by Edeyn Hannah Blackeney
-- a title that DOES have only one word, is safe for everyone to read.
Without fail, as long as the weather held out, the boys would go out to the field and play flag football for P.E. I, of course, had to go with them despite my internal protests. Oh, I did well enough and if my team won, I'd whoop and holler like the rest as we went back inside to grab our books and head home. If my team lost, I'd grumble and shuffle back to the lockers to grab books and head home.
I never showered there. I couldn't bear it. That's why I took P.E. seventh period.
I realized early on that I had no clue what was going on. What was a 'down' and why did I want one first? I would run back and forth up and down the field, sort of blending into the tromping group of 20 to 30 boys. There were far too many to have organized teams and the coach was always the quarterback. Why is it called that anyway? I learned the first day not to call him the 'thrower' and to try to remember that.
Then one day it happened. Despite my attempts at becoming invisible, the ball was coming straight for me and I knew that I had to catch it. I mean, I could have 'fumbled' (see? I learned that one!) the ball, but that just went against my grain. I am a juggler... I do not let flying objects hit the ground.
So, it hit me in the chest as my arms tightened around it.
"Run!" shouted my teammates.
"Run!" shouted the coach.
"Run!" shouted my own voice in my head.
"Run!" shouted everyone.
And I stood there.
I panicked.
My shame was now known, or so I thought.
Oh no! They'll know I'm a girl now! They'll... They'll... wait... why is that bad?
So one of the other team ripped the flags from my hips.
"Why didn't you run?" he asked.
"Why didn't you run?" asked my teammates.
"Why didn't you run?" asked the coach.
"Why didn't you run?" asked everyone.
I took a breath and admitted... "I... I didn't know which way to go..."
That's when the taunting started.
Oh, yeah... this is why that's bad.
They didn't know I was a girl at all.
No, in fact, they thought of me as less than a girl... I was a boy that didn't know how to play football.
When I made it back to the locker room, my books were in the shower, and it was running.
I sighed and fished them out. I could dry them at home.
I grabbed my bag and headed toward home.
The three I normally walked home with had a girl scout meeting -- where I wasn't allowed to go -- so I was walking home by myself that day.
I think I was about two blocks from school when the first rock hit me.
I didn't cry.
I wouldn't let them have the satisfaction.
Fists. Shoes. Knees. Elbows. Bookbags, backpacks, duffels, even a brick.
When they got bored, I lie there aching, bleeding... just... sorting my thoughts.
I stood up and dusted myself off and stumbled the block more to the library. I went in the back door and straight to the bathroom so the librarians wouldn't ask what happened. I think it took over half an hour to clean up the blood and dirt. I rearranged my ripped clothes and even ripped them a bit more in strategic places so that my excuse would work.
I exited the bathroom and as I walked past the desk, one of the ladies called out and said I had a book in that I'd requested. I stopped and while I was signing my name, she took in my appearance.
"What happened to you?"
"Fell down the hill behind the bleachers."
"Again? You are the clumsiest boy in town... you should be more careful! Look where you're going."
"I know," I mumbled, and putting my book in my nearly ruined backpack, I tossed a, "thanks," at her and was out the front door with the little shop-bell ringing on my way.
I was almost home when I heard the talking.
"Here he comes. Pansy little shit doesn't know what football is, my brother says."
"Let's show him what it is, eh guys?"
"I dunno, he's just a middle schooler..."
"What's he gonna do, tattle on us? C'mon, it's his word against three of us. Dogpile!"
I heard the snap of my frames and just went numb. I lay there until they all got up and were tired of jeering at me, and wandered off. Then I just waited more.
I picked up the two halves of my glasses, and pocketed the earpiece that had snapped off.
By the time I made it home, my friends had long since gotten home from Girl Scouts and I saw a note that one had called when I sat at the table to do my homework, and could see my younger sister in the living room watching TV.
As soon as I came in the back door, she knew. She knew as soon as she saw me, everything that had happened. I held a finger to my lips to shush her, but then SHE came in.
"About time! You know your mother doesn't buy food and cook it just to throw out when you're not here for dinner."
"Yes, Grandma."
"And you broke your glasses again! Do you think this family is made of money?"
"No, Grandma."
My sister was diligently paying attention only to the television. I dropped my bag next to her and the still soggy books tumbled out through the ripped side of the backpack.
"You just can't take care of anything, can you, moron?"
"No, Grandma."
"Don't you sass me, you little... what did you do to your clothes? Your books, your clothes, your backpack, and the wasted food! Grab 'em!"
"But Grandma..."
"No backtalk!"
I grimaced and bent over and grabbed my ankles. Three swats for the books. Three swats for the clothes. Three swats for dinner. Three swats for the backpack. Three swats for backtalk. Three swats for sass. Three swats for being late and making her worry. SIX swats for the glasses.
I stood up. She glared at me as I looked back just as numbly as the rest of my life had become.
"Why can't you be more like your sister?"
I don't know. Oh, I wanted to, so much!
The floodgates burst. Slowly at first, just a trickle of tears.
"Oh, GAWD! I didn't mean it literally you sissy! Get out of my face!"
With a kick, she sent me into the living room, where my younger sister was smirking at me. Tears flowing freely now, I looked back into the living room at the relief it wasn't her on my sister's face. I sniffled and sobbed and wandered into the room I shared with my sister, at least until she wanted to change.
Her bed was on one side of the room and the pallet of blankets that served as my bed was on the floor on the other side.
I lay down and screamed into my pillow as I let it all out, finally, and slept until I had to leave the room so my sister could play her radio. I went to shower then, and after, I went outside and fell asleep against my favorite tree. I fetched up inside sometime around midnight.
Comments
gritty
gritty and old fashioned and realistic we all have family like that at some point. maybe continue the story looking at the protagonists feelings more closely.
to hug is to be and to be is to be hugged
view the world through the eyes of a child and relearn the wonder and love
Allie elle loved and cared for and resident of the kids camp full time
to hug is to be and to be is to be hugged
view the world through the eyes of a child and relearn the wonder and love
Allie elle loved and cared for and resident of the kids camp full time
To continue...
Oh, I will. There will be more. They won't be in any kind of chronological order, and in fact this is the second one of this type. The first you can find [here].
Answer to Edeyn
In case your question in the story wasn't rhetorical, there's a reason a quarterback is called by that name.
In a traditional American football backfield, early on even prior to the T-formation, the four backs lined up in a diamond formation behind the center. The quarterback was closest to the center and considered to be one-fourth of the way back from the center. The two halfbacks were lined up to the right and left of the quarterback and a step or two deeper into the backfield or halfway back. The fullback was lined up in line with the center and the quarterback, a step behind the halfbacks. He was considered to be all the way back in the backfield as he was the deepest back -- lined up farthest from the line.
The quarterback was usually the most gifted athlete and had to be tall enough to see over the line to his downfield reeceivers. Halfbacks were usually quick and fast. Fullbacks were usually the strength players who were called on to succeed when the team needed two yards and a cloud of dust.
Much to my dismay I was a fullback and a pretty good one at that.
I enjoyed your piece. Wonderful characterization. You might have spent a bit more time on this one. Why would the coach throw the ball to the hero, at least what reason would the hero give? More description of the attackers. Why wasn't he hurt more by the brick? Did he dodge it? Why did he meekly grab his ankles? At his age wouldn't he tell the grandmother to F---off, and then walk away from her? There is so much resignation in the character the reader concludes he has long ago given up -- which begs the question, why? Perhaps a bit more appeal to the senses to make the setting draw us in.
The question your story asks about his resignation is worth asking repeatedly in TG literature. Why do we allow ourselves to be bullied? What alternatives has he explored? What results has he had in the past that make him such a limp, punching bag?
This makes me want to write a story in which a new kid comes to school who makes friends with a transgendered person. The story would be written in first person from the POV of the new kid. He starts out thinking the TG person is cool because he's so different. During the day his perspective changes, partially because he sees which way the wind is blowing and partly because the TG person won't stand up for himself.
Nope. . .I don't want to write it, but maybe you would?
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Quarterback
Thanks. It was rhetorical, but I like learning new things anyway. :) I'd figured out the fractions (half, full, and quarter) meant there were meanings to the positions, but hadn't worked it out or researched it at all.
As for the characterization in the story... "he" was me. This was pretty directly autobiographical. The coach threw the ball to whoever was open, I messed up that day. I tried to stay in a clump so that he wouldn't throw to me. I failed to realize that the clump I was hiding behind that day were on my team and that it was the front, not the back of the clump I was on. The attackers didn't matter, as far as appearance went. You get the crap beat out of you by one faceless hate-filled mob, you've gotten the crap beat out of you by all the faceless hate-filled mobs. The brick did hurt, but these were kids that really didn't know how to wield an improvised weapon (unless it was a farming implement). I never bothered dodging. It was pretty much the same reason I refused to flinch or wince or cry. Crazy stops you from getting beat up almost as much as being big and tough would, I reckon. I grabbed my ankles because there really wasn't anything else to do. The resignation is there, yes. Eventually, as I add more of these... Memory Excerpts... you'll see why.
The story you suggest is kind of like a couple of stories I have already written. One I could adapt slightly to be TG and it would be almost exactly what you suggest. The other... the other is about what happens when the opposite of resignation is reached. I could also make that one TG with a couple of twist and turns.
Another 4 month late reply
I enjoyed your piece. Wonderful characterization. You might have spent a bit more time on this one. Why would the coach throw the ball to the hero, at least what reason would the hero give? More description of the attackers. Why wasn't he hurt more by the brick? Did he dodge it? Why did he meekly grab his ankles? At his age wouldn't he tell the grandmother to F---off, and then walk away from her? There is so much resignation in the character the reader concludes he has long ago given up -- which begs the question, why? Perhaps a bit more appeal to the senses to make the setting draw us in.
The question your story asks about his resignation is worth asking repeatedly in TG literature. Why do we allow ourselves to be bullied? What alternatives has he explored? What results has he had in the past that make him such a limp, punching bag?
Let's see if I can answer some of these questions. The coach was all about fair play. He was a good guy that tried to let all the kids join in. He didn't know I was avoiding getting to be receiver, and for the first time that year, he saw me open without lots of others around me and threw me the ball. The attackers faces and such didn't matter -- it was everyone and no one. It didn't matter who was doing the beating. The brick DID hurt, and I was too busy holding my arms over my head to dodge anything. I was 13. For nearly 9 years at that point, I'd been the most common target for my grandmother's ire and bigotry. When she needed someone to blame, or to vent frustration on, I was handy. I'd learned long ago that she'd deny it if I told my mother or stepfather, and it was useless to try to avoid it -- she'd built a reputation for me as a liar. That's part of why I react so badly to being accused of lying. I was accused of it for so long with no one ever believing me, and most of the adults in my life knew I wasn't lying (aunts and uncles) but chose to protect grandma from getting a bad reputation. I was convinced at that point that this is what life was supposed to be like for me. I was an "abomination" if the way the Bible was being preached was to be believed. You don't curse at your elders. You respect them no matter what, or rather, that's what I had drilled into me. She was an adult, and I was a freak. So of course she was right and I was wrong. I deserved everything, right? Add to this that for more than four years at that point I had being molested and raped approximately every 4 - 6 weeks by an older cousin who had convinced me at first that Grandma had told him to punish me that way, and later when I figured out that he was lying, he used the threat of going to my sister if I didn't cooperate and keep quiet to control me.
Why was I so beaten down and resigned? Because that was my life. I didn't give all that background in the story, because this is one snippet. There will be more that come chronologically before this, and there will be others that come after this. More of the story will be told.
Testosterone
I guess testosterone distorts one's values... once in my high school gym class a geeky boy dropped the pass, and one of the more athletic kids was so upset he was nearly in tears. I said, "It's just a game -- get a grip on yourself!"
I wish you hadn't had to go through any of that.
Overexposure Levels of Testosterone Poisoning
Is how me and a few friends used to refer to it. First time a teacher heard me refer to Testosterone Poisoning, she started laughing and didn't stop for almost 5 full minutes... she was married to the Head Coach.
Hoping
I'm really hoping this wasn't a true story. Normally I wouldn't think so because this is after all a fiction site but I saw some similarities between what you wrote and what you've told us of your childhood. I too remember being caught in the middle. Neither one nor the other even if I'm not intersexed. The smallest boy in the class, even outclassed by the girls in a lot of things. Sports (shudder!!!) Picked last every time for everything.
Nice story even if a little too close to home.
hugs!
grover
Dashing your hopes
This happened in the early fall of my 8th grade year.
Well Written!
Anybody who has been bullied will recognize the elements in your character's situation. Having been bullied and watching my more effeminate friends be bullied your description realistically brings back those terrible feelings of anguish and helplessness. Good authorship. I'm looking forward to more.
marie c.
marie c.
Thanks
Life was hard for me then, and was shortly going to become a whole lot more complicated.
QuarterBack -- Thanks for the info
I only follow football to be able to follow the chatter to the lunch table. And I did not know the definition of quarterback. I asked my children if they knew (had American football intro in PE) and they didnt.
So, I'm not surprised he did not know.
As for Grandma... she is another bully
Carla
"May you live in Interesting Times" is a promise, not a threat!
Evil
Most bullies can be redeemed. Grandma was evil.
What does that "autobiography" tag mean?
Why is everyone talking about "the character"? Is Edeyn really such a character?
Okay -- not everyone. I exaggerate.
Several Reasons...
...I think. Perhaps the least important one: a lot of the bylines on the site aren't real names. I haven't read all of Edeyn's nonfictional material or commentary here but I have the vague impression that she used at least a different form of the name while being raised as a male child. Since (unless I missed it) there's no actual use of any name in this story (memoir? article?), our calling the protagonist "Edeyn" would likely be an anachronism.
Secondly, I suspect that a story as traumatic as this one makes readers want to put some distance between the central figure and the author, even if she's telling us in the subject listing that there's no reason to do so.
Three, it seems to me there's some loss of clarity when discussing the merits or the details of the posting if "Edeyn" is used indiscriminately to mean the narrator, the featured player and the author. Someone may well want to discuss one of the three roles to the exclusion of the others. As you note, "character" may not be the ideal term here, but people will certainly know to whom (and to which element) it refers.
Eric
Well answered
Though, it is autobiographical, and as such, applying either the name I was saddled with then or my current one would be appropriate. As much as I would have liked it to have been two separate people... it was not.
Autobiographical
I deduced that it really happened to the author.
I recently heard of a girl who was taunted throughout her school career because she was born with one leg shorter than the other. She eventually opted to have the short leg amputated so that she could appear 'normal' with a prosthetic limb.
A bully will find and exploit the weakest and can be family, school peers or even teachers. Bullying usually has the effect of the erosion of self-esteem of the victim - who will often assume that it is their fault.
This was well written and appears to have no happy end, much like a victim's life.
Susie
Piece of the puzzle
People wanted to know more about me.
Edeyn don't let such sh*
Edeyn don't let such sh* push you down.
You're a good person, sometimes the bullying just doesn't end.
That's life, and it stinks at times.
doesn't have to do with anyone specifically though.
It's just bad luck. I like the expression 'SH* happens' myself :)
You are a gifted writer of good tales.
And this story pushed some buttons.
Those assh*s probably wouldn't be able to distinguish between a book and a box of chocolate.
And why that mother behaved as she did I don't know.
There will always be excuses for the perpetrators.
But I prefer justice for the victims.
I'm sure you have a lot more tales just waiting to come out.
Let them free girl.
cheers
Yoron.
4 month late reply
That wasn't my mother. It was my grandmother. In a few moments, I'm going to re-reply to Angela Rasch's comment above, and explain some things.
Such pain and sadness to endure...
...No, in fact, they thought of me as less than a girl... I was a boy that didn't know how to play football. Your poetry and your stories are filled with such anguish, but so transparent and vulnerable; willing to risk and brave the inspection of the reader. I am blessed every time I read your work. You are truly amazing and very brave.
She was born for all the wrong reasons but grew up for all the right ones.
Possa Dio riccamente vi benedica, tutto il mio amore, Andrea
Love, Andrea Lena
Evil Grandma
RAMI
Just read this story do to the new single story part of this site.
While the fellow students inflicted harm and pain to the protagonist, they were only acting as common teenage bullies. Unfortunately, too many people have been suject to bullying as part of growing up, and boys who can not play sports as well as their peers, suffer from bullying to some degree (here it was really bad) from the time they start school through graduation from H.S.
However, the grandmother was(is) trully evil and in my mind "sick". To inflict such pain on any child let alone her grandson turned my stomach.
Hopefully, someone put her in her place sometime in her life.
RAMI
RAMI