all I needed was to meet the right girl. Telling me that I should have died that night at Pacific Coast. Or that I will die from AIDS. Or that they hoped I’d die from AIDS in the most slow and horrific way imaginable. Complete with photos attached.

  It was awesome.

  Mom and Dad, especially Mom, always my best defender, while proud that I was standing up for myself, were furious about the haters. I was able to talk her out of going to each of their houses individually to have her say, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop her from responding to each and every one.

  I loved her for that.

  A few mon
ths earlier the hate being thrown at me would have been enough to send me rushing headlong to Freezie Treats with Ziggy. But now all it did was remind me that what I was doing was important. And needed.

  That phase of my life was over.

  Nguyen texted as soon as he saw it and said that I’d done well, and that he’d liked the picture they used to accompany the article. That made me blush.

  We’d started talking and hanging out and getting to know each other a bit, and hearing that from him was great. But a part of me wondered if Josh had maybe seen it and what he thought. Was he impressed? Should I send him a text with the link, asking if he’d seen it?

  Stupid, right?

  What good would that do?

  And then there was Nguyen to complicate things. Or to make my life better. Or something.

  We began hanging out at school, at first to organize the alliance and to prepare for the Day of Silence and for the dance, and then just because we enjoyed each other’s company.

  He was easy to talk to and, I admit, to look at. Beautiful dark hair and eyes and, well, I’d seen his body in the locker room. One that he didn’t show off with tight clothing, like Rafael did, for example, which to my eyes made him all the sexier.

  Nguyen told me about his family, about the pressure of being the oldest son with all his family’s expectations to excel on his shoulders. And, he proudly told me, after our first meeting he had come out to his family.

  “My mother,” he said, “cried a little bit,” which, he added, didn’t really surprise him. His father’s reaction, though, did.

  “My father looked at me thoughtfully for what seemed an eternity before speaking.

  “‘Thank you for telling us, Nguyen,’ he told me, surprisingly calmly. ‘I somehow think I sensed this, that my heart always knew, so it does not come as a complete shock to either me or your mother, despite the evidence of her tears. And while it is, and I must be truthful with you, something of a disappointment, since as the oldest son I had hoped you would carry on the family name, I now realize that, you can, should you so choose, marry and adopt a child to carry on our name after you.’

  “Here he paused, looked at Mother, who had stopped weeping and was listening intently. ‘You are still my son and I love you and that will never ever change.’

  “I was surprised to learn that his biggest fear was not that I was gay, but that of the family name being lost.

  “Can you believe that?”

  As for me, I didn’t talk about what happened that night, but since he had opened up to me, and since he did kind of know about Josh, I did tell him everything that had happened with him. Not about the gun and all that, though; that was just too embarrassing to discuss.

  He sat quietly listening, his eyes never leaving mine. When I finished, skipping the almost blowing my brains out part of the saga, he reached over and took my hand, and quietly said, “He sounds like an asshole who didn’t appreciate what he had. You’re better off without him.”

  In other words, he said exactly what I wanted and needed to hear.

  He looked like he wanted to ask me something.

  “Collin?”

  I looked at him curiously. “Yes?”

  “Would you like to do something more than just hang out at school sometime?”

  “Um… are you asking me on a date?”

  He shyly grinned. “I think I am. Want to go see a movie this weekend?”

  “Yes, I’d love to.”

  So now there’s that. But this time, no diving headfirst into something. Keep my walls up. Keep my guard up. Once burned, etc.

  But it was nice to have something to look forward to.

  As always, first things first: school, LGBT center, and the alliance’s Day of Silence.

  Our first big event.

  As we went public as a group for the first time.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  BY THE time of the Day of Silence, the alliance had grown to twenty-five members, seventeen gay and eight straight. Or gayish and straightish. We met before the bell rang for first class, and Laura and I handed out masking tape and note cards.

  I gave out instructions.

  “Once you put the masking tape across your mouth,” I said, “no speaking for the rest of the day. Not a word.

  “Bring a roll of tape with you in case anyone tells you they’d like to join us.

  “If anyone points, laughs, harasses you, asks what you’re doing, anything at all, give them this card. The text is from the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network, which has helped make today a national event.

  “Please understand my reasons for not speaking today. I am participating in the Day of Silence (DOS), a national youth movement bringing attention to the silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people and their allies. My deliberate silence echoes that silence, which is caused by anti-LGBT bullying, name-calling, and harassment. I believe that ending the silence is the first step toward building awareness and making a commitment to address these injustices.

  “If you’d like to learn more, please come to the next meeting of the Nate Jonson Gay/Straight Alliance.

  “Ready? Okay… let’s go get silent.”

  My little joke for them all before we went out to face our world.

  As we split up and walked through the hall to our first classes, the reaction was pretty much what I thought it would be. Some people stared. Some people pointed. Some people laughed. Two girls came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I gave them my card.

  One of the two smirked and crumpled up the card. The other asked if she could participate. I reached into my backpack and handed her my roll of masking tape. She tore off a piece and joined in.

  I was a little late when I walked into class. I handed my card to the teacher, nodded at the other kids who were staring at me, and took a seat in the back.

  Ms. Albertson, my English Lit teacher, read the card, smiled slightly, and gave me a nod, explained to the class what I was doing and about the Day of Silence, then paused.

  “There’s a Canadian author, O.A. Battista,” she said, “who wrote something to the effect of silence is the best way to make your voice heard. I commend you for what you’re doing, Collin,” she said. “If I wasn’t teaching….

  “But now, let’s go back to Yeats….

  “No, wait,” she said. “Before we get to that, I want to give you this. My nephew is gay, and just last year was able to finally marry the man he has loved for a very long time. He introduced me to the work of the American poet Richard Blanco, who came here with his family from Cuba when he was a baby and, in his own version of the American Dream, was invited to read his poetry at President Obama’s second inauguration.

  “It’s from his poem ‘Until We Could.’ My nephew read it to the man who is now his husband as part of their marriage vows, and I’ve never forgotten it. It’s a poem about the importance of love, no matter with whom and what form it takes. Your assignment is to go online tonight and read it. No quiz, just read it and we’ll discuss tomorrow. It’s that important.

  “And now… back to Yeats.”

  After class, three more kids asked if they could join the protest.

  Not all the other teachers were as cool as Ms. Albertson. My chemistry teacher, Mr. Richards, just shook his head when he read the card and pointed me toward the last row. And Mrs. Lukkas, who taught calculus, not only shook her head but slowly tore the card in two and let it fall into the wastebasket.

  And then, for some reason, she felt the need to address the class, and me in particular.

  “I understand why it is that Ms. Hernandez has felt the need to honor Nate’s death; one does that. But she allowed you to organize this LGBT whatever, and it’s too much and totally unnecessary.”

  Despite my vow of silence, I ripped the tape off my mouth and interrupted. “Mrs. Lukkas, it’s LGBTQ+. And if there’s anything else you’d like to know….”

  She gave me a glare that showed me just how hostile she w
as to the very idea, and continued.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “LGBTQ+. And be sure to tell Ms. Hernandez that I got it right, will you, Mr. Williams?”

  “I will. Promise,” I said with as straight a face as I could manage.

  She continued.

  “In my day, and yes, I said in my day, and I ask you not to laugh because it apparently is no longer my day, we did have homosexual students, but they did not make their… preferences public, and they did not”—and here she stared directly at me—“flaunt their sexuality in everyone’s faces. We all knew they were there, and we tolerated their presence, but it went no further than that.”

  “Um, tolerated?”

  “Yes, tolerated. And now, Mr. Williams, you’ve disrupted this class enough. Please take your seat.”

  But I refused to take the bait. I stayed calm, put the tape back over my mouth, took a seat right in the front row, and stared at her all through the class while she did the same to me.

  Four more kids asked to join after that one.

  Other members of the alliance didn’t have it so lucky. Nguyen’s comparative religions teacher actually refused to let him into class, claiming the tape across his mouth would be too distracting for the other students. Nguyen texted me and I texted Ms. Hernandez, who visited the teacher and told him in no uncertain terms that Nguyen would be allowed into the class.

  Like me, Nguyen sat silently and defiantly in the front row, daring his teacher to say anything.

  He didn’t.

  By the end of the day, it looked to me like almost half the students were wearing the tape. How many meant it and how many did it because it was the thing to do and how many were doing it just so they didn’t have to talk in class, I had no idea.

  But it felt good.

  And what felt even better was when I saw Nguyen and Rafael gesturing to each other after lunch, and Nguyen reaching out to gently place a piece of tape across Rafael’s mouth. I was surprised and proud that he was able to make such a public gesture of support. I knew how much it cost him—meetings were one thing, wearing the tape was something else.