by Kevin Craig
“Well,” Alex says. “This is pretty awesome. We have a lot to choose from.”
He gets down on the floor inside the circle made by our chairs and starts placing each ballot, writing-side up, in a clean row upon the tiles. As he does this, we all sort of hover. I know immediately who the strong contenders are, but this is kind of Alex’s puppy. I wait to see what his plan is.
“Okay!” he virtually screams as he lays down the last ballot. “Forty-three ballots! That kind of rocks, don’t it.”
“It does, Alex,” Nettie says, patting his shoulder. She’s the first to sit down. “How are we going to do this?”
“Well, I suppose you’re all wondering what I have in this Dollar Dollar Discount bag? Don’t pretend you’re not. I saw each of you eye it as you came in.”
We laugh because none of us paid any attention to it.
“The Triple D has lots of exciting things in it. What do you think I have here?” As he asks the question, though, he pulls out five brightly coloured brand spanking new spiral notebooks. “Ta da. Notebooks!”
He keeps a pink one with white beach balls on it for himself and passes the other four down the line to Nettie. We each take one. I’m last, so I get stuck with the one which, inexplicably, has a green army tank on it. I look at Mr. Reason’s rainbow notebook with just a little bit of jealousy. He sees my pout, but he doesn’t budge. Nice.
“Okay, kiddies. Here’s where we break up and get down to business. I want you to write down your top five picks in order of favourite. Your number one pick will be number one, and so on and so on.”
“Ah, great work, Alex. This is perfect. We pick as a committee but narrow it down individually. Great going,” says Mr. Reason. Alex puffs up like a peacock, proud to have received the encouraging words.
“Thank you,” he says. “Okay, go.”
We stand up again and spread out over top of the ballots and we each start furiously jotting down our list.
When we sit back down and compare notes, we find that every single one of us has three picks in common. They’re not all in the same spot in our top fives, but they’re all on each list.
The Nelson LGBTQ Alliance
The Nelson High Rainbow Alliance or The Rainbow Alliance Club
Nelson High Gay-Straight Alliance
The or in the second one is my top pick. I cross my fingers in hopes that at least half the group shares my feelings for this one. I already feel in my heart like it should be the one. But only two of us had these middle ones as top one. Me and Marc. I thought I’d be more aligned with Alex’s choices.
I pick up one of the ones I loved the most but knew immediately we couldn’t use.
The Parachute Club
“Someone is my absolute hero,” I say, holding it up to the others. “I absolutely love this one, but there’s no way we could pick it. Copyright and all that stuff.”
“Yep. It was my fav too,” Alex says. “I didn’t pick it for the same reason. Great name, but it wouldn’t fly.”
“Ditto,” says Mr. Reason. I smirk. We never think of teachers knowing music and stuff like that. But Rise Up probably came out when he was a teenager.
I turn the piece of paper over and read the name aloud. “Brad Simpson. I have no idea who this is.”
“Brad’s a student of mine. Grade ten.”
“Oh yeah,” Nettie says. “He’s a brainiac, right? I think he’s on the debate team with my friend, Georgia.”
“Yes, he is on the debate team. That’s the one,” Mr. Reason confirms.
“Well, whoever he is, I love his pick,” I say.
While we were talking, Alex has collected all of our notebooks. Now, he’s champing at the bit for the next round.
“Okay, along with our solid three we had six other choices. Some were duplicates, some not. I say we toss all six of those out, even though a couple were higher on the list than the three we had in common. Anyone have a problem with that?”
He dares us to disagree with the way he’s carrying things out, but none of us raises an alarm. I’m good with it. I guess everyone else is too. Either that, or too afraid to disagree with the Alex.
“Okay, then. Here are your notebooks back.” He hands them out with great solemnity. “Write out your top three in order of favourite to least favourite, based on the three we had in common. And with the second option, circle the one you like the most of the two.”
When that’s done, we each hand our notebooks back to Alex. After a few minutes of him going back and forth between the notebooks and making marks in his own, he comes to a conclusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Ezra, welcome to the inaugural meeting of the newly named Rainbow Alliance Club!”
I ignore his joke of singling me out like that. We’re all too busy clapping to say anything. Exactly what I wanted. Sometimes things actually do go my way.
“For the record, we all picked that option. Mr. Reason being the only one who circled the one that included the school name.”
“I’m more than happy to go with the majority,” Mr. Reason says. “You know, things are never ever this easy with things like this. I was ready for this meeting to go on until sundown or later. I’m pleased that we’re obviously all on the same page. Congratulate yourselves. This never happens.”
We all kind of sort of high five each other. Yeah, it’s a bit goofy and embarrassing, but so what.
“Who entered that one?” Marc finally asks when the celebration dies down a bit.
“Hank Fisher,” Alex says.
“Surprise, surprise,” I say. Marc smiles. Clearly, he’s happy Hank won. I imagine he sees himself as a big brother to him. It’s so cute. Another reason to love Marc Tremblay. Damn.
CHAPTER 16
Now that we have a name for the club, things are starting to move full speed ahead. After the meeting on Tuesday, we decided to make an announcement on Wednesday morning to declare the winner. As Mr. Reason suggested, it was Marc who made the announcement. He came on the speaker right after the regular morning announcements. Sitting there listening to him announce the start of the Rainbow Alliance Club, I was covered in goosebumps and I could tell I had a good blush on. It was a great moment.
Now, two days later, I’m more nervous than excited. Mr. Reason was able to convince Mr. Wallace, the principal, to allow us to have a student assembly. Mr. Reason said it wasn’t difficult once Mr. Wallace heard the story that Gary was going to tell at the assembly. Obviously, Mr. Wallace is progressive if he’s letting us do this. Good sign. Besides, the final approval for even having the club went through his office. So, he was already on our side.
Students are just entering the auditorium now. I’m sitting on the most uncomfortable chair ever made, on the stage, watching them pour in. Without saying anything I reach out beside me and take Nettie’s hand. I don’t know why I chose now to be an emotional wreck about this. I feel like I might just pass out before the meeting gets off the ground.
The assembly was called over the morning announcements. In my class, at least, there were a few groans. This always happens. It’s totally fake complaining. I sometimes do it myself. To be truthful, most kids don’t give a crap what an assembly is about. Most are happy they get to miss class. Assemblies break up the tedium of the day. They’re like a free period.
This one is happening right after main lunch. For most of the student body, this means they miss a class so it’s like a double lunch.
I don’t see Marc yet, but Nettie is sitting beside me and Alex is sitting beside her. And Mr. Reason is standing patiently at the podium waiting for everyone to arrive. The noise is insane. It sounds like every single person is talking.
The back of the auditorium fills up first. That’s how it always goes. Everybody knows it’s better to be at the back. Easier to talk without getting in trouble.
Five minutes go by and the crowds coming in through the doors on both sides of the auditorium slow down. And most of the seats are taken. And I can see Marc standing at the back
, near the top of the auditorium. With Gary. And another man in an incredibly swank black suit. Must be his other father. He looks like a thousand million dollars. Everything about him is tailored and considered.
Gary is wearing white shorts, flip flops, and a pale blue v-neck t-shirt. He is literally the exact opposite of his husband.
Mr. Reason taps the mic a few times. It startles even me.
The seats are now filled and there are teachers milling around at the side walls and at the doors. They close the doors and the volume of the room dies down to a dull roar and then a hum.
Mr. Reason taps the mic again. This time he says, “If I could please have your attention.”
The room slowly settles down to the level of quiet a school filled with teenagers can achieve. Which, to my surprise, is extremely quiet. Also, everybody turns to the stage and I feel like all eyes are on me.
“Before I introduce you to our special guest speaker this afternoon, I want to take a couple of minutes to tell you why we’re here.”
He pauses for a moment and the last of the noise becomes nothing but silence.
“You may have noticed the posters, and even participated in the naming contest for Nelson High School’s newest club, the Rainbow Alliance Club. You also might have caught the announcement on Wednesday that Hank Fisher won the open contest to name the club. Thank you, Hank. I think most would agree it’s an excellent choice.”
There was a sporadic round of clapping, not very enthusiastic at all.
“The Rainbow Alliance Club will be here for all the student body to participate in and enjoy.” He spreads his arms to encompass everyone in the auditorium as he speaks. “It is here to create a bridge of friendship between LGBTTIQQ2SA and straight students. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the acronym LGBTTIQQ2SA stands for lesbian, gay, bi, transsexual, transgender, intersex, queer, questioning, 2-spirited, and allies. I’ve always been of the belief this acronym should come with an extra S to be completely inclusive. The second S representing our straight friends into the mix, of course. I suppose the A mostly covers them, though.
“I won’t get into it here just how disappointing it was for me personally to discover ballots that displayed a level of bigotry and hatred I found to be utterly appalling. I’m not going to lecture the whole student body on their responsibility to respect their fellow students. I think most of you understand this basic tenet of humanity. Respect, that is.
“I’m guessing those ugly ballots were planted by one or two people at most. You know who you are. Please know that I was hugely upset by your actions. As a gay man, I’m appalled that this sort of bigotry still exists today.
“This is as good a place as any for a segue. Without further ado, I would like to welcome your own Marc Tremblay to take over from here. Please afford him the same level of courtesy and respect you have just given to me. Thank you.”
As Mr. Reason steps away from the mic and joins us on the stage, sitting beside me, there is a thunderous round of applause. I’m guessing half for him and half for Marc, who is confidently walking down the center aisle of the auditorium toward the stage.
He takes the steps onto the stage two at a time and makes his way over to the podium.
“Hi,” he says. Most wouldn’t realize how nervous he is at this moment, but I can tell. He’s crapping his pants and doing an amazing job of hiding the fact. “My name is Marc Tremblay. And I’m straight.”
Another round of applause ensues. Like me, I’m sure nobody needs an excuse to clap for Marc. Swoon.
“But my two dads are not.”
There is a mixture now of silence, small gasps, whispers, and, clapping. I’m sure all the people in Marc’s circle—which is rather big—know of his home-life. But clearly, some people here are hearing this information for the first time.
“I love my two dads.” After he says this, he points to them and then waves them forward. They slowly make their way down the path that Marc has just taken, climb the stairs to the stage, and walk over to two of the three empty chairs on the other side of the podium. Gary, looking like a flamer from the Somewhere Over the Rainbow Trailer Park. Mr. Tremblay, looking like he just stepped out of the courtroom after winning a multi-million dollar lawsuit. I mean, he even has gold cufflinks that catch fire in the lights of the stage. His blond hair is slicked back, his piercing blue eyes straight ahead, almost as though he’s daring someone to challenge him. Fierce.
As they sit, they hold hands and, okay, I get it. Somehow I see how they make a couple together, the straight-laced and the wildflower. It’s nice.
“I brought them here today,” Marc continues, “because sometimes it helps to see something right in front of us, and to see how good it works, before we’re able to accept it. And, probably more importantly, my father has a story to tell you. Believe it or not, in the very near past, being openly gay was almost a death sentence. My fathers went to school when there was no such thing as a gay-straight alliance. They grew up in a time of almost zero tolerance. Before you knock the new club, and what it represents, I want you to listen to what my dad has to say about his own high school experience.
“Before I introduce him, though, I want to tell you he is one of the most remarkable people in my life. He’s loving, and strict, and intelligent, and artistic, and incredibly talented, and an amazing father and husband. He’s a person who also happens to be gay.”
He pauses for a moment to take a breath. He looks out at the audience and knows he has their full attention.
“My father was almost unable to be here today. When he went to school, things were definitely different. One day while he was walking down the hall between classes, minding his own business, he was beaten and stabbed so severely he almost died. But he didn’t, which is why I asked him if he would come and talk to us today.”
He turns to his dads and puts a hand out. “Dad,” he says, “the mic is yours.” He turns back to the audience, who now have looks of shock and concern plastered across their faces. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my dad. Gary Tremblay.”
This time the clapping is almost deafening. I look around the auditorium and it seems Marc was able to engage everyone with his introduction. Such a smooth operator.
But just as Gary is about to reach for the mic, I hear it. Someone out in the auditorium says, “Faggot”. It’s not a scream or a shout. It’s insidious, just loud enough. I am willing to bet my life it was Will Severe, but I’ve been wrong before.
I know we all hear it, but nobody says anything. The clapping just gets louder, as if in response to the slur…to drown out its impact.
“Thank you, Marc,” Gary says after taking the mic from his son and giving him a short hug. Marc goes over and sits beside his other father while Gary steps up to the podium, puts the mic on its stand, and takes a moment.
He smiles out at the audience and I can see the wildness in him, just waiting to get out. I already know this is going to be great.
“I bet when Marc was saying all those things about his ‘amazing’ father,” he strikes air-quotes around amazing, “you were expecting the smart-dressed man to step up to the mic, weren’t you?”
There is a sprinkle of laughter throughout the auditorium.
“I get that a lot. It’s true. I’ve become something of a bum these days. But you can’t lie, flip flops are the height of comfort.”
Now he gets what he wants. The room fills with laughter as he sticks out a leg and shakes his foot to show off his flip flop. Gary smiles, confident that he now has the audience in the palm of his hand.
“Marc said I almost died. Just so we’re a hundred percent clear on how this relates, let me say from the get-go that it was from a gay-bashing. I think they’re mostly called hate crimes now, but back when I went to school we always just called it gay-bashing. When someone would beat you up for being gay, or simply for assuming that you were gay, you were bashed.
“Only, the one time it happened to me it was more violent than just a beating.�
�� He picks the mic out of the stand and walks to the front of the stage. “Have any of you noticed the gash of a scar on the side of my face yet?”
He points out the scar by putting his finger on his lip and tracing the line all the way to his ear.
“This is what you got for being gay when I went to high school.” Gasps echo all through the auditorium. Then he pulls his shirt up until his whole torso is showing and he outlines the second knife-wound scar. “This is what you got for being gay when I went to school.” He says this with anger to drive home his point, virtually spitting out the word gay.
Amid more gasps, he pulls his shirt back down, returns to the podium and places the mic back into the stand.
“I can’t show you my worst wound from that day. Thankfully, it didn’t kill me. The kid who sliced and stabbed me wasn’t satisfied with those wounds. They weren’t enough to assuage his hatred. His attack was only half-over as I lay bleeding out on the floor with kids screaming and teachers running. It was absolute chaos. I remember lying there seeing the blood pooling around me and thinking, this is it. I’m going to die today.
“That’s when he started to kick me in the head. After five or six kicks I was out cold. I don’t think there were much more than that. The teachers finally restrained my attacker. But not before he managed to kick my head in so badly I had suffered brain damage.”
He gives it a moment to sink in. He knows how to play a crowd. Kids are talking to each other, making oohs and ahs and gasping. He has their sympathy one hundred percent. But I know him. Well, you know what I mean. I don’t know him, know him. But I know it’s not their sympathy he’s after. He’s after their understanding and their compassion. He’s looking for allies. For us.
“I was in a coma for over a week.”
He goes on to tell us all the details of the attack and the aftermath. He tells us about the rally that Mr. Reason told us about. He tells us how the town swelled when so many people came to be a part of the big rally. And he tells us how the boy who hurt him didn’t have to suffer any real lasting consequences.
