The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart

by R. Zamora Linmark

  “Where did they go?” Tanya asks.

  “They went to the Continent,” Mr. Oku replies. “Most of them to Paris, where homosexuality was more tolerated.”

  “They were afraid they were going to be arrested next, that’s why,” Matt remarks.

  “It was a witch hunt,” CaZZ says, “and they were using Oscar Wilde as their poster boy.”

  “And ‘witch hunt’ best describes the atmosphere,” Mr. Oku says.

  “That’s why they tried him again, remember?” CaZZ says.

  “But can they do that?” Tanya asks. “Can they try him even if the trial ended in a hung jury?”

  “They were out to crucify Oscar,” CaZZ remarks.

  “And use him as a warning to all the homosexuals in England,” Estelle says.

  “ ‘The world mocks it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it,’ ” Matt says, quoting one of Oscar Wilde’s immortal lines uttered during the trials.

  “Perfectly put,” Mr. Oku says.

  “And the prosecutors, egged on by the public, didn’t stop until they sent Oscar to prison,” CaZZ says.

  “What a bunch of homophobes!” Tanya says.

  “That’s Queen Victoria’s England for you,” Estelle says.

  “What about the lesbians?” Tanya asks. “Did they get arrested too?”

  “They didn’t exist back then,” CaZZ says.

  “Seriously?” Tanya asks.

  “CaZZ is right,” Mr. Oku says. “People in Victorian England didn’t have the labels that we have today.”

  “You mean there weren’t queers and queens and dykes and fags?” Tanya asks.

  Mr. Oku smiles. “I’m sure they were around, Tanya,” he says. “But these categories—‘homosexuals,’ ‘gays,’ ‘lesbians,’ ‘queers’—did not emerge until the twentieth century.”

  “Ever heard the joke about the alternative version of Eden?” CaZZ asks.

  Tanya shakes her head.

  “Paradise began with Adam and Steve,” CaZZ replies.

  “And in the lesbian version, it began with Madam and Eve,” Estelle says.

  “That’s a good one, Estelle,” Matt says, laughing.

  “During Oscar’s time, one was arrested for immoral conduct, not because of sexual orientation,” Mr. Oku says.

  “So hate the sin but not the sinner?” Tanya asks.

  “Unless you’re gay,” CaZZ blurts.

  “Of course,” Estelle seconds.

  Mr. Oku seems to agree with them, because he’s nodding. “And with the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, it made it easier to convict anyone of gross indecency.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Tanya says. “It sounds kind of gross!”

  “Ask Ken Z.” CaZZ’s mention of my name makes me look up.

  Tanya turns to me, but Matt ends up spelling it out for her. “Sex between men.”

  “What’s so gross about that?” Tanya asks.

  “Well, during Oscar’s time, it was,” Matt says, “and you went to prison for it.”

  “Victorians were fixated on immorality,” Mr. Oku says.

  “Welcome to Victoria’s Secrets,” Estelle says.

  “Sounds like Church of New Hope,” CaZZ says, referring to Matt’s church.

  “You know, I never understood why it’s called that,” Tanya says. “What happened to the old hope, Matt?”

  “It died,” I reply.

  Everyone turns to me.

  “Ken Z,” Mr. Oku says. “I didn’t expect that remark to come from you.”

  I apologize to Matt.

  “No problem, Ken Z,” Matt says.

  “Where were we?” Mr. Oku says.

  I look at my notes. “The Criminal Act of 1885.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “That law made it easier to convict anyone of gross indecency because hard evidence was no longer required. You could send someone to prison so long as you had a reliable witness or two. That’s how they were able to convict Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray was even used as evidence.”

  “But it’s a work of fiction,” Tanya argues.

  “It’s got immorality written all over it,” Matt says. “It’s got drugs, suicide, violence, murder—”

  “Underground gays,” Estelle cuts in.

  “But it’s fiction,” Tanya insists.

  “Not to those prudes and hypocrites,” CaZZ says. “In their eyes, if Oscar Wilde could imagine these vices, then he was also capable of committing them.”

  “What I don’t get is why Oscar didn’t just move to Paris,” Tanya says. “Why didn’t he just get on the boat, along with those five hundred men? I’m sure they could’ve hidden him.”

  “It was already too late,” Matt says.

  “Actually, Matt, it wasn’t,” Mr. Oku says. “He still had time.”

  “So why didn’t he?” Tanya asks.

  “He didn’t go because of his mother,” I blurt out.

  “Really?” Tanya says, incredulously.

  Mr. Oku nods. “His mother told him that if he fled, he would stop being her son.”

  “So she’d rather send her own son to prison?” Tanya says. “That’s messed up.”

  “It wasn’t that simple,” Mr. Oku says. “You have to take into consideration that Oscar was Irish. And given the long history of fighting between Ireland and England, it would’ve been a sign of cowardice if Oscar, an Irishman, fled.”

  Tanya is shaking her head.

  Matt raises his hand.

  “Yes, Matt,” Mr. Oku says.

  “What I don’t get is why someone like Oscar would even waste his time on an asshole like Bosie,” Matt says. “I mean, he was so brilliant.”

  “Apparently not,” I quip.

  “What do you mean?” Tanya says.

  “He was self-destructive,” I reply.

  CaZZ darts me a look. I’m about to retreat back to my silent world when Mr. Oku asks me to expound.

  “From what I’ve read, Oscar didn’t have to sue Bosie’s father,” I say.

  “Maybe Oscar had no choice,” Tanya breaks in. “You guys ever thought of that?” She sounds very smug, as if she’s the only one capable of producing such a thought. “I mean, wasn’t Bosie’s father a certified nutcase? Didn’t he try several times to publicly humiliate Oscar? Maybe by Oscar taking him to court, it would put an end to the harassment. And bullying.”

  “That’s what Oscar and Bosie had hoped,” Matt says.

  “But it didn’t,” I argue.

  “Maybe he was better off just turning the other cheek,” Matt says.

  “I don’t think Oscar had a choice,” Estelle says. “Sooner or later, they would’ve gone after him. There was a witch hunt, remember?”

  “Good point, Estelle,” Mr. Oku says.

  The room is clearly divided: those who think Oscar shouldn’t have sued Bosie’s father (Matt and me) versus those who argue that Oscar did the right thing (CaZZ and Estelle). Tanya is undecided.

  “Oscar had too much pride,” Matt remarks. “I mean, I love Oscar. He’s brilliant and all, and I love his stories and plays, but he was too egotistic, too arrogant.”

  “That’s the problem,” I say. “Oscar couldn’t accept the fact that someone had dared to humiliate him in public.”

  “But wouldn’t you do the same, Ken Z?” Tanya asks. “If you were in Oscar’s shoes, wouldn’t you fight back?”

  “Probably not,” CaZZ remarks.

  “Well, I know I would,” Tanya says.

  “Oscar didn’t tolerate bullies, especially bullies like Bosie’s father,” CaZZ says, her voice rising.

  “Bosie bullied Oscar, too,” I say. “And Oscar let him treat him like shit.”

  “Oscar was such a masochist!” Tanya remarks. “Just
like the birds in his fairy tales.”

  “Bosie and Oscar didn’t have a healthy relationship,” I continue. “They were constantly fighting.”

  “Oscar was only looking out for Bosie,” CaZZ retorts. “He was afraid that if he cut his ties with Bosie, no one else would protect him from his monstrous father.”

  “But Bosie was a monster himself,” I say.

  “Why didn’t Oscar just end it?” Tanya asks.

  “Because he was weak,” I say. “He kept forgiving Bosie and taking him back.”

  “Because Oscar was very forgiving,” CaZZ argues. “He was that kind of a person, Ken Z. He never wished any ill feelings on anyone, including Bosie, who had hurt him so much.”

  “Oscar was obsessed,” I say.

  “He was in love,” CaZZ retorts.

  “Yes, he sure was,” I say, sarcastically.

  “And what do you know about love, Ken Z?” CaZZ says.

  “Probably more than you,” I want to tell her instead of: “He was in love with fatality, with self-destruction—”

  “You’re too into yourself to know what love is,” CaZZ cuts in, drowning my words. “You’re too cooped up in your sad-ass world of lists and haikus.”

  “CaZZ!” Estelle and Mr. Oku shout at the same time.

  CaZZ backs off.

  “I can totally relate to Oscar,” Tanya cuts in, “because that’s exactly how I get when I’m obsessed. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. My world is only alive because of him. Every day is like Nightmare on Tanya Street, except I don’t see it as a nightmare because I’m too into the guy, or even if I do and know it’s not a good thing, I don’t do anything about it because I can’t because I’m hopeless, helpless, a pathetic piece of shit. So, unless you’ve been obsessed with someone, Ken Z, you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be in Oscar’s shoes.”

  “Amen, Tanya!” CaZZ says.

  Tanya’s words sting. I don’t think she intentionally meant to hurt me. But she’s just summed up my life from spring break to the present.

  I want to scream for help.

  I want to reboot my life.

  I want this pathetic part of ME to die.

  But instead of shutting up, I blurt out, “Oscar deserved what he got. He saw it coming and he let it happen.”

  “God, Ken Z!” Estelle exclaims.

  “My, Ken Z, aren’t you full of words today,” CaZZ says.

  Estelle motions at me to shut up.

  “Don’t, Estelle,” CaZZ says. “He’s finally letting his true self come out!”

  “CaZZ!” Mr. Oku says.

  But CaZZ is relentless. “He’s been wearing a mask all this time and he’s finally tired of pretending.”

  “That’s enough, CaZZ!” Mr. Oku says.

  “CaZZ,” Estelle says, trying to appease her. Then, with pleading eyes, she turns to me. “Ken Z, what’s happening to you? You’re acting like you hate Oscar.”

  “Hate?” I say.

  “Yes. Hate. You have so much hate in you. And bitterness. And anger.”

  Tanya jumps in and corners me with: “Yeah, Ken Z. Where’s all this hate coming from? I thought you loved Oscar.”

  I feel like I’m being ganged up on. “I’m not the one on trial here,” I say.

  “Who says you are?” Estelle says. “We’re just asking a question.”

  “It’s not hate,” I say, as calmly as possible. “All I’m saying is that Oscar was as much to blame for his downfall as Bosie.”

  “And he did blame himself,” Estelle says.

  “Entirely,” CaZZ adds.

  “When the tables were turned, and Oscar had to defend himself from a government that wanted to punish him, only then did he realize that his trials were much bigger,” Mr. Oku says.

  “Bigger?” Tanya asks.

  “That it wasn’t just a trial about Oscar’s pride, or Bosie’s vengeance toward his father. In the end, it was a trial about love.”

  “Love?” I ask.

  “Yes, Ken Z, love,” Mr. Oku replies.

  “Love that dares not speak its name,” Matt interjects.

  Mr. Oku nods. “Love that’s rejected by the law. Love that’s constantly getting pushed and shoved around, spat at, bullied to unconsciousness. Love that’s viewed as polluted and filthy. Love that gets sentenced to prison with hard labor. Because it must be punished. It serves no purpose. It has no meaning. Oscar Wilde’s trial—” He stops to clear his throat, then continues. “Oscar Wilde’s trial is a trial about love in the time of hate.”

  The room falls silent. CaZZ and Tanya have lowered their heads, tears pelting their desks, while Estelle looks straight ahead at the chalkboard, her eyes also glazed with tears. Even Matt’s not afraid to show the world his feelings for Oscar: his eyes are wet too.

  Everyone mourning for the man who defended such love.

  Except me.

  Coldhearted me.

  Time to exit stage right.

  And head back to the comfort of my own prison.

  Shim Sham

  Friday, 12 April. Late afternoon.

  They’re pissed. Royally.

  They’ve been pounding on my door for the past ten minutes and have already started a heated argument with my next-door neighbor, a cranky old man whose disdain for the human species has reached an all-time high.

  From my room, I can hear him telling them, “It’s obvious he’s not home!”

  “Oh, he’s home,” CaZZ says, “he’s just playing deaf.”

  “Take the hint and scram,” my neighbor says.

  They ignore him; their pounding becoming louder and louder.

  “I’m calling the cops!” shouts the fat lady from the floor above mine who lives with ten thousand cats.

  “Be our guest!” CaZZ yells. “Better call them now so they can get here by tomorrow.”

  “Ken Z,” my next-door neighbor shouts, “if you don’t open the freakin’ door right now, I’m going to break it open myself, then break you in half!”

  I get up and open the door, ready to punch my neighbor’s lights out. Beside him, CaZZ and Estelle seethe with rage.

  The old man turns to them. “There he is,” he says. “Now you can kill him.” Exit the misanthrope.

  I don’t say anything. I can’t even look at them.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” CaZZ says, storming into the living room. She’s fuming, ready to punch me in the face. Estelle closes the door behind her.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I finally say. Wrong answer. It only aggravates them more.

  “Estelle, give him a mask so he can lie better,” CaZZ says.

  Estelle shakes her head at me. It’s her turn to explode. “You’ve been MIA in our lives for weeks,” she says. “I wouldn’t call that nothing. And when we do see you, you’re barely present. Then, this afternoon”—she’s so upset she can barely get the words out—“you went off on Oscar, saying he deserved all that shit that happened to him. Like, what the fuck was that all about, Ken Z?”

  I want to say that he did deserve it. But I know better than to fan their fire.

  “Ken Z, you’re drifting from us,” Estelle says. “Why?”

  “Did we do anything to push you away?” CaZZ asks. The gentleness in her tone catches me off guard. It makes me look at the two of them. Big mistake. They look as lost and helpless and angry as I have been these past few weeks.

  “Talk to us, Ken Z,” Estelle pleads.

  I avert my gaze. The heavy sinking feeling is back. I can feel my legs trembling, my heart beating in my throat. I open my mouth, but the words won’t come out, lodged in the center of my chest. Then, suddenly, I hear myself say, “I met someone.”

  CaZZ and Estelle exchange looks. Their suspicions are finally confirmed.

  “When?” CaZZ ask
s.

  “During spring break?” Estelle guesses.

  I nod. “I’m so stupid,” I say. “I actually fell for it.”

  “Dude,” Estelle says.

  “I actually believed it was real,” I continue. “Stupid love. Stupid me.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Ken Z,” CaZZ says. “We’re all suckers for it.”

  “Yeah, Ken Z,” Estelle says.

  “Everyone falls, Ken Z,” CaZZ says. “Everyone hurts. That’s the sucky part about love.”

  “I really fell for it,” I say. “It was so real, that he was sincere—”

  “He?” CaZZ cuts in. Estelle hushes her.

  I stop. I want to take back my disclosure but it’s too late. No backing out now. That’s the minus about confessing. Once you open up, all the locked-up words come rushing out like a stampede of wild horses.

  “I didn’t know myself,” I say. “I swear to you guys, I didn’t know. Everything happened so fast that I…”

  “It’s okay, Ken Z,” Estelle says.

  “Was I in denial all this time?” I ask.

  Estelle shakes her head. “No, you weren’t. Besides, who cares? It’s just a label and you don’t need it unless you’re certain of what you really want and who you truly are. Right, CaZZ?”

  “Hundred percent,” CaZZ replies.

  A moment of silence before the barrage of questions.

  “Do we know him?” Estelle asks.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Where’d you meet him?” CaZZ jumps in.

  “Mirage,” I say.

  Estelle and CaZZ look at each other and simultaneously exclaim, “Mirage?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  They exchange hmmm glances. I can read the smiles on their faces.

  “More,” Estelle says. “We want more.”

  “Yeah, Ken Z,” CaZZ cuts in. “What’s his name?”

  “Ran.”

  “Ran?”

  “As in ‘ransom’?” Estelle asks.

  “More like ‘ran away,’ ” I say.

  CaZZ stifles a laugh. “How old?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Face pic?”