cattle prod. ‘
OPEN THE DOOR!
’ she screamed, pounding on the door. She was possessed. ‘Help,’ I think, ‘somebody please call an exorcist.’ Sharing her knowledge of ‘family values’—the gay hating ones—StepMonster ran through the dictionary. She spewed every nasty, angry, bad word for faggot. F, F & F.
“She switched gears. I guess she’d been saving up. She started asking me questions. ‘Where were you tonight?’ I told her, ‘Work.’ She said, ‘You left early.’ How could she know this? ‘I did?’ ‘
Yes,
’ she said, certain, the way you choose a diamond or pick your mugger out of a lineup. ‘We
called.
Last night and the night before. Where were you tonight?’
“I couldn’t answer her questions. Not truthfully. I couldn’t. So I ended up feeling like a liar. That was my first mistake: thinking
they
were telling the truth. I thought, I don’t have a choice. I wanted to tell the truth. I knew if I did, StepMonster’s head would explode. Messy. I said, ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow morning?’ My question set off another round of verbal gunfire. ‘You’ve been lying to us!’ I leaned against the door. Right then, I knew, I knew …”
I look away and out the window. I remember the moment, the exact second. I was back, in my bedroom. Then, I stood outside the house: I saw us. Me, my father, StepMonster. Some light goes out. Ahmed dies.
“Knew what?” Marci prompts.
“Everything,” I say. I hear my voice. I sound empty. Hollow as I feel. Or, dead, same as what I saw. “I knew it was over. I had done something horrible. In their eyes, unforgivable.
“It was one thing to
be
gay, entirely another to
admit
beinggay. Couldn’t take it back. Any of it. When I wrote those words, I thought I’d voiced my desires. I hadn’t counted on a giant—gay—gap would open up between us. We were survivors. Natural disaster. The fault line in our family was always there. I just refused to see it. Now, the Earthquake. My words—
I
caused it. They were swept away. I’d done it. All on my own. Four words. Made myself an orphan.”
Marci touches my arm. Again, I flinch. I’m not scared. More surprised. I forget someone’s there, listening.
“When what was over?”
I look away. How can I explain these facts to this American girl? Who will never understand? Actually, I know nothing about her, but I’m certain of one fact. How I was raised, in my culture, there was—is—
no
possibility of my being gay. TV shows can’t protect me, celebrities can’t protect me—this girl
definitely
can’t protect me. Safety was adulthood and, even then, only in a fake marriage.
Writing those words proved … nothing. Except, I was—am—a fool. I’d gambled and lost. My entire family. I’d never fit. Maybe I
was
insane. In my heart, believing if I wrote those words, I cast a spell. A dare but also a hope—a wish—I could change them. I think, everything changed, American Girl, because I wasn’t just an outsider, I was an outsider among outsiders. Alone.
I look at her. Arabs are direct. Even if I’m only half. They cannot rob my directness. I will explain. I’ll use force. The truth.
“Our relationship, my childhood. There was me before. And there was me after. It was like we’d all been in a car accident. Afterward, my family walked one way and I walked the other.”
I stop. This is hard. Harder than I’d imagined. This part—the part where I
tell
the truth—is not writing or thinking the truth. Speaking the truth about my family hurts. Is painful. The truth that my family
hates
me. Even after Serenity Ridge, after everything they’ve done to prove their hatred, some tiny part of
me
won’t or refuses to believe. I struggle to find the words she can hear.
“I-I mean, today, you’d think parents … they’d just be coolabout it. Glad, even. Coz, figure one in ten. A gay kid’s like winning the lotto. You’ve won someone rare and special. Yeah!!! You’d think they’d
OPEN THE DOOR!
’ she screamed, pounding on the door. She was possessed. ‘Help,’ I think, ‘somebody please call an exorcist.’ Sharing her knowledge of ‘family values’—the gay hating ones—StepMonster ran through the dictionary. She spewed every nasty, angry, bad word for faggot. F, F & F.
“She switched gears. I guess she’d been saving up. She started asking me questions. ‘Where were you tonight?’ I told her, ‘Work.’ She said, ‘You left early.’ How could she know this? ‘I did?’ ‘
Yes,
’ she said, certain, the way you choose a diamond or pick your mugger out of a lineup. ‘We
called.
Last night and the night before. Where were you tonight?’
“I couldn’t answer her questions. Not truthfully. I couldn’t. So I ended up feeling like a liar. That was my first mistake: thinking
they
were telling the truth. I thought, I don’t have a choice. I wanted to tell the truth. I knew if I did, StepMonster’s head would explode. Messy. I said, ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow morning?’ My question set off another round of verbal gunfire. ‘You’ve been lying to us!’ I leaned against the door. Right then, I knew, I knew …”
I look away and out the window. I remember the moment, the exact second. I was back, in my bedroom. Then, I stood outside the house: I saw us. Me, my father, StepMonster. Some light goes out. Ahmed dies.
“Knew what?” Marci prompts.
“Everything,” I say. I hear my voice. I sound empty. Hollow as I feel. Or, dead, same as what I saw. “I knew it was over. I had done something horrible. In their eyes, unforgivable.
“It was one thing to
be
gay, entirely another to
admit
beinggay. Couldn’t take it back. Any of it. When I wrote those words, I thought I’d voiced my desires. I hadn’t counted on a giant—gay—gap would open up between us. We were survivors. Natural disaster. The fault line in our family was always there. I just refused to see it. Now, the Earthquake. My words—
I
caused it. They were swept away. I’d done it. All on my own. Four words. Made myself an orphan.”
Marci touches my arm. Again, I flinch. I’m not scared. More surprised. I forget someone’s there, listening.
“When what was over?”
I look away. How can I explain these facts to this American girl? Who will never understand? Actually, I know nothing about her, but I’m certain of one fact. How I was raised, in my culture, there was—is—
no
possibility of my being gay. TV shows can’t protect me, celebrities can’t protect me—this girl
definitely
can’t protect me. Safety was adulthood and, even then, only in a fake marriage.
Writing those words proved … nothing. Except, I was—am—a fool. I’d gambled and lost. My entire family. I’d never fit. Maybe I
was
insane. In my heart, believing if I wrote those words, I cast a spell. A dare but also a hope—a wish—I could change them. I think, everything changed, American Girl, because I wasn’t just an outsider, I was an outsider among outsiders. Alone.
I look at her. Arabs are direct. Even if I’m only half. They cannot rob my directness. I will explain. I’ll use force. The truth.
“Our relationship, my childhood. There was me before. And there was me after. It was like we’d all been in a car accident. Afterward, my family walked one way and I walked the other.”
I stop. This is hard. Harder than I’d imagined. This part—the part where I
tell
the truth—is not writing or thinking the truth. Speaking the truth about my family hurts. Is painful. The truth that my family
hates
me. Even after Serenity Ridge, after everything they’ve done to prove their hatred, some tiny part of
me
won’t or refuses to believe. I struggle to find the words she can hear.
“I-I mean, today, you’d think parents … they’d just be coolabout it. Glad, even. Coz, figure one in ten. A gay kid’s like winning the lotto. You’ve won someone rare and special. Yeah!!! You’d think they’d
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