writing on fragile stationery...

There was once an English journal we were supposed to write on when I was in secondary school. We were to relate our everyday experiences at school at home with emphasis on good grammar and creative writing. It was part of our English class requirement at the end of every quarter. Most students would neglect the everyday jottings and would cram near the end of each quarter. Like a wretched daily homework, many among my peers struggled with it notwithstanding the mountains of homework they probably had to contend with on a daily basis. For me though, English class was hardly a task, never a bore...I had a natural aptitude for it. This innate love for the subject trickled down to a general liking towards almost every single English teacher I've ever had....


Anyway back to the diary, I wrote all sort of things in it. The fun of playing with friends, chasing around, concealing the names of crushes written on paper and the results of FLAMES: a game of matching the letters of your name with the letters of your crush's name to determine your compatibility. It was an awkward stage for many young people both socially and physically what with the onset of puberty, adolescence and such but for me I never really felt any lack of comfort except when the intent to make me feel uncomfortable was there. I felt angry and anxious whenever somebody was punching or harassing or verbally abusing me and I got this a lot when I was young. Well that's part of another story. But otherwise if not for the physical skirmishes with bullies, I felt relatively at ease being a young gay person. I played games when I was brimming with energy, ate like there was no tomorrow, wanked like a regular freshman when I felt the urge. If i felt i had the energy I would try cum three times. I had lots of vigor when I was young so it seemed to me that because the world was so big, there were lots of possibilities for me. 


These things I wrote all in my journal except probably for the part about bragging about how my development was not that awkward. I probably feared that i might come across my teacher as an arrogant young person with an inflated sense of self-importance. And I also did not write about the wanking part. She might feel I was transforming my homework into my little black book. She might think I was a promiscuous fledgling who jumped at any chance at exercising letchery in all forms - an uncouth individual who was out of place with lewd thoughts in an uber conservative academy for fresh minds And somehow all of us young students feel the omnipotence of school authorities. Wrong words could fall on wary ears and getting kicked out of school was not an option and we sort of lived in fear of consequence of any unruly action or misdeed.       

             

But anyway one content I did not hesitate to write on my journal were my crushes. The boys I had my eyes on -the lucky or unlucky objects of my unreciprocated affection - the content of my daydreams and lovely nightmares, the cause of my restlessness on some days, deviations of my academic concentration on others. My grades took a slight dip whenever I was major major onto someone. My parents were clueless...

Friends at school had no idea about my half-assed insane obsessions but they probably all knew who I was onto. Along with all these and all the deep emotional impulses from the stolen glances and seemingly reciprocated efforts from my crushes..everything was recorded in my journal. My friends often teased me at how I always chose the UNCONVENTIONALLY attractive boys but they never probably knew I liked cute guys too except that I was not that open to admitting I likeD the obvious. I'm sure people who know my personality know this about me. I'm always keen to be subtle and this was a trait I manifested even at a tender age. 

I would believe my teacher half-enjoyed the writing on my journal. She probably also felt the soft tickle of youthful restlessness and sweet innocent crushings from reading me. My English was probably less than polished than now but the thoughts were clear and the intent of letting the world know palpable..  

Like every good streak, there has to be a proponent of opposition, even destruction of anything beautiful happening in one's life. My mother first xame across my journal and probably read it from root to tip. She was probably enraged that her little young "daughter" was head over heels and more over many among her peers and of the same sex too. This was the calm before the storm though, the real volcanic rage came when she shared it with my daddy. My daddy was a Babel tower of anger, fury and all the innards of belligerence known to mankind. He punished me verbally and physically without cessation for days.

I think he may have threatened to burn or ACTUALLY did burn my journal...an event of which I have had no memory of. He chastised and lectured me on the dangers and the punitive possibilities of being a young gay person in a quite exclusive academy and punished me further physically after each and every verbal abuse. It was really a bit traumatic for me, mind you. A deep gash of wound in a body full of injuries... like foot-binding to my senses, he was restricting many facets of me from taking flight. Like placing a rubber stopper on my own development he prevented me from expressing attraction towards other people. I've since turned UP the subtlety dial on my own emotions. Whenever I feel attraction for someone I would tend to clam up about it and try to act otherwise...

I still feel the trauma of the rage over the journal incident until now which is probably why these days the resentment and lack of forgetfulness will always be catalysts for my constant rejection of their attempts at asking for favors, indulgences even sometimes necessities. I FEEL that  i can PROBABLY forgive them but forgetting and moving on is still not a possibility.

Now that I feel that I am a major contributor to how things are run here at home, i feel that I can flaunt the men, the boys who so desire me in front of their faces now. The position is reverse now and I am exercising total freedom. Acceptance was probably hard for them, and I hate bludgeoning people to submission but if it was how they felt, then so be it. Beggars can't be choosers. 

Like a vengeful phoenix which is learning to fly for the first time, I feel like I am exercising my own version of fury like a ray its tail of sting. I know my life remains a deep chasm filled with trauma and issues, i cannot deny that. But i think there is justification for the injustices I am causing to other people now. I am wicked but I feel that somebody's situation has to be sort of a symbol, a breathing example for other people 

That for every action there is a reaction. Life's yardstick will always manifest that for every injustice committed there is justice somehow, somewhere, somewhat...