I’ve had my eye on him for a while. It’s time to see if he’s open to the doctrine. I never push anyone. I’m ready to back right off if he’s the least bit afraid of it. You got to be open to hearing the truth, or it’s a waste of time. I wasn’t pushed, I didn’t have to be. By the time I started listening to the skinheads, really listening—the message came through loud and clear. I got set straight, put on the path. White people have got to take care of themselves. We don’t need to hurt anybody, unless they step over bounds, but we have got to keep our guard up.
“You’re not alone in this,” I say, kinda low, so the “people” standing nearby aren’t going to hear us. There’s lots of “people” around in Hollywood nowadays, and they take every chance they find to mess with kids like this boy I’m talking to right now.
Cassie comes up then, smiling, as beautiful as ever, with her buzz cut and deep dark eyes. Sexy girl—and all mine. One hundred percent White Racialist, we met at a rally out in El Monte. I still can’t believe she fell for me.
“Hey,” she says to the kid. “Hungry?”
“Kinda,” he answers, and I can see him trying not to be too obvious in checking her out.
“Come on, then, let’s get you something to eat.”
We go to the new Oki Dogs, the one down on Fairfax. Cassie orders. I fill him in on how it used to be for Punks in Hollywood, and all the shit we used to do at the other Oki Dogs.
“That’s before the fag whores took over,” I explain.
I find out his story—single mom, abusive stepdad, never fit in, got beat up by cholos at his high school, hardcore drugs. His life sucks and people have told him it’s all his fault. He’s ready. We talk. Cassie and me set him up to meet some people and then we are done. We send him off smiling, knowing he’s not alone. We feel good.
It’s getting dark when we get back to Pomona.
“Let’s get some beers, huh?” I say, turning into the little market near our house. Cassie hops out and sprints across to the door. The girl’s closed it, is just finished turning the key, when Cassie gets there.
“Come on—just one thing, huh?” she asks.
“No, no, señorita, we closed now.”
“Please?” Cassie smiles and tilts her head to the side, makes her eyes big. Drives me crazy when she does that.
“Lo siento mucho. We closed.”
“Pretty pretty please? We just want a six-pack. We had a really hard day at work.”
I see the girl waver, smile, and then click back the key. The second she opens the door, Cassie snatches the front of her shirt and pulls her outside. The girl screams and Cassie slaps her, sends her sprawling to her knees on the ground. “You be still, you hear, SEEN YOUR RITA?” She marches in and grabs the Coors. Doesn’t pay. I laugh all the way home.
1989
NINE YEARS AFTER
“Look at those poor little boys.”
I do, peering out of the back of the limo. I’m with Jay, my assistant. We’re driving down Santa Monica Boulevard, actually going by the old Oki Dogs. A boy is perched on the very same bench where I used to—I stop myself.
That’s the old life.
Gone.
Over.
Forgotten.
Nobody in my world now knows a thing about it. I’m a colorist. I do stars. I fly all over the country, go on location. I’m on my way to FOX Studios tonight, command performance, so to speak. There’s a night shoot; my star needs her hair touched up.
“I think I’d rather die than do that,” Jay says.
“No kidding,” I say.
1998
EIGHTEEN YEARS AFTER SEVEN YEARS BEFORE
“Look, Daddy! There’s one!”
My daughter’s shrill six-year-old voice cuts right through the noise in the supermarket. People stop, look over at us. We’re in the checkout line: the basket’s full. The twins are standing up, one on each side, holding onto the shopping cart, proud that they don’t have to sit inside or in the baby seat. The store’s crowded—it’s close to Thanksgiving. Turkey decorations are everywhere. Everybody around turns toward us, smiling, wondering what these cute little blond kids have seen.
“Where? Where? Where?” Nicolas pipes in.
“There!” Andy reaches over and pats Nick. “See? Right there!” She tugs at my arm and points to a big woman in the front of the line. “That’s sure a black nigger, huh, Daddy?”
“That’s a black nigger all right,” Nick agrees.
The woman she’s talking about looks straight at me. Her smile fades. Her eyes flash dark and angry. She shakes her head. The air in the store sizzles. No one speaks. A black man who already checked out turns around, edges past the woman and starts walking toward us. I don’t say a word. I pick my kids up off of the cart and sling each one under an arm. We march toward the entrance doors. I don’t look anywhere but forward. I’m six-four, wearing a wifebeater, with a shaved head and arms full of Neo-Nazi and White Power tattoos. I’m no skinny kid now; I work out and it shows. I know how to walk tough. I put my mean face on. I’m not bullshitting. People move out of my way.
Except the black guy. He follows.
“Hey! Racist Asshole!” he yells and I turn my head to see how close he is, if I should run. I never would, on my own, but I got my kids now; their welfare comes first.
He’s a lucky man. If they weren’t here—
For a second, our eyes lock. A firestorm of pure anger connects us. For a second, the rest of the world goes away. We recognize each other, draw the line, throw down the gauntlet. It could go either way. He hates me every bit as much as I hate him.
“Don’t bother,” the woman says, coming up beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “Just feel sorry for those kids. They ain’t got a chance in hell.”
“You got that right,” he answers. He looks like he wants to do us some serious damage.
“The sins of the fathers,” the woman adds. “God help those poor babies.”
I get to the truck and swing the twins inside the cab.
“I wanna ride in the back!” Nicolas says. “You said we could!” Andrea joins in, “Pleasepleaseplease!!!”
“Both of you shut up and get in there!”
I don’t mean to sound as harsh as I do. But they don’t know what almost happened, what still might. They don’t understand how very bad this whole thing could turn out. Andrea starts to whimper.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asks. “Why did we leave all our stuff?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I snap, and her face crumples.
“Are we still having Thanksgiving?” she moans.
“Yes. Now be still.” That old jet plane starts to rev. Makes it hard to concentrate on them and this situation at the same time.
She starts to whimper; Nick’s not far behind. I can’t care right now. I need to get them out of here. I saw that man’s eyes. I know what he’s capable of doing.
The woman’s words come up: “The sins of the father”? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“I want my ice cream,” Nick whines. “Can I have my ice cream?”
“That was my ice cream!” Andrea says.
“Was not.”
“Was so!”
They argue as I buckle them in and back the truck out of the parking space, keeping an eye on the crowd that’s gathering. Not good. Not good at all. This shit could explode any second. My kids are in danger—these two tiny beings I love like I never have loved anything in my entire life. I have put them at risk. Fear as big as the whole fucking universe surrounds me. I’ve never felt this, ever—not in the worst time, not even with my dad.
I have never been this scared.
I have never had so much at stake.
These are my babies. My world.
The black guy stands in front of the store, glaring at us. Does he have a gun? A bunch of other black guys have joined him. White guys too. Probably Jews. The woman’s gone. What if they decide to attack? My head roars with possibilities. They got cars, th
ey could chase us, catch us, even now. Riots have started with less provocation.
It’s taking forever to get through the parking lot. What if they rush me, pull me out of the cab? I’ll fight like hell for my kids, but there’s more of them than there are of me and I’m not packing. I never do when I have the twins. What if those assholes shoot me? If my kids see me die? What if they shoot my kids?
I flash on Cassie, years ago, when they first were born. She’d seen a picture of my great-uncle, from France, with his dark French skin.
“You better know this now,” she’d threatened. “If there’s once ounce of dark blood in those babies, I’ll bash both their heads against the wall. I will. I swear it.”
I tried to laugh it off, because I knew she couldn’t be serious. Doctrine’s one thing, blood’s another. She carried them inside her, went through fifteen hours of labor to give them birth. But that night, I watched her face as she got Nick and Andy ready for bed. She picked them up like she was picking up dogshit. When Andy squirmed in reaction, Cassie shook her, hard. Andy started to cry, which got Nick going too. I took them both outside for a walk.
Hate is possible in anyone.
Hate is full of power.
Hate makes you feel invincible, strong, capable of fighting all your enemies. It wraps itself around your biggest fears and makes those fears go away.
Suddenly the faces of the Iranian couple from years ago flash in my head, how they looked before we beat them up. I get a rush of the absolute power I felt at seeing that. At knowing their fear of me was so huge, I did not need to feel afraid of them.
I was in charge, I had the power.
They would do anything to escape.
Just like I would, right now.
If it were just me, and that man attacked, or even the whole crowd of them did—I wouldn’t care. I’m still not afraid of pain. Or dying. I don’t give a fuck who beats my head in, as long as I get my chance to beat them back.
But how could my children survive this world without me? What if they’d been alone? Maybe a little older? What if they’d said that word, just like they’d been taught, like they’d always heard at home, from us, from our friends, in our meetings? What would have happened to them then?
“The sins of the father…”
I have put my children in danger.
“God help those babies.”
I take the turn by the little market and remember the girl who opened the door for Cassie. Whose fault was that? Hers for trusting? Or Cassie’s? The rest of the drive home, I count the faces of people who are not white. Tons. Then I think of all the white people who are different than us. The gays. The Catholics. There are so many people my kids have learned to hate. So many people that will now hate them back.
I thought I was protecting them.
“Daddy!” Nicolas yells, “Andy pinched me!”
I glance over and instead of my own sweet-faced son, I see another boy. A boy with green eyes, instead of Nicky’s sparkling blue. He was years older than my children, but still—a boy. He looked directly at me—terrified, and for an instant, impossibly bold. He knew something and it pissed me off. He understood what I am just now, this very minute, finding out.
It has to do with fear and hate.
And children.
And hope.
It changes everything. It changes me.
The cab’s downstairs, the cabbie’s honked twice. My plane leaves in an hour. Meanwhile, the television blares from the living room. If I’d turned it off an hour ago—oh well. I shove the suitcase off the bed and sit on top to close it. Curtis could have done this, easy, but he had to leave before I’d finished packing.
“It’s only three days, babe,” he teased, watching me drag things out of the closet, “not three months.”
“Yes, but you never know what my little star might decide she needs to do.” I looked up at him from under my lashes, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled. I stood on tiptoes to give him a kiss.
“Good luck, sweetie,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I bounce on the suitcase, and click, it’s latched. The cabbie honks again and I sigh; press junkets used to be exciting. Now I can’t wait to come home. I lug the case down the hall, past our recently remodeled bathroom, my birthday present from Curtis, which makes me smile. In the living room, I call out the window to the cabbie, signal two minutes and snatch the TV remote. I point it just as the screen gives way to “Breaking News.”
A young man’s photo appears. Nineteen, maybe twenty, I can’t tell. Sweet-faced and sad-eyed, slight, he reminds me of my older brother, Paul. Strange, I haven’t thought of my family for years.
The boy was discovered tied to a fence, unconscious.
“I thought it was a scarecrow,” says the guy who found him. “Until I got close and saw the blood.”
I don’t know this boy, yet my hand, still aiming the remote, begins to shake uncontrollably. I have to think to lower it. My legs tremble. My heart pounds so violently it seems to be rattling my chest. The cabbie leans on the horn, I jerk my head toward the window but my eyes won’t leave the screen. I step back, stumble over the suitcase, manage to catch myself and sit on the edge of the couch. I hear the cab screech away and don’t care. So I miss my flight. So I get fired.
The boy’s a college student. He’d been at a bar. The bartender talked with him awhile, then saw him leave with two men he didn’t seem to know.
They think these two men beat him up, drove him out to the countryside, and left him on the fence to die.
Tied there, like an animal.
They think it was done because the boy is gay.
I make it to my new bathroom just in time. I throw up my breakfast, rinse out my mouth, go back to the TV. I can’t turn it off. A key sounds in the door; Curtis rushes in. He sits down beside me.
“It’s too awful, isn’t it?” he says. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head no and he wraps me inside his arms. We huddle close, glued to the screen. We hear the story again and again: Matthew Shepard was beaten with a pistol. He was tied to a fence in the middle of the night, bleeding, in freezing weather. He was left there to die.
By people he did not even know.
Because he is gay.
Curtis is saying something—I see his lips move, but don’t hear the words. I see the TV screen flash on the hospital where Matthew Shepard is now in intensive care, but my mind has gone to another boy, lying on the ground in a spot I recognize immediately but haven’t remembered until now.
He too was beaten and left.
I hear him cry out as he lifts himself up. I walk with him as he stumbles down the alley, supporting himself on fences and cars and the backs of the buildings. I watch him turn onto the street, I see people pass him, watch as their eyes glaze over, turn away, render him invisible.
He leans in toward a store window and stares at his own reflection. What does he see?
I remember clearly.
I saw a person who could survive anything, a person strong enough to take care of himself.
Now, I see a little boy. Fourteen. A child.
As the newscast continues, I play through that night, recalling what I felt, what I thought, how everything that happened went so quickly out of control.
“Kill the faggots!”
I remember the skinheads, the sounds of their boots. Them, chanting. Me, running. Coco’s screams. How none of it seemed real, until I saw those eyes.
Did Matthew Shepard feel the same?
He got into their car, he couldn’t have known they wanted to hurt him. When did that change? Was it fast, all of a sudden, or did it start in his gut and creep through his skin? Did he try to get out? What did he think when they pulled out a gun? Did he beg them? Will he remember being tied to the fence, seeing them climb back in the car and drive away?
Did he think they’d come back? Was he conscious? Did he see their eyes?
Will he remember? I didn’t,
not until now.
When did he know he was alone?
He cried, that much is clear—the tears made tracks down his face. What did he think in those dark morning hours? Did he see the glow of day on the mountains? Feel the cold? What were his thoughts before sunrise?
Before the alley, I didn’t understand that people could stop being human and still live. That a mother could decide not to love her child. That a stranger could want to kill you for being who you are. That there are people who breathe and walk and speak and live and do not care about other people at all. People who cannot see.
Like tricks who go with little boys.
Like the skinheads.
Like the men who passed me and turned their heads.
Like my uncle.
Like my mother.
When I understood this, all those years ago, my heart broke, and because the pain was more than I could take, I stopped crying. I wrapped up the tears and hid them away where I could forget it had even happened.
Matthew Shepard dies and my heart breaks again.
This time, I won’t stop my tears. I can’t.
I’ll cry for the young murdered boy, for his family, for his last moments, for the truth he was forced to see before he died, for the fact that the two men live, and he does not.
I’ll cry for myself. For all the children whose mothers cannot love them. For boys who are gay and must hide. For hearts so hard they can’t feel their own pain, much less anyone else’s. I’ll cry because we are here such a very short time, and while we are here, we can choose.
Because of Matthew Shepard, I am changed.
I touch my forehead often now. I comb my hair to the other side, so the scar will clearly show. I won’t hide it anymore. I won’t hide me, not even when I’m afraid, not even when it seems easier to hate.
I won’t choose hate. I can’t.
Because I know what happens. I’ve seen eyes as they disconnect.
Because Matthew Shepard died, and I did not.
Freaks and Revelations Page 19
