Faggot

You're nine and the boys in elementary school begin to call you faggot. You know the word has a pejorative meaning that complements the sense of differentness you've felt since you were three or four. In response to these taunts, you say nothing. You feel threatened, like something unknowing and evil will happen to if you challenge their accusations. If you go to a teacher or a friend you worry that you’ll be admitting something about yourself that they will hate you for too. You decide you’ll be whatever the boys say you are, as long as they leave you alone. You go numb and lose yourself in world where there’s fairness and retribution – they’ll get theirs. When you get home, you stand in front of your bedroom mirror, open your mouth and pretend to scream -- arms flailing in desperate flight, as a look of horror contorts your face. You try to purge the sting and assault of the school day but no amount of silent screaming will fill that deepening void. You think of screaming for real, but what will you alert your parents to? A faggot of a son? Who will help you? Who can you tell? You are desperate. Years later when you study art, Edvard Munch’s "The Scream" becomes a favorite painting -- a silent scream framed on the wall. Finally, someone understood.