“But yesterday harm was done.” A picture of my face appeared on the screen for the entire school to see. Oh damn! Oh crap! Oh sweet Jesus! Someone had apparently taken a picture of me on the floor of the bathroom before I was moved. That picture was replaced by an even worse one, one that showed me in the nurse’s office before I had regained consciousness. This picture showed me bleeding. Head injuries bleed a lot so I looked dreadful, but that was apparently the reaction Bill wanted.
He let the audience murmur for a moment before continuing. “You did this.” At first I thought he was talking to a specific person, the person who had slammed my head into the wall, but I couldn’t see a specific person who was the focus of his attention.
“Yes, that’s right.” He pointed at someone in the first row. “You did this.” He pointed at the screen when he said “this.” He jumped down off the stage again and walked up the right-hand-side aisle. He stopped midway up the aisle and pointed at some guy. “You did this.”
The guy he was pointing at was appalled. “No, I didn’t!” he shouted.
“Yes, you did. You weren’t in the room. You didn’t slam his head into the wall and nearly break his right shoulder. But you did this.” He walked on, pointed at several additional people around the room and kept repeating, “You did this,” over and over and over again. As quick as he started he finished and was back up on the stage.
“None of the people I just pointed at were in the room when this assault occurred. And yes, it was an assault. But every one of you did this just as if you were in the room and personally shoved his head into the wall. Every one of you!” he shouted. “You did this when you heard a joke about a fat person and didn’t object. You did this when someone called another person a fag and you didn’t object. You did this when you listened to a friend talk about ‘bitches and hos’ and you didn’t object. When you let hate happen without objecting, it’s just as if you did it yourself.”
Bill paced a few steps. “I’ve lived in this town all my life. I started school here. I’ve gone through all the grades with a lot of you. We’ve known each other for 80 percent of our lives. But yesterday you disgusted me. Yesterday you made me feel ashamed to be classmates with you.
“Yesterday some of you jumped a fellow student, called him a faggot, told him ‘his kind’ wasn’t welcome here, and seriously injured him.” Bill turned back to the screen and pointed at the picture of my bleeding face once again. I was nearly sick with the sight of it, and I had lived through it. I wanted to look around and see how others were reacting, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place.
“I thought I knew you guys. I thought we were friends. I thought you were better than this. But clearly I don’t know you as well as I thought. When you stand by and let something like this happen, it’s just wrong! When you take part in something like this, it’s just wrong! It’s not just criminal, it’s wrong! What the hell is wrong with you people?” he shouted. “Huh? What? When did you turn into hate driven animals? Huh? I’d like to know. I’d really like to know.”
Before anybody could react the picture on the screen changed. It was a picture of a woman. She looked familiar. She looked something like Bill so it must have been some relative of his. Then it hit me! It was his mom! She just looked different because she was younger and was smiling. She looked happy, she looked vibrant. She looked alive and loving life.
That picture disappeared and was immediately replaced with another picture. This picture was the same woman but… not. This time the woman, Bill’s mother, was a mess. Her left eye was black and blue and swollen. She had a major bruise on her right cheek. She had some cuts and bruises elsewhere. People were stunned by the image.
“That’s my mom,” Bill said. He showed the first picture again and then showed the other picture. “And that’s my mom.”
Another picture appeared, this one of Bill looking like the Bill I knew and loved. It was a casual picture from the yearbook which showed him smiling and laughing—happy. And then that picture was replaced with another one. People around the room gasped. One girl cried out. A lot of people murmured. He showed the before and then the after once again.
Those pictures were replaced with a picture of a happy-looking young woman. I didn’t recognize her. The happy photo was replaced with a photo of her beaten and bruised. Then that one disappeared to be replaced by a police photo that showed a white chalk outline of a body on a floor.
He put all seven pictures up on the screen at once.
“Hate kills, you dipshits! Hate kills! You participated in a hate crime yesterday, and again today when you didn’t report what happened. How many of you went to the principal and reported the incident? Seeing the incident? Hearing about the incident? Huh? None. That’s right. Zero. When no one came forward, you told me that you not only participated in the assault yesterday, but you’re still doing it today!
“I’d like to know when you all became so filled with hate? Huh? What did it? Did somebody beat the crap out of you and therefore you want to make somebody else hurt just as bad as you were hurt? Huh? I’ve been there in terms of being beaten.” He pointed at the screen. “And that’s just one time when it happened. I’ve lost count of how many times it happened over the years.”
Bill looked down for a moment and stood quietly. “I’ve known you folks all my life. Some of us are straight. Some of us are gay. Some of us are bisexual. And it doesn’t matter! We are what we are and what we’ve always been. Nobody wakes up some day and says, ‘Oh, I think I’ll be gay today!’ No. Doesn’t happen that way. People don’t just decide one day after checking everybody out that ‘Oh! I think I’ll be straight!’ Doesn’t work that way.” Shouting now, Bill continued, “Some people are gay. Some people are straight. Get over it!
“I’ve heard all the usual horseshit from guys. ‘Oh, some gay guy is gonna check out my ass in the shower!’ News flash for you guys. I’ve seen your asses, and trust me, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Well, maybe with one or two exceptions. But most of them are pimply and gross.” The audience chuckled. Damn, he was good. This man knew how to make his point and he knew how to capture the audience’s attention and hold onto it but not push it completely over the edge. I was so proud of him.
“How many times have gay guys jumped you in the shower and forced themselves on you? Huh? How many? None. Never happened. Doesn’t happen. Never gonna happen! Simple as that. And if a guy looks at your ass, take it as a compliment! If you’ve got enough sex appeal to be attractive to both men and women, then damn, you’re pretty hot! And you should feel proud—not pissed. Bask in it!
“If you are handsome or beautiful, people are going to look at you. If you walk down a hall, people are going to look at you. Fine. No problem. If people shove you against a wall and threaten your life, that’s not fine. No. Then you’ve crossed a major line. When you assault somebody and threaten somebody’s life and well-being, their safety, then you’ve crossed the line, and you’re no longer safe to be a member of society because we have to wonder, who are you going to lash out at next? Who’s gonna be the focus of your anger the next time? Are you going to be sexually frustrated at the end of a date and then rape a girl because she didn’t want to have sex with you? Are you going to rob a liquor store because they wouldn’t give you free booze?
“Hate is wrong, people! Hate kills! And I will not be associated with people who condone hate and in effect encourage and facilitate hate. When you do that, you’re no better than the person who did the actual physical assault.”
Bill jumped down from the stage again and walked to a random person.
“Do you know me?
“No.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?” he asked another.
“No.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
He walked to another person. “Do you know me?”
“Yep. All my life.” The guy was one of his buddies.
>
“Do you hate me?”
“Well, duh. Of course,” the guy joked.
“Oh, that’s just because I’m more handsome than you are.”
“But I’ve got a bigger dick,” the guy said. The people around him heard and laughed.
Bill laughed too. “I’ve never checked it out, so I’ll have to take your word on that one.”
Bill moved on and repeated he same question probably half a dozen times, each time getting “No” as an answer to the hate question, half the time getting “yes” to the question about knowing him.
He returned to the stage and strode to the very front and center. “Guys. There are a lot of us who are gay. There are a lot of us who are straight. There are a lot of us who are so pretty we stop traffic. If yesterday is an example of how you behave around gay guys, then we’ve got a problem. We’ve got a big problem and we’re gonna deal with it right here and right now!
“Okay. Next tough question. This one is for the guys. Do you all have balls enough to admit that you were involved in yesterday’s attack? Huh? Come on. You’re such big men that you are responsible for defending the virtue of the school and keeping us all safe from the homosexual menace. You were so worried about the mere rumor that possibly, maybe somebody in your class was gay that you had to hurt him.
“What did he ever do to you? Did he rub up against you in the hall and say, ‘Hey baby, want to come up to my place tonight and get down and nasty?’ I seriously doubt it. Did he walk up to you while you were at your locker and squeeze your ass and say, ‘Nice butt, big guy!’? No. Did he walk up to you at the bus stop, admire your pants, and say, ‘Hey, dude! Nice jeans! Can I get into ’em?’ No. I doubt that as well. So what did he do to you? Nothing! That’s what he did to you. Nothing.”
Nobody moved. “No guys with balls here, huh? About what I figured.” He turned away and then stopped, as if he suddenly remembered something important. “Oh. Do you know what I’ve discovered? I’ve discovered that those who complain the loudest, the most frequently, most vigorously, and most irrationally about gay guys? They’re simply covering for their own deep-seated fear of admitting that they are gay themselves.
“So, all you closet cases who feel the need to beat up somebody to cover your own homosexual urges, to cover up your own sexual attraction to men, we’re onto you. We know the score now. And you know what? The world will be a whole lot better when you simply finally admit to yourself that you’re attracted to guys and get on with life. Admit you’re gay, and you’ll be happier. I don’t care if you admit it to the world—you do what you need to do—but when you finally admit it to yourself we’ll all be a lot happier… and safer. That’s about all I have to say.
“I wasn’t there to see what happened yesterday, but I saw the aftermath… and I couldn’t stand by and become a part of a hate crime. I’m better than that. And I hope that you are too. Thanks. Oh, and a couple of you guys—you know who you are—there’s a nice policeman in the back who wants to talk with you. Thanks, guys. Have a good day and make me proud.”
Much to my surprise, the audience applauded, rather loudly, when Bill finished. Not everybody. No, not everybody, and not all equally vigorously, but the cumulative effect was rather overwhelming. There were a couple of whistles and a couple of cheers. Bill had done an exceptionally good job, and I was so proud of him.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when he walked down from the stage, came over to me, and grabbed me for a big hug, lifting me off the ground and just about hugging the stuffing out of me. I wanted to be mad, but in reality I was just so comforted by the assurance of his presence that was too happy to be mad. “Thank you,” I said, barely getting the words out.
“Love you,” he whispered as he set me back down.
“Ditto.”
Chapter 19
GETTING through the rest of that day after Bill’s kickass presentation was difficult because I was really distracted. I still hurt in several places, including my shoulder, and everybody wanted to talk with me and assure me that they didn’t realize and didn’t mean to contribute to my assault. For my part, I didn’t know how to handle all of their attention. Several times throughout the day Bill appeared at random times to check on me and ask how I was doing. Apparently he had been getting as many, if not more, people wanting to talk with him than I had been experiencing. That night we were going to have a lot to discuss.
Finally, finally, finally, the last period of the day was over and we were able to head home. Bill put me into his car and drove us home, even though it wasn’t an afternoon he would normally be going home with me. He had practice of some sort that afternoon, but he simply told me he wasn’t going and that I was more important. If it didn’t hurt so much, I probably would have smiled a huge smile. But it did hurt, so I didn’t do it.
It was so good to be home. We had a quiet remainder of the afternoon, got our homework done, and played some games—I still didn’t understand how Bill was so good at these games that he swore he’d never played before I introduced him to them, but he was. I held my own sometimes, but he kicked my butt sometimes too. I wasn’t used to that. But since it was him I could adapt.
We had just finished dinner when the phone rang. My father was closest to it so he grabbed it, even though my mother hated to have anyone answer the phone while we were eating or still at the table.
My dad got a very serious look on his face. “Yes, this is he.” He was listening to someone. “I don’t understand.” More listening. “I’m not following you. This doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.” More listening, and then call was apparently over. He sat and simply looked at the phone receiver for a minute.
“Honey?” my mom said. “What’s wrong? Who was that?”
“That was the president of the Board of Education.”
“Oh, did she hear Bill’s wonderful presentation this morning?”
“She wasn’t there, but she saw a video.”
“Someone recorded it?” she asked. “Good. He was brilliant. It was golden!”
“Wait a minute!” I said. “How do you know?”
“I was there. I sat in the back and listened to every word Bill said. He was brilliant. I was so proud of him!”
“She doesn’t seem to agree.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“That’s about what I said to her too. She said that the principal made a serious error in judgment by allowing a student to address the students on this subject. She objected to the message. She objected to the language. She objected to… well, just about everything.”
“I don’t believe this!” she said, outraged. “He was brilliant!”
“She’s placed the principal on administrative leave pending an inquiry into his decision.”
“What?”
“And she’s placing Bill on suspension.”
“For what?” she shouted.
“Sorry, Bill, but she says you’re barred from entering the school grounds for the next week until the Board of Education next meets, at which time they’ll consider whether or not to readmit you.”
Well so much for a good feeling from today! Son of a bitch! That didn’t last long!
“Like hell she will!” my mom shouted. “I will not stand for this! She’s stepped over the line this time, and she’s not gonna get away with it. We need to take this public and put her in the spotlight. She’s condoning hate and violence! That’s what she’s doing! We’re gonna call her out!”
My mom was up from the table and on the telephone in no time flat. My mom had been active in the community in a number of ways, working at the church, doing her rescue work, helping out whenever she saw a need she could handle. As a result, she had a very wide network of acquaintances that she could call out in a crisis. And this was a crisis. Oh, yes, this was a grade-A, first-class crisis.
I only caught some of what she was saying on the phone, but it was clear she was assembling a crowd—no, more like a mob by the sounds of it. She activated
every phone tree she could. She had people she knew calling people she didn’t know. She outlined an action plan that she threw together on the fly and told everybody what, when, where, and how. She spoke with a woman whose husband could make the wooden handles for picket signs. She asked a printer whose family she had helped if he could print some signs quick. She gave him a bunch of brief messages he could use. She spoke with someone else who could bring something to combine the handles with the signs. She spoke with someone else who knew the schedule of the board president, who in fact lived across the street from the nutcase and could monitor her comings and goings.
And then she turned to the more difficult calls. She got in touch with the local TV stations and, when she was able to speak to a reporter, gave them the story. She spoke clearly, coherently, concisely, and told them what was planned. She asked each of them to send a camera crew to cover what she called “calling her out for condoning hate.” Oh, this was going to be interesting. Once my mom got fired up, once she got an idea in her sights, she was like a dog with a bone—don’t try to take the bone away from the dog or you’ll lose an arm, at a minimum.
When she wasn’t calling people, people were calling her. One of the callers was her uncle. He had been there at Bill’s house when we got him and his mom out of there. He was a county judge of some sort. She asked him a series of questions about what was legal in terms of protest and what was over the line. He gave her several pieces of advice and agreed to be present the next morning.
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