The Queer

I don't remember signing any sort of social contract that required me to take part in elementary school. It must have been slipped in on the first day of class, during handwriting practice. They gave us a series of documents so complex that they may as well been Latin to our toddler minds. I imagine it must have begun as all legally-binding documents would:

Article I

01. Structure.

From September 14, 1990 to June 6, 1997, one (1) child (hereafter referred to as "Michael") enters into a social contract to be deprived from all ( ) possibilities of friendship (hereafter referred to as "enrollment at Chestnut Hill Elementary School"). During Michael's tenure at Chestnut Hill Elementary school, Michael accepts the responsibility for:

1. a. Behaving like a loud-mouthed brat who thought he (Michael) owned the world. To these ends, Michael will:

   1. b. Never shut his mouth.

   2. c. Blindly dismiss his peers with or without provocation.

   3. d. Have a mean, hypocritical attitude towards those on his rung of the social ladder (hereafter referred to as "the bottom").

2. e. Allowing himself to be treated as a running joke in all social relationships he (Michael) fostered with those under the age of twelve (12). To these ends, Michael will:

   1. f. Constantly be ambivalent about whether he is being ridiculed.

   2. g. Be unable to come up with an equally snappy reply, even by grade school standards.

   3. h. Cry either way.

3. i. Refusing to participate in all non-required (see Article III.02.) physical activities including but not limited to: baseball, soccer, football, basketball, hockey, skating, tennis, badminton, squash, horse polo, water polo, swimming, diving, cricket, tag, freeze tag, four square, and "heads up, 7-up" (see fig 1.1).

4. j. Receiving merely "Satisfactory" or "Not Satisfactory" in his (Michael's) citizenship grade (hereafter referred to as "worthless bullshit").

There I sat in my ridiculously tiny chair, a kindergartener, my childhood signed away (and I hope I didn't waste my black crayon on something like that). Of all the bad luck, I got to play pariah for almost seven years.

* * *

Because of "problems" (I never quite figured out what was wrong with me, or what my teachers and peers thought was wrong with me, but everyone assured me it was something), I was sent to the school counselor during the lunch and recess hour every Friday. The counselor was an incredibly patient and smiley woman named Mrs. Boyse. Her name was either pronounced like the capital of Idaho or wasn't. I really should know considering how many recesses I would while away in her office, captivated by her poster of squiggly, peanut-shaped faces paired with various emotions. I was also in love with having a real grown up to listen to me and give me fun activities to do that all related to my favorite subject: me. She would ask how I was feeling that day, and I would point to the chart cheerfully and say, "Oh, today I suppose I'm a little 'smug.' And yourself?" This may have lead to talking about why I felt that way, but my mind was on the huge stock of Legos she had in her office. God, she even had green ones! I didn't even know they made green ones! While I tried to find a way to use those creepy yellow blocks with the eyes painted on them, I would spout whatever sounded think-y enough to satiate her, often entirely removed from the questions she would ask. Her forehead would crease as she would ask, "What do you think the other kids feel that would make them be mean to you, Michael?" She tried desperately to put things into perspective for me.

"I suppose people really, uh, ought to be nicer to each other and stuff. They can be mean. So do you, uh, have any other posters?" I credit her with my later interest in public speaking; this is where I first learned to bullshit.

After a few months of hemming and hawing, Mrs. Boyse released me back into the wild, harsh playground, a hopeless case. It was...