War Dances

  So I laughed while that tough faggot beat Spence and Eddie into the pavement. And I laughed as Bernard dragged me toward his car, shoved me into the backseat, and slammed the door shut. Then he popped open his trunk, grabbed his tire iron, and ran back toward the fight.

  I powered down the window and watched Bernard race up to that black-belt fag and threaten him with the tire iron.

  “Stop this shit,” Bernard yelled. “Or I’ll club you.”

  “Why the hell are you waving that thing at me?” he screamed back. “You started it.”

  It was true, playground true. Spence, Eddie, Bernie, and I had started it. We’d been drunkenly ambling down the street, cussing and singing, when Spence spotted the amorous boys in their car.

  “Lookit,” he said. “I hate them fucking fags.”

  That’s all it took. With banshee war cries, Spence and Eddie flung open the driver’s door and dragged out the tough guy. I dragged my best friend (whom I didn’t recognize) from the passenger seat and broke his nose.

  And now, I was drunk in Bernard’s car and he was waving a tire iron at the guy we’d assaulted.

  “Come on, Spence, Eddie,” Bernard said.

  Bloodied and embarrassed by their beating, Spence and Eddie staggered to their feet and made their way to the car. Still waving that tire iron, Bernard also came back to me. I laughed as Spence and Eddie slid into the backseat beside me. I laughed when Bernard climbed into the driver’s seat and sped us away. And I was still laughing when I looked out the rear window and saw the tough guy tending to his broken and bloody lover boy. But even as I laughed, I knew that I had committed an awful and premeditated crime: I had threatened my father’s career.

  Sixteen years before I dragged him out of his car and punched him in the face, my best friend Jeremy and I were smart, handsome, and ambitious young Republicans at Madison Park School in Seattle. Private and wealthy, Madison Park was filled with leftist children, parents, and faculty. Jeremy and I were the founders and leaders of the Madison Park Carnivores, a conservative club whose mission was to challenge and ridicule all things leftist. Our self-published newspaper was called Tooth & Claw, borrowed from the poem by Alfred Tennyson, of course, and we filled its pages with lame satire, poorly drawn cartoons, impulsive editorials, and gushing profiles of local conservative heroes, including my father, a Republican city commissioner in a Democratic city.

  Looking back, I suppose I became a Republican simply because my father was a Republican. It had never occurred to me to be something different. I loved and respected my father and wanted to be exactly like him. If he’d been a plumber or a housepainter, I suppose I would have followed him into those careers. But my father’s politics and vocation were only the outward manifestations of his greatness. He was my hero because of his strict moral sense. Simply put, my father kept his promises.

  Jeremy, a scholarship kid and the only child of a construction worker and a housewife, was far more right wing than I was. He worried that my father, who’d enjoyed bipartisan support as city commissioner, was a leftist in conservative disguise.

  “He’s going to Souter us,” Jeremy said. “Just you watch, he’s going to Souter us in the ass.”

  Jeremy and I always made fun of each other’s fathers. Since black kids told momma jokes, we figured we should do the opposite.

  “I bet your daddy sucks David Souter’s dick,” Jeremy said.

  Jeremy hated Supreme Court Justice David Souter, who’d been named to the court by the first President Bush. Thought to be a typical constitutional conservative, Souter had turned into a moderate maverick, a supporter of abortion rights and opponent of sodomy laws, and was widely seen by the right as a political traitor. Jeremy thought Souter should be executed for treason. Was it hyperbole? Sure, but I think he almost meant it. He was a romantic when it came to political assassination.

  “When I close one eye, you look just like Lee Harvey,” I said.

  “I’m not Oswald,” he said. “Oswald was a communist. I’m more like John Wilkes Booth.”

  “Come on, man, read your history. Booth killed Lincoln over slavery.”

  “It wasn’t about slavery. It was about states’ rights.”

  Jeremy had always enjoyed a major-league hard-on for states’ rights. If it had been up to him, the United States would be fifty separate countries with fifty separate interpretations of the Constitution.

  Yes, compared to Jeremy, I was more Mao than Goldwater.

  It was in January of our sophomore year at Madison Park that Jeremy stole me out of class and drove me to the McDonald’s in North Bend, high up in the Cascade Mountains, more than thirty miles away from our hometown of Seattle.

  “What are we doing way up here?” I asked.

  “Getting lunch,” he said.

  So we ordered hamburgers and fries from the drive-thru and ate in the car.

  “I love McDonald’s fries,” he said.

  “Yeah, they’re great,” I said. “But you know the best thing about them?”

  “What?”

  “I love that McDonald’s fries are exactly the same everywhere you go. The McDonald’s fries in Washington, DC, are exactly like the fries in Seattle. Heck, the McDonald’s fries in Paris, France, are exactly like the fries in Seattle.”

  “Yeah, so what’s your point?” Jeremy asked.

  “Well, I think the McDonald’s fries in North Bend are also exactly like the fries in Washington, DC, Paris, and Seattle. Do you agree?”

  “Yeah, that seems reasonable.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “If all the McDonald’s fries in the world are the same, why did you drive me all the way up into the mountains to buy fries we could have gotten anywhere else in the world and, most especially, in Seattle?”

  “To celebrate capitalism?”

  “That’s funny, but it’s not true,” I said. “What’s really going on?”

  “I have something I need to tell you,” Jeremy said.

  “And you couldn’t have told me in Seattle?”

  “I didn’t want anybody to hear,” he said.

  “Oh, nobody is going to hear anything up here,” I said.

  Jeremy stared out the window at Mount Si, a four-thousand-foot-tall rock left behind by one glacier or another. I usually don’t pay attention to such things, but I did that day. Along with my best friend, I stared at the mountain and wondered how old it was. That’s the thing: the world is old. Ancient. And humans are so temporary. But who wants to think about such things? Who wants to feel small?

  “I’m getting bored,” I said.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” he said. “So green and golden.”

  “Yeah, whatever, Robert Frost. Now tell me why we’re here.”

  He looked me in the eye. Stared at me for a long time. Regarded me.

  “What?” I said, and laughed, uncomfortable as hell.

  “I’m a fag,” he said.

  “What?” I said, and laughed.

  “I’m a fag,” he repeated.

  “That’s not funny,” I said, and laughed again.

  “It’s kind of funny.”

  “Okay, yeah, it’s a little funny, but it’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. I am a fag.”

  I looked into his eyes. I stared at him for a long time. I regarded him.

  “You’re telling the truth,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a fag.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What else am I supposed to say?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you would say more than ‘Wow.’”

  “Well, ‘Wow’ is all I got.”

  “Damn,” he said. “And I had this all planned out.”

  He’d been thinking about coming out to me, his unveiling, for months. At first, he’d thought about telling me while we were engaged in some overtly masculine activity, like shouting out “I’m gay!” while we were butchering a hog. O
r whispering, “I’m a really good shot—for a homosexual,” while we were duck hunting. Or saying, “After I’m done with Sally’s vagina, it’s penis and scrotum from now on,” as we were screwing twin sisters in their living room.

  “I’m not gay,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “I’m just saying it, so it’s out there, I’m not gay. Not at all.”

  “Jeez, come on, I’m not interested in you like that,” he said. “I’m gay, but I’m not blind.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, but I didn’t laugh. I was pissed. I felt betrayed. I’d been his best friend since we were five years old, and he’d never told me how he felt. He’d never told me who he was. He’d lied to me all those years. It made me wonder what else he had lied about. After all, don’t liars tell lies about everything? And sure, maybe he’d lied to protect himself from hatred and judgment. And, yes, maybe he lied because he was scared of my reaction. But a lie is a lie, right? And lying is contagious.

  “You’re a liar,” I said.

  “I know,” he said, and cried.

  “Ah, man,” I said, “don’t cry.”

  And then I realized how many times I’d said that to girls, to naked girls. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’d seen him cry before—we’d wept together at baseball games and funerals—but not in that particular context.

  “I’m getting sick to my stomach,” I said, which made him cry all that much harder. It felt like I was breaking up with him or something.

  Maybe I wasn’t being fair. But all you ever hear about are gay people’s feelings. What about the feelings of the gay people’s friends and family? Nobody talks about our rights. Maybe people are born gay, okay? I can deal with that, but maybe some people, like me, are born afraid of gay people. Maybe that fear is encoded in my DNA.

  “I’m not gay,” I said.

  “Stop saying that,” he said.

  But I couldn’t help it. I had to keep saying it. I was scared. I wondered if I was gay and didn’t know it. After all, I was best friends with a fag, and he’d seen me naked. I’d seen him naked so often I could have described him to a police sketch artist. It was crazy.

  “I can’t take this,” I said, and got out of the car. I walked over to a picnic bench and sat.

  Jeremy stayed in the car and stared through the windshield at me. He wanted my love, my sweet, predictable, platonic love, the same love I’d given to him for so many years. He’d chosen me as his confessor. I was supposed to be sacred for him. But I felt like God had put a shotgun against my head and pulled the trigger. I was suddenly Hamlet, and all the uses of the world were weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.

  Jeremy stared at me. He waited for me to take action. And yes, you can condemn me for my inaction and fear. But I was only sixteen years old. Nobody had taught me how to react in such a situation. I was young and terrified and I could not move. Jeremy waited for several long minutes. I sat still, so he gave me the finger and shouted, “Fuck off!” I gave him the finger and shouted, “Fuck off!” And then Jeremy drove away.

  I sat there for a few hours, bewildered. Yes, I was bewildered. When was the last time a white American male was truly bewildered or would admit to such a thing? We had taken the world from covered wagons to space shuttles in seventy-five years. After such accomplishment, how could we ever get lost in the wilderness again? How could we not invent a device to guide our souls through the darkness?

  I prayed to Our Father and I called my father. And one father remained silent and the other quickly came to get me.

  In that North Bend parking lot, in his staid sedan, my father trembled with anger. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked. He’d left a meeting with the lame-duck mayor to rescue me.

  “Jeremy drove me up.”

  “And where is Jeremy?”

  “We got in a fight. He left.”

  “You got into a fight?” my father asked. “What are you, a couple of girls?”

  “Jeremy is a fag,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Jeremy told me he’s a fag.”

  “Are you homosexual?” my father asked.

  I laughed.

  “This is not funny,” he said.

  “No, it’s just that word, homosexual; it’s a goofy word.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “What question?”

  “Are you homosexual?”

  I knew that my father still loved me, that he was still my defender. But I wondered how strong he would defend me if I were indeed gay.

  “Dad, I’m not a fag. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  We sat there in silence. A masculine silence. Thick and strong. Oh, I’m full of shit. We were terrified and clueless.

  “Okay, Dad, what happens next?”

  “I was hoping to tell you this at a better time, but I’m going to run for the State House.”

  “Oh, wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m happy you’re happy. I hated to make the decision without your input, but it had to be that way.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, I knew you would. And I hope you understand a few other things.”

  And so my father, who’d never been comfortable with my private school privilege, transferred me from Madison Park to Garfield High, a racially mixed public school in a racially mixed neighborhood.

  Let my father tell you why: “The Republican Party has, for decades, silently ignored the pernicious effects of racial segregation, while simultaneously resisting any public or private efforts at integration. That time has come to an end. I am a Republican, and I love my fellow Americans, regardless of race, color, or creed. But, of course, you’ve heard that before. Many Republicans have issued that same kind of lofty statement while living lives entirely separate from people of other races, other classes, and other religions. Many Republicans have lied to you. And many Democrats have told you those same lies. But I will not lie, in word or deed. I have just purchased a house in the historically black Central District neighborhood of Seattle, and my son will attend Garfield High School. I am moving because I believe in action. And I am issuing a challenge to my fellow Republicans and to all Democrats, as well: Put your money, and your house, where your mouth is.”

  And so my father, who won the state seat with 62 percent of the vote, moved me away from Jeremy, who also left Madison Park and was homeschooled by his mother. Over the next year or so, I must have called his house twenty times. But I always hung up when he or his parents answered. And he called my private line more than twenty times, but would stay on the line and silently wait for me to speak. And then it stopped. We became rumors to each other.

  Five hours after I punched Jeremy in the face, I sat alone in the living room of my childhood home in Seattle. Bernard, Spence, and Eddie were gone. I felt terrible. I prayed that I would be forgiven. No, I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I prayed that I would be fairly judged. So I called the fairest man I know—my father—and told him what I had done.

  The sun was rising when my father strode alone into the room and slapped me: once, twice, three times.

  “Shit,” he said, and stepped away.

  I wiped the blood from my mouth.

  “Shit,” my father said once more, stepped up close to me, and slapped me again.

  I was five inches taller, thirty years younger, and forty pounds heavier than my father and could have easily stopped him from hitting me. I could have hurt him. But I knew that I deserved his anger. A good son, I might have let him kill me. And, of course, I know that you doubt me. But I believe in justice. And I was a criminal who deserved punishment.

  “What did you do?” my father asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was drunk and stupid and—I don’t know what happened.”

  “This is going to ruin everything. You’ve ruined me with this, this thing, do you understand that?”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll confess t
o it. It’s all my fault. Nobody will blame you.”

  “Of course they’ll blame me. And they should blame me. I’m your father.”

  “You’re a great father.”

  “No, I’m not. I can’t be. What kind of father could raise a son who is capable of such a thing?”

  I wanted to rise up and tell my father the truth, that his son was a bloody, bawdy villain. A remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. But such sad and selfish talk is reserved for one’s own ears. So I insulted myself with a silence that insulted my father as well.

  “Don’t just sit there,” he said. “You can’t just sit there. You have to account for yourself.”

  My father had always believed in truth, and in the real and vast differences between good and evil. But he’d also taught me, as he had learned, that each man is as fragile and finite as any other.

  On the morning of September 11, 2001, my father prayed aloud for the victims. All day, the media worried that the body count might reach twenty or thirty thousand, so my father’s prayers were the most desperate of his life. But, surprisingly, my father also prayed for the nineteen men who’d attacked us. He didn’t pray for their forgiveness or redemption. No, he believed they were going to burn in a real hell. After all, what’s the point of a metaphorical hell? But my father was compassionate and Christian enough to know that those nineteen men, no matter how evil their actions and corrupt their souls, could have been saved.

  This is what my father taught me on that terrible day: “We are tested, all of us. We are constantly and consistently given the choice. Good or evil. Light or darkness. Love or hate. Some of those decisions are huge and tragic. Think of those nineteen men and you must curse them. But you must also curse their mothers and fathers. Curse their brothers and sisters. Curse their teachers and priests. Curse everybody who failed them. I pray for those nineteen men because I believe that some part of them, the original sliver of God that still resided in them, was calling out for guidance, for goodness and beauty. I pray for them because they chose evil and thus became evil, and I pray for them because nobody taught them how to choose goodness and become good.”