Punk Like Me

by JD Glass

  Samantha, I realized, I was in Samantha’s room and I still heard soft crying, and it was above my head somehow. No, it was a little off to my right and behind me. I stretched my neck in that direction, and against the wall, all curled up in a wicker chair, blue-denimed knees to her chest and arms wrapped around them, head buried, was Samantha. It

  • 235 •

  JD GLASS

  was Samantha crying, and somehow that hurt me more than anything.

  “Samantha?” I tried, but my voice was so faint I could hardly hear it myself. Uck. My mouth and throat felt like I’d been sucking on sand.

  I had a faint image of cool electric blue and peppermint. I could use that now, I thought wryly.

  I shifted onto my elbow and, reaching a hand out, placed it on Samantha’s arm. “Don’t cry, Samantha, please,” I asked her. “It’s okay.” My throat was still raw, and I could still taste blood in the back of my mouth, but at least I was now audible, and I knew that because Samantha raised her head to look at me. Of course, it could have been my hand on her arm, but I like to think that she could hear me.

  Samantha had wiped her face on her sleeve, but I could still tell she’d been crying because it made her eyes luminous. She unfolded herself and came over to kneel at the edge of the bed. She caught my hand up in hers and pressed it to her face. Her skin was so very soft and warm under my hand, and I was again struck with that feeling of familiarity, of home.

  Samantha kissed my palm, then just held my hand tightly between her own. “How are you feeling?” she asked me very softly, concern etched in every corner of her face as her eyes inspected mine.

  “Better,” I answered, “much, much better.” I sat up farther, my hand still held between Samantha’s, and I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the bed, patting the space on the right next to me in invitation. Samantha needed no further urging and came up on the bed, maneuvering cautiously, until her back leaned against the wall.

  She held her arms out for me, and I went into them willingly, trying to Þ nd a way to rest my bruised cheek on her shoulder without it hurting so much. I Þ nally found a spot, with my forehead against her neck, and brought my knees up a bit as Samantha created a warm wall against my back with her legs.

  Samantha brought both arms around me and rested both hands on my shoulder, which seemed to be the only place that didn’t hurt, and I laced my arms around her waist. She rested her head against the wall, while I felt her body rise and fall in time with her breath. I rested comfortably like that for a while, then Samantha kissed the top of my head. “You don’t have to go back there.”

  • 236 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  I took a deep breath, considering. “Yes, I do,” I said resignedly. “I really, truly do.” I let the breath out.

  “Why, Nina? Why in the world would you have to, would you want to?” Samantha’s voice was confused, exasperated, and I disentangled myself from our embrace and moved over a bit so I could speak with her directly, face-to-face.

  Samantha was all concentration and focus as she looked back at me.

  “I can’t let them win,” I told her simply, “I just can’t. Besides, they’ll have me sent to jail.”

  “What?” she asked incredulously. “What do you mean?” I took a deep breath, mentally girded myself to relive the late-night events, and launched into a semiedited version of the story. I left out as much of the physical stuff as possible, and my father’s speech as well, although Samantha did ask me to explain what had happened to my face speciÞ cally, and my back and ribs. She had helped me to change, after all, and had seen some nasty-looking contusions along my torso.

  I also left out the insights I’d had about the mountains—they just didn’t seem appropriate, somehow. “And so, if I can do that, I’ll earn their respect. That’s what I have left,” I Þ nished, “theirs, grudgingly, and my own, intact.”

  Samantha was absolutely livid. Her face was stark white with rage, and instead of the tight, thin line I was getting used to her mouth becoming in anger, she was practically snarling. Her eyes snapped with crystal Þ re, so light they were almost colorless, and she’d clutched the edge of the bed with such strength that the tendons in her hand stood out in sharp relief.

  “You, after all that,” she paused, “have to earn their respect? Your whole life on the line, you keep your integrity intact, and you have to earn their respect? Their respect,” and she said the word with contempt,

  “should mean nothing. They don’t deserve you, not your love, not your respect, not your care or your time, Nina.

  “They’re going to make your life hell for nothing, Nina, and it’s going to be almost impossible for you to make it. Stay here with me. I’ll talk with my uncle. It won’t be a problem.”

  • 237 •

  JD GLASS

  I shook my head no. “Legally, they’re responsible for me, and if they can make up shit to have me jailed, what do you think they’ll say about you? Or your uncle? They can say he’s harboring a criminal, a minor. They can accuse him of kidnapping…” It was starting to hit me. They really could do that—just call the cops, say I’d stolen something, or, holy shit, I’d forgotten—what if my father hadn’t lied? He was a manipulator, true, but he wasn’t really a liar, except when he wanted me to be one, apparently.

  What if Kerry had really said that? Oh my God, if I wanted to leave, I would really have to be homeless, a street person, so no one could Þ nd me, and how long could I live like that? Even if I sold everything I had, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d have to run and keep running, because I’d be thrown in jail for one thing or another. And God forbid I broke the law; then I’d be everything they’d said I was. My blood ran cold, so cold I started to shake.

  “Nina, what is it? You’ve gone absolutely white. What’s going on? Should I call the doctor?” Samantha lunged forward and caught my shoulders, and I was shaking so hard, I could only stare at her in utter horror. Because I couldn’t lie, because it was wrong to do that, I was going to jail, or I was going to die, or both.

  “No, no doctor, that’s not it,” I Þ nally managed. “It’s just, they can really do this. They can really, truly, do this.” My voice strangled.

  Samantha stroked my hair to calm me down, and I admit, it helped, a lot. I felt my heart return to a somewhat normal pace, and warmth ß owed from her Þ ngertips down my head.

  “Do what, Nina? What can they do, huh?” She gathered me into her embrace again, and I held on to her as if she were the only thing between me and the void. In some ways, she was. Cuddled up again, and safe for a little while, I told Samantha the whole thing this time, including my father’s accusation that had supposedly come from Kerry, and his threats and visions for my future in juvenile hall.

  I felt Samantha stiffen in anger next to me, and her breathing, though forceful, was very even and controlled. She held me tighter, almost crushing me. “Sam,” I protested, “that hurts.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” she apologized immediately, and loosed her hold a bit. “Better?”

  “Much, thanks,” I answered and sighed. I was all out of words, all out of feelings, and it seemed like I was out of options, as well.

  • 238 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  Why had I told the truth, anyway? Was it really such a big deal? I had a whole world of possibilities open to explore and, since I wasn’t locked into being an ofÞ cer in the army or the navy anymore, everything to look forward to.

  All I had to do was agree about one little thing, such a minor aspect of an entire personality. But it wasn’t such a little thing, was it? I mean, look at what had happened. Sure, I’d been physically disciplined before, but never like this. Ironically enough, I’d been disciplined severely as a child for once telling some sort of stupid little lie that children tell, because I had wanted to please my parents, and this time, it had been for honesty, for a truth that didn’t please them.

  And I couldn’t understand it, either. Up until a few months ago,
the beginning of summer actually, my parents had both always been tolerant. They’d never said anything about gay people, except that everyone was different, amen. Until my dad had changed, I mean. What was up with that, anyway?

  What if I just went back to them, told them I’d been temporarily confused? They’d love me, they’d care for me, my parents, I mean, if I just went along. But I couldn’t. I’d know the truth, and I’d never really trust them again, if they were happy to live with a lie. And I couldn’t live with them knowing that they loved me under false pretenses, that they really, deep at the heart of it, thought I was ß awed, less than human.

  Funny, I didn’t feel ß awed. I didn’t think anything was really wrong with me—not before, and not now. Maybe a little stupid sometimes, but not ß awed.

  No. It became crystal clear to my mind. They were wrong, because if they weren’t, then everything they’d told me and taught me before was a lie. No, it dawned on me, they were hypocrites, which was even worse, because it meant they pretended to live up to ideals and principles, just mouthed them, didn’t really mean them or practice them.

  But I did, and that’s why they were so mad, because I showed them their values were false, and mine were the genuine article, the real deal. I was—what was I? I was authentic! That’s it! Authentic! But the knowledge was a cold and lonely thing, knowing what the future held, and I shared those thoughts with Samantha.

  “I’ve always known that,” she said, with a slight smile that came through in her voice, and she kissed the top of my head. “That’s the

  • 239 •

  JD GLASS

  very thing that I, um,” she faltered, “admire about you.” My heart smiled at that. I’d heard what she said and what she meant.

  “I don’t see why we can’t work something out, why you can’t stay here,” Samantha said softly, still gently stroking my hair. “There has to be some way to make it work, legally, I mean.” I pulled back a bit to look her in the eye, directly. “Samantha, legally I’m chattel, possessions, goods, and as long as they don’t kill me or do anything outrageous, like permanently maim me, they can do whatever the hell they want,” I told her. “They’d have to voluntarily give up their rights to me, and that’s not going to happen.” My mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “That,” I said, “would make them look bad.

  They want to punish me, break me, not look bad to the neighbors.” I thought of “Aunt Kathy” bitterly.

  “Believe me when I tell you,” Samantha said fervently, “they look pretty bad already.”

  I smiled, carefully because my mouth hurt, but still a smile, grateful for the support. But I sobered quickly enough. It would have been lovely, perfect even, if I could just quit worrying about my parents and stay with Samantha. That was even more tempting, but I knew it couldn’t happen. I had to live the life handed to me, just as Samantha had to live hers, and I knew I had to face this on my own, to know for myself whether or not I could be broken. I was scared and angry, but I was determined, too, to overcome, in my own way.

  I’d just have to be the “family’s” living reminder of what honor and integrity really are, set an example for Nicky and Nanny so that one day, when they needed to stand up for something, they’d know how.

  “You know, Sam,” I said thoughtfully, “I’m really going to just have to suck it up and tough it out until I can leave. They hold all the cards. The only thing they don’t control is my mind.” Samantha was not at all happy with my decision and was vehement in her responses. “God, Nina, they could have killed you!” she practically yelled, pacing the conÞ nes of the room. “There has to be another way!” She ran her hands through her hair and just stared at me, considering. “I don’t suppose you’re going to decide to just go with it, with them, and just suck it up that way?” She watched me carefully, obviously waiting for a response.

  I rubbed my face, then dropped my hands into my lap. I just looked down to collect my thoughts, then back at Samantha. “Who am I?”

  • 240 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  “What do you mean?” Samantha said, her expression puzzled. My question had thrown her off.

  “I mean,” I said slowly, “who am I? Am I Nina? Razor? Kerry calls me,” and I smiled at myself in self-derision, “Hopey. Am I a student? An athlete? A musician? A faggot? Stupid? Crazy? Smart? You see, there’s a lot of names and words out there, and I’ve got this stupid idea that maybe one word just isn’t enough, that there’s this me that exists, an identity sort of, that doesn’t have a name. It’s just, well, me,” I started earnestly. Oh, this was coming out all wrong, but Samantha just nodded at me to continue.

  “I’m not saying that I believe or not in a soul or something like that,” I said. “It’s just that before I had a name given to me, by my parents, school, friends, the world,” and I smiled a bit, because I knew most of the names the world held for me weren’t complimentary, “there was, there is, this me, this self, and that self wants to be, just be, and if I deny it, then, somehow, it’s like I’m being unfaithful to it or disloyal, or, or…” I searched for the words to describe how I felt, what I meant, and I hardly knew truly what I was saying, just that I really meant it.

  “Samantha, if I have to lie about something fundamental about myself, to the people who are most important to me, then it’s like I’m killing something, something important. It’s like I’ll never be real again.

  It would be the same if I had to pretend I didn’t care about music, or my family, or…” and I paused, stunned by the enormity of the realization,

  “or you,” I Þ nished softly.

  And that’s what denying meant, I realized. It meant that I could never really feel, never really love, never know if I was loved or if all the words of love, affection, and loyalty were true or not, because I’d always know that mine were false because I wasn’t giving of myself totally. I couldn’t in return expect or even hope for that same totality, and it meant I’d have no true connections, because mine weren’t complete—at least not with those I wanted to be connected. Who cares about strangers, right? Right.

  Samantha’s expression during my little speech was one of interest, until I reached the last part. Her eyes opened wide and she hugged me again. “I wouldn’t want you to not feel that,” she said softly, “and I really don’t want you to lie either.”

  I returned the hug and simply rested my head on her shoulder.

  Hey, I was taller than I thought! My eyes were level with her ear, well, sort of.

  • 241 •

  JD GLASS

  For the rest of the afternoon until Samantha took me home (she lent me a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt; it was weird hanging out in my underwear and her T-shirt, and I wasn’t going to sleep any more), we talked, cuddled, and talked some more, going over solutions, avenues of probability, that sort of thing.

  At one point I did ask her, “Does your uncle know? Did your dad?

  About, you know,” I hesitated, this was still new territory, “you, and all that?”

  By this time, we were sitting on the ß oor, backs up against the bed, just chilling (and I know, I know, me and ß oors, what can I say?

  It’s just a thing with me and my friends, I guess. Maybe I’m just trying to be “grounded”), talking, whatever, and Samantha laughed at my question.

  “Actually, yeah,” she said with a smile. “My dad told me, before I was going to tell him, that he didn’t care who I brought home when I decided when and who I was ready to date, just so long as he or she,” and she stressed the words, “was a decent person.”

  “Really?” I asked dryly, and Samantha grinned a bit more.

  “Actually, he said, ‘that there Fran, she likes you now, right?’ and I just stared at him in shock because I wasn’t even sure.” Samantha chuckled.

  “So? What did you do?” This was interesting. I mean, I’d never really heard of anyone having a cool parent or parents before, at least when it comes to this sort of thing, ya know?

  “I,
um, I mumbled something about not being sure of that, and my dad just laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, and said some things were universal and don’t worry about it, actually.” She grinned up at me.

  “That’s a cool thing, truly.” I had met her late father at a few of our meets. He had been a kindly sort of man, very salt-of-the-earth type, and I could just hear him saying that. “And what about your uncle?” Samantha blushed. “Um, he asked me if my father and I had had the talk, you know?” she looked at me, cheeks glowing, “and I said, uh, yeah, but it probably wasn’t what he thought it was. So he said he Þ gured my father would have covered it, and he was pretty sure that he could handle anything I had to ask, because he Þ gured I wouldn’t really need to worry about the, um, birth control thing.” Samantha ß ushed a deeper shade of red. “And that he didn’t know if he could give me any

  • 242 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  truly helpful advice, because I probably knew more about women than he did, but at least he might be able to help me out in tricky situations, because he liked to think that because he was a little older, he might be a little wiser, that sort of thing.”

  I laughed, because it was funny, and because it was probably true, and after a moment or two, Samantha laughed with me. My face didn’t hurt so much anymore, and I was starting to experience freedom of movement again. I stretched experimentally, to get some of the kinks and the soreness out.

  The sun was going down. It was deÞ nitely time to go home and comply with the new world order. I wasn’t 100 percent sure of what my next moves would be, but I knew one thing for sure: I was at least going to graduate from my high school and not any other, no matter what I had to do, as long as I didn’t compromise my own ethics.