Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Memories of the Body Broken Review of Ambition Is Not a Dirty Word Review of The Blood of Flowers Review of The Girl Who Stopped Swimming Review of The Poet Laureate of People Who Hate Poetry Creative Nonfiction My Boo Radley By Rebecca Ward A Walk in the Park By Madonna Dries Christensen Poetry Hearts and Diamonds By Andrena Zawinski It Was Then I Kissed Her By Andrena Zawinski In By Andrena Zawinski Death of Word By Tony Brown Fiction Being Caught Up With My Ego By David Landrum A Voice In My Head Screamed By J. A. Tyler About the Contributors © 2008, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Editor - Elizabeth Murray Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
A Voice in My Head Screamed By J. A. Tyler We spoke over lunch: I don’t go to church anymore. That’s not healthy. So. So nothing. Just saying. Fine. Okay. Fine. We won’t talk about it. Fine. A voice in my head screamed. But nothing came out. I don’t bow my head at “Dear God.” I don’t finish with a whispered “Amen.” I don’t disrupt or disrespect. I don’t disavow them their rituals. I don’t sing praise songs. I don’t take communion. I don’t respond to religious glares. I celebrate Christmas. I joke about being Jewish. I think about becoming Buddhist or Hindu. I sign cards “Happy Holidays.” I read about meditation. I might be atheist. I might be agnostic. Who knows. But church breeds hate. I’ve seen it. My grandparents spoke of gayness: It’s not that I have anything. Against them. I just don’t feel. Comfortable. Around them. Okay. You know? I. No. I don’t. I mean. We don’t. Disapprove. It’s just. Uncomfortable? Right. Exactly. So you know what I mean. No. I don’t. Her workplace is liberal. Hippy. Progressive. Unassuming. Accepting. She has gay co-workers. She sees them everyday. Her boss is one. She’s heard rumors: I don’t think he is. O. He is. No. I don’t think he is. Come on. Have you seen his clothes. His shoes. The way he. Gestures. Come on. It’s obvious. I guess. I just don’t know. I do. It’s so obvious. They both looked worried. My grandfather said: What would happen if they took office? What would happen if they were in the military? The post office? The grocery store? The public schools? I want to scream at things like this. I should. But I don’t. Instead I say: The first gay kid I knew was a guy named Jeremy. He was in the theater. We joked all the time about if I was hot enough for him to want me. I don’t know. It was just funny to talk about. He had wavy hair. A young mustache. A slight. Whispery lisp. He introduced me to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He flirted with the girl I was dating. They tickled each other and giggled. He was a riot. I continue: I’ve met a lot of other gay people too. One guy was tall. Six foot something. Dark skin and a harsh, bushy, short Afro of hair. He could sing like crazy. Another guy had a big nose and long hair parted down the middle. He didn’t come out until college. Another had bright red hair and this soft fragile voice. I’m not sure that he ever came out. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe I was wrong. He was a super nice guy either way. A kid we used to baby-sit is gay now. Or out now. Whatever you say. He had an effeminate voice even as a three-year old. He used to say “I’m not a girl I’m a lady.” His sister is gay too. She wears her hair short and has a twin. Her twin’s straight. She always seemed the more like a tomboy. More so than her sister. But I don’t think that really means anything. They try to interrupt but I go on: We sat next to two lesbians at breakfast a few mornings ago. One ordered for the other. They touched hands underneath the table. They looked at each other like last night was the best night of their lives. They looked at everyone else to make sure that they weren’t looking. One had fruit and pancakes. The other had gravy and sausage and eggs. Both were pretty. One had short hair and one long. One wore a leather jacket and the other wore soft clothes that showed off her. Curves. They spoke in whispers. They looked beautiful. They looked content. They looked normal and good and right together. And on: One of my best friends in high school turned out to be gay. He liked sports. Went to church. Loved his parents. Had a bunch of friends. Sang bass in choir. Was respectful to teachers. Took up smoking. Drove a beat up old-school mustang. Ditched class with me to watch movies and eat fast food. Had me over to play Monopoly until two a.m. We didn’t talk for a long time. Then I ran into him on campus. He was going to call me. But he never did. Years later I saw him waiting in line for a rickety, old, wooden roller coaster. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and some close cropped hair. He introduced himself to my friends as Steven rather than Steve. We talked for a bit every time that the line doubled-back. He said he was doing well. He said he meant to call. He said he missed hanging out. He said that he worked housekeeping at a hotel in town. He said that he’d worked in computers but got bored with the whole thing. He said that he’d come out of the closet. He said that he’d finally come to terms with who he was.. He met my friends. I met his. He asked about the status of our short, quirky, Filipino friend. We said we’d find time to hang out. We said nice to see you again. We said take care. We hugged. I hope I see him again. I’ve yet to. I can’t stop: You know. On Gay Pride day. While the parade. Rolls. And it’s hot in the sun. People wear rainbow colors. There’s usually a large portion of chubby, hairy, motorcycle men in chaps with their asses showing. People cheer and wave rainbow flags at them. And there’s usually a section of people who work for companies that support their gay workers. You couldn’t pick them out of a dozen straight people. And every year, as the parade totes its last float the crowd wraps in with everyone and follows the whole thing down to the park for food and drinks and whatnot. This is always the part. We have to pass this giant stone church. And its protestors. They hold up signs. They scream. Fags burn in hell. Gay is wrong. They scream obscenities. They spit. They wear ties and button-down shirts. Their signs are written in capital letters with bold, black markers. They stand in the middle of the street and almost invoke fights. They hold hands and steady for violence. And we have to pass. So we do. Again they try. But I have to finish: We went to lunch one day. A Gay Pride day. Trying to get away from all the people. Passing the covered patio, all of the sudden the voices around me grew into more whisper and less yell. The laughter turned from gulping to only giggles. And one of us moved a rainbow flag from a hat, where it was standing like a Yankee feather, to his back pocket, where it was all but invisible. Then I saw the stares as we walked into the place. And there was nothing tell-tale gay about anyone in our crowd. But they knew somehow. They saw. Guessed I guess. And it was persecution. In its mildest form no doubt but still. It was. Overwhelming. No wonder hand-holding is a thing some people only do on Gay Pride day. In the park. With supporters. Imagine having to hide. Love. There seems to me nothing worse than that. There was a lull there. The perfect opportunity. But it remained silent. I should have said that. But I didn’t. We sat and ate lunch. My grandparents talking onward: Might be a disease. Or a cancer. Right. Rotten. Maybe. We’re only saying. Maybe. Exactly. Maybe. Who knows. You know you really should go to church more. Some. I know. Well. Well nothing. We’ll talk about something else. All right. Just saying. That’s all. They were holding their own huge cardboard signs written in permanent marker. A voice in my head screamed, but nothing came out of my mouth. |