"I guess it's because of who you are, Baby," Stacy says softly. "It's easy to love you because you're beautiful, inside and out."
I pull away from her, shaking my head.
"Whether you believe it or not," she nods firmly. "I don't understand anyone who's ever hurt you, who'd ever want to hurt you. I don't understand Tammy. How could he just leave? How could he resist you? He must be nuts! I know he loved you."
"Stacy," I plead, "Please don't."
She stops.
During my mid to late twenties, my opinions of myself and my particular station in life are amended every three or four months. I begin my self-exploration by adopting a peculiar half-hearted pride in my status as an asexual. I try to believe that being a virgin (a word I detest) at my age makes me unique, a rarity, a novelty. Sometimes the girls at work ask me point blank, "Jamie, are you a virgin?" And I blurt, "Of course not!" I'm too flabbergasted to rebuff them any better than that. "You just look so innocent," one of my Filipina friends gushes at me. "You're so pretty. You look like a little angel!"
I laugh at her, "Honestly, Marilyn!"
When I get sick of the "I'm rare and special" bullshit, I believe it's repression, an inability to express myself sexually. It's that damage left in the wake of my childhood abuse.
And it's not just the violence of my birth parents. The pastor has had a hand in this too. Though I've never had sex (willingly) and I'm technically an "A", I'm closer to gay than I'll ever be to straight, and it's been hammered into me at church that being gay is wrong, so I feel like I don't deserve to be loved. That I am an abomination. Self-hatred flows as smooth and natural as my own blood. I believe that in order to be "good", I must quell my feelings, deny myself.
That is, until I become drained, and then fed up with myself. I consider the unspeakable thrashing I took at the hands of those "good, Christian boys", and I become incensed with the self-righteous bigots I hear at the pulpit, on the radio, on television, in the White House. They hate gay people. I feel hatred in their words, in their actions. They don't just preach against the gay community, the gay lifestyle, and laws providing gay equality, they hate gay people. And their inimitable hatred seems to say it's okay for people to do what was done to me in high school. I was viciously attacked for "being gay" even though I've never done anything sexual with anyone (willingly). I was beaten because of what I look like. I'm small, I like to wear eyeliner and dye my hair and I like to wear stud earrings in my ears sometimes. But I'm a male so that isn't allowed by "decent" Christian society, apparently not even the being small part. Pastor Sellers at the Baptist church has confirmed his abhorrence of me on more than one occasion over the years, and it's left a pretty bad taste in Lloyd's mouth.
When Matthew Shepard is abducted, beaten and left to die in Wyoming, I keep my eyes fastened to the television, praying that he will survive.
He doesn't.
Was that God's will? Is God that hateful?
Our attendance at church has dwindled, but Lloyd and I still read the bible. My favourite scripture is from Philippians, He who hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ. I've come to rely on it so much when I feel bad about myself. About my smoking, burning myself with cigarettes, hating my dead parents...
...and hating myself. That's a sin too. I don't think God wants me to hate myself any more than he wants others hating me because of who I am (or who they suspect I am) or how I look.
It's not right that I should have to repress myself. Some of us men are just naturally smaller and daintier than the others, with personalities that people call "fey", "femmie", "sissy", and several other terms, some of them derogatory, to describe us as "effeminate". I like to cook (I especially like to make pies), and I've planted bright pink roses in our front yard.
I guess that makes me a pussy. Whatever.
Even after the rationale I've employed, I grapple with the fear that God is going to "get" me for being gay, or at least "believing" I'm gay. And Pastor Sellers' outspokenness against homosexuality has indeed frightened me, even made me feel that to question God Almighty is to invite a bolt of lightning or a chunk of flaming brimstone down to strike me dead.
Lloyd and I continue to withdraw from church, repelled by the idea of going among people who hate me. Most of them are people I have very little in common with anyway. I've become weary of them. They never really talk about God, or Jesus, or their happiness as Christians anyway. They're boring. If they're not boasting about their kids' achievements, or yammering on about So-And-So's ugly shoes, they're running each other down behind each other's backs, having their perpetual "Who's the Best Christian?" contests.
I don't think I'm being arrogant when I say Lloyd, Stacy and I are evolved. We love God as much as those folks do, and we don't have to assemble with them in order to prove it.
I have to fess up. I may or not be gay, but I'm no different from anyone else. I long to fall in love, be married, have a family. I dream of living near the ocean, in a cottage, with kids, with cats...
...with Tammy. Always with Tammy. With the words she spoke on Graduation Night, Stacy has impregnated my mind with hope. Wouldn't it be perfect if it were true, that Tammy does love me the way I've always loved him? That he wasn't playing with my heart, toying with my affection, that unforgettable evening at Ray's house?
Around July Fourth one year, Ray comes back to town to visit his folks (he'd recently left Sommerville for the frills and glamour of Reno) and invites us to another barbeque. I love the scents and sights and sounds of summertime, of sizzling meat, sun-heated chlorine, happy chatter, blooming flowers. Ray's mom makes a really cool Jell-O dessert in red, white and blue, the white part being gelatinised evaporated milk. Stacy and I have a wonderful day with them, mainly because Yvette and Benny don't get to come. It's almost like old times.
The only thing missing is Tammy.
So everything is missing.
Ray tells us about stumbling onto Tammy on late night college radio. Even though Tammy's show is only on University of California stations, Ray found the Davis channel in Reno, and staticky as it was, he recognised Tammy's voice.
It's on from 9pm until midnight Monday through Thursday, and I become his most faithful listener. Every single evening he's on, I'm right there, in my room, my earphones sealing away the outer world. Lloyd wonders why I'm not out there watching movies with him. "Only from nine to midnight, Lloyd." He understands as soon as I tell him whose show I'm so interested in.
"Well come on in here and put it on!" Lloyd laughs. "I'd like to hear it too!"
Tammy: his voice still makes me melt, and with this new radio show, I'm newly in love.
"He sure is a sweet boy," Lloyd says softly when Tammy talks about dogs and cats at an animal shelter who need forever homes.
"I know," I half lie.
Time hasn't eroded it away. Every night, we listen. In the winter, we eat cookies and drink hot chocolate, snuggled cosily under our beat-up old quilt. In the summer, we take the radio out to the back porch and crank the volume as we sip on lemonade or iced tea.
And his voice just isn't enough to satisfy me. I punish and delight myself by keeping his magnificent face fresh in the shrine of my mind by looking at pictures of him in the yearbook every few nights. I keep my hopeless hope alive by remembering how he laughed and smiled whenever something funny happened to us, by remembering those wistful looks he gave me, by remembering the way he helped me after those guys beat the tar out of me.
He never mentions where he's from or his life before he became a radio host.
I'll never learn.
I refuse to learn.
I still want him, and if I can't have him, I don't want anyone.
I've long since stopped worrying about seeing my parents in my mirrored reflections. Being a nurse gives me little leisure time, and after I initially chopped my hair off to get rid of the bright red dye so that I would be hired, I let my hair grow back, long, golden, ignored. I continue wearin
g mascara, until I learn that my exertions on the job only cause it to leak onto my cheeks and make me look like I've got two new raccoon shiners.
I navigate the following years using a brave front. Every day I try to find a reason to be happy, and it's increasingly difficult. On September 11th, 2001, I feel like the world is ending. Every time they show the videos of those skyscrapers crumbling into flaming piles of rubble, I cry so hard my eyes hurt. I begin calling in sick at work. I feel drained. All I want is to sleep.
A few weeks after September 11th, Miss Halliday decides to increase my dosage of Zoloft. I end up with bad headaches. She switches me to Effexor, but that stuff scares me, because if I run out and don't take a dose within twelve hours, I have these seizures, like electric shocks, up and down my arms and into my neck and head. Next, we try Lexapro, but it makes me nauseous. Celexa and Paxil do absolutely nothing. Finally, she tries Prozac, which she had been avoiding because it has a tendency to cause patients to lose their appetite for food. "You're already so thin," she says dubiously, "but we'll go ahead and try it."
Of course, it works.
In 2004, a big tsunami devastates the countries in the Indian Ocean. Less than a year later, Katrina wipes out the Gulf Coast. I want so badly to travel over to these places, help these people, but Lloyd isn't feeling very well anymore, and I'm afraid to leave him.
I go out of my way to make people laugh, to make them cheer when Stacy and I sing. I fill my time with taking care of Lloyd, our cats, and my patients in the hospital. I exist in the now, but I live for what I dread is an impossible future. The longer Tammy stays gone, the older I get, the more I realise that love is simply not in the cards for me. But I refuse to admit to anyone how lonely I am, how I stubbornly dream that Tammy will come home someday.
I go on, masking my perpetual heartache with a valiant façade of acceptance.
eleven:
tammy
(up until now)
The years zip by too fast for comfort.
On September 11th, 2001, America falls under attack by terrorists. I keep seeing a couple, holding hands, jumping to their deaths from one of the Twin Towers.
What if that happened to me? What if I died and everyone I love never knew just how much I cared about them?
Like tiny fish, time slips through my fingers. I put great importance into my youth and beauty for so many years, and youth is escaping me. Bootsy, who had a long life with me, is gone. On September 8th of this year, I turn thirty-four. I've finally begun to silently admit to myself that I've never been attracted to any of the women I've hooked up with, but at least I'm no longer out to seduce and destroy them. I simply tell them that I'm single and not looking. My one night stands are kinder and gentler.
I'd believe I'm gay, but honestly, none of the men I've flirted with have caused any sparks either. The guys I originally intend to be casual sex partners become friends instead, "breeze friends", I call them, the kind of friends that you hang out with once or twice tops and then willingly lose in the wind. I've been tested for HIV every few months and I'm always neg. After all the women, and five men, I'm still healthy. After my fifth encounter with a male that doesn't result in any satisfying connection, I become celibate. Yeah, me! Celibate! I know it sounds about as likely as me living on Jupiter. I determine not to go to bed with anyone else, male or female, unless I feel the smallest glow of an emotional ember.
And I never do. I meet them, and I always go home alone.
I'm not sure when it happened, but I'm no longer infected with virulent rage at my Uncle Price. He's senile, Mom says. He's a loser, why bother with him? My only regret is not reporting him when I saw him messing with Natalie and those young boys around town. I guess I was young and in denial, but I still feel like shit.
I'm writing again, supplementing my income with articles for the animal shelter's monthly newsletter, about animal cruelty, which has just recently gained my passionate attention. Unlike the days of old, in which I shot at cats with BB guns for sport, I am disgusted and repulsed by the blatant atrocities committed by humans against animals. Videos depicting wanton cruelty that I do not wish to describe are widely known as "crush" videos. I inadvertently watched one online a year ago, sent by some "friend" who opened his email with, "You need to watch this!". To this day, I know not whether this acquaintance was trying to alert me to the seriousness of the issue, or trying to get off on repulsing someone with visual violence. I only watched about thirty seconds or so of it, but the video made me physically ill and heartsick, and so fucking angry I wanted to find the human perpetrators of this sick "entertainment" and kill them dead. I don't think I was able to get those grotesque images and sounds out of my mind for at least three weeks. I refuse to watch another one of them. I have no need to be emotionally tattered in order to voice my vehement opposition to these videos. I write out a prayer for the animals who are victimised, and for their abusers/murderers. The editor of the newsletter likes it and decides to publish it:
Do you believe in God and that all creatures belong to Him or Her? Then pray with me. It doesn't matter what God you believe in. If you love God and hate violence against God's creatures, pray.
Dear God in Heaven, Dear Great Spirit from Whom all things come,
Bless those innocent creatures who are being tortured, maimed and killed for the entertainment of sick, perverted human beings. Deliver them from the pain and horror they are facing, for they are Your creatures, and if they were of no importance to You, You would never have created them. Deliver them from the evil people who are hurting them, even if that deliverance must come in a merciful death. And punish those people who are hurting these innocent beings. They must be punished. If they can't be punished through our earthly justice system, then bless them with remorse, regret and reform. Make them see the evil of their deeds, make them see the hatred in their hearts, and make them truly repentant for what they've done. Make them stop doing those horrible things. Make them so sorry that they absolutely cannot stand the thought of what they've done. Bless Your creatures, and deliver them to peace and painlessness. Rescue them, deliver them, whether it's by the actions of good human beings or by the mercy of death. Amen.
The prayer gets a huge response from people who show up in droves to adopt cats and dogs the following weekend. We screen each potential adoptive family as thoroughly as we can, praying under our breaths that my prayer/article has not drawn out any deranged abusers looking for their next victims. But it's fifty dollars for each cat adoption, not including shots if the cat needs them, and eighty dollars for each canine, and I wonder if abusers would really fork out that kind of money, just to kill the animal.
My naiveté annoys me: who am I kidding? How ignorant I am to hide hopefully behind the absurd and prejudicial assumption that people with money don't abuse animals! The recent headlines about professional athletes who fill their idle time with the brutal thrills of dog fighting pop into my brain... So I pray that our adoptees go to loving, caring, happy homes. I've come to realise I'm powerless in this evil world, but that God answers prayer.
I also write pieces about the serious problem of abandonment, a box of kittens left on a roadside in the heat of August, pit bull puppies who are found running crazily in the middle of downtown traffic.
In addition, I begin helping a cat sanctuary in Glendale with their monthly magazine. It is called the Purrfect Peace Cat Sanctuary. They're cageless and "no kill", which I love. I've fostered a few cats from them myself. "Wheatie" is a pale yellow cat who is terminally ill with the feline leukaemia virus, which is basically AIDS for cats. When I lose my friend, I pen an article to resurrect awareness of the FLV.
Another of my fosters is a beautiful chocolate brown long hair with a creamy white chest. His name is "Wonka". I'm told he was raised in a mobile home full of hearing impaired people, so he's used to loud noises, not that I make any. Also he's been in so many foster homes in the four years since he came to live at Purrfect Peace, he's poised and mellow, around oth
er felines, around kids, and even around dogs. He's easy-going and affable, but he doesn't take shit either. In one of his many foster homes, a jealous little schnauzer charged him once, and Wonka cuffed the dog right across the face. After that, there was a grudging respect between them.
Another cat I've fostered is a shaggy black boy who jumps right into my arms from the floor. He reminds everyone of a black bear cub, so he's called, "Teddy".
I'd adopt Wonka and Teddy forever, but I don't have anyone who could sit them if I want or need to leave town for more than a day or so. I give them special mention on my show, hoping they will find the homes they deserve. If they don't, I'm going to find a way to give them my home forever.
I've changed. My heart is tenderised. Nothing I do now will ever erase the repulsion I feel about my hateful past though. Animals have souls, contrary to popular belief. You can see their souls when you look into their eyes. When I gaze into the grieving eyes of a kitten who's been starving or the big, lonely eyes of a dog who's been abandoned, I have to steel myself against the urge to cry. And consequently, I often find myself overwrought and having to take a break from the sadness of this world of big lonely eyes and adorable whiskery faces, because I'll burn out if I don't. Either that, or the endless despair of millions of homeless animals will drive me insane.
Crush Page 11
