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“Bruises heal. Cruel
words can make us cry for years”- Unknown
In comparison to other
boys, I’ve always seen myself as different. I liked reading and being indoors.
I enjoyed the arts: singing, dancing, drawing and acting. I preferred the
company of girls because I felt more understood. I would often be seen at
recess or lunch time, playing ‘Miss Universe’ or braiding someone’s hair. I saw
no problem with any of this. I was simply unique. Then, I went to Secondary
School and it all changed.
From the very first day,
I was considered ‘gay’, and called every gay related term; admittedly, some
were more creative than others. There were the usual, derogatory terms thrown
my way, like faggot, panty-man, buller-man and girly-boy.
Sometimes, the bullies used their imagination, coming up with stylised names,
like Garvgina or Garvina.
When they were bored
with the name-calling, they asked hurtful, mocking questions, referencing all
my mannerisms and interests that made me less of a boy, in their eyes. They
pinpointed my walk and shake, my high voice and use of Standard English, my pop
culture references to Britney Spears and knowledge of pageants, my love of
books and singing, and my hand gestures.
The torture was
never-ending; morning and evening, from the first bell to the last. Usually,
I’m an optimistic, charismatic and creative person, but the constant barrage of
insults had taken all life from me. I was miserable and wanted to be invisible.
I tried my hardest to achieve the latter. I would sit quietly, never answering
questions. I would walk the corridors with my head bowed and my hands in my
pockets, hoping that I would make it back to my classroom, unnoticed. I would
try to dissimulate by walking with a ‘bounce’, deepening my voice, and talking
about ‘boy stuff’, like the Premier League. The consequences were disastrous,
to put it mildly.
I went in search of
‘comfort zones’; those are, places I could be my optimistic, charismatic,
creative self. It was important for my sanity. The library was my go-to place
during free periods. Silence was golden and talking was frowned upon, so
although I got the looks, no one said anything. I quickly became friends with
the library staff, too. I joined the school’s choir, where my creativity
flourished. I met other individuals who shared my passions. Sure, the hecklers
were in attendance when we performed at school, but for a few minutes, I was happy.
Making friends- adults and students alike- instilled in me self confidence.
I made the valiant
decision to stand up for myself by using snappy retorts. I told my bullies
about ‘how their mothers made them’, ‘what I did with their mother the night
before’ and ‘to make way for their new step-father’. I took it a step further,
too. I noted their shortcomings, limitations and insecurities, and used it
against them. Nothing was off limits; everything from their academic
performance to their living situation became a weapon with which I could hurt
them. Pretty soon, I was not only gay, but a smart ass, a meanie and a bitch with a ‘hot
mouth’. I was unstoppable.
For a short time, it
made me feel better. Then, it came to a screeching halt when I made a boy cry
in the choir room. I hadn’t realised that, in fighting fire with fire, I had
become a bully myself. I had projected all my hurt on not only the bullies, but
others who reminded me of myself, like the snivelling boy in the seat next to
me. What had I become? On the outside, it was all bravado, but the truth of the
matter was that I was hurt, sad, angry and confused. In short, I was a mess on
the inside. I cried that night, alone in my room, asking God, “Why?” This cycle
would replay itself for four years.
I started to take a few
steps in the right direction, after a school trip to Venezuela. During the
trip, I overheard my roommates complaining that they didn’t want to sleep in
the same room as ‘the faggot’. I was
left reeling; until that point, I was having fun, making friends and being
accepted/ respected, or so I thought. It was a rude awakening. With tears
streaming down my face, I cursed the boys and stormed out of the room.
A few minutes later, I
was seated in the lobby, waiting for a room change. I was going over the ordeal
again and silently sobbing when a teacher sat next to me. Instead of cuddling
me, she told me as it is. I was different from most boys my age, and there was
nothing wrong with that. It was unfair that my uniqueness made me a target, but
I needed to develop a thicker skin. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself.
School was a preparation for life, and in life, there would always be persons
or groups who would try to tear you down. She explained that only I had the
power to decide how I allowed it to affect me.
I pondered her words on
the remaining leg of the trip. Initially, I thought that she was stupid. She
didn’t know what I went through every day. Her words had no bearing and heeding
them would not have made anything better. I had another breakdown two days
later, where I screamed at a cashier in a restaurant. I felt justified in my
behaviour, until I registered the looks I got from other patrons, students and
teachers. I was reminded of the crying boy in the choir room, and felt ashamed. I had to regain control of my emotions and
manage my anger. I needed a complete overhaul in perspective.
I began by muttering
self affirmations. I am different. I am intelligent. I am confident. I am going
to be someone one day. This stage of my life is not forever. God made me in his
image and likeness. Eventually, I accepted and revelled in my circumstances.
When I went to the library or attended choir practice, I did so because I loved
it, not because I was trying to hide from everyone. I became more open-minded
and accepting. I no longer felt the need to degrade others, and discovered that
I had a killer sense of humour that was dark, self deprecating and sarcastic.
Most importantly, I
didn’t allow the words to affect me. This was the hardest part because the
name-calling did continue, and along with it came the desire to retaliate or
cry. When I offered to help one of my bullies with his SBA, I was quite proud
of myself. It would have been quite easy for me to turn him away and chastise
him for being too dumb, but I didn’t give in. I was on the mend. I spent the
next three years of my Secondary School career happier than I had ever been.
To this day, I remember
the teacher’s words, and I use my affirmations. I surround myself with people
who love and accept me just the way I am. The truth is- and I say this without
any reservations of sounding cliché- circumstances really make you who you are.
For, if I hadn’t gone through all of those things, I wouldn’t have been as
contented and confident as I am today. No one is perfect, but I am proud of the
man that I have become and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
