Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.
MARK
Sixth grade: I make it three weeks. Dad is called into the school for a conference and told that I'm failing math. I'm not just failing math, I have a twenty-seven percent. I'm being moved to a remedial class. "Twenty-seven! Do you even realize what that means, Marcus?" I'm only Marcus when he's angry. "Twenty-seven. Does that sound like a big number to you?"
"W-well… I mean… if it was an age--" Twenty-seven years sounds pretty old to me, but then, I'm only ten years old.
"Fucking… no, Marcus! It's not a big number. Okay? Twenty-seven out of a hundred. It's not a number to be proud of, it's not a number you want people to know. It's that kid, isn't it. That Davis kid--"
"No, Daddy--"
"Doesn't matter. You don't see him. You don't see any of your friends until--look at me, Marcus."
I can't. I can't look at him, I'm too busy watching the floor and trying not to cry. My lip is doing its silly wobbling thing. I shake my head. "No… no…"
"Marcus." He doesn't want argument. "This is for your own good."
"No…" Before I can think, I leap out of my chair and run from the room.
Dad calls after me, "Marcus--" but Mom puts her hand on his shoulder and says, "Just leave him right now."
It was not exactly a feasible setting, but I wanted to have Sadie open her door to a normal bedroom and, when she closed it, be in a forest. This is precisely the reason I wanted to make films. In a play you ask the audience, "Trust me, it's a forest." You have to rely on the actors to convince every person in the house that although we have only one small bush, this is a forest. In a film you don't ask, you tell. This is a forest. You don't have to take my word for it, you can see it here in front of you. To say that this is not be a forest would be insanity itself.
Insanity herself. Pleased with that, I penned it into the margins. It was my latest screenplay, and this one actually a good one, about a Jewish family whose daughter, Sadie, is slowly going mad and the son is trying to tell his parents something, I haven't decided what yet but maybe he's gay, and they are on the verge of divorce. I can't imagine having parents split up. Actually, I can't imagine going mad or telling my parents that I'm gay.
Third grade: "Mr. Cohen, I'm so glad you came. I really want to speak with you about Mark."
"He hasn't been any trouble, has he?"
"Oh, no-- no, not at all. As I'm sure you know, Mark's a very sweet boy and he's extremely helpful, this is the first year I haven't had to offer extra-credit to students who help clean up during lunch recess. Actually, that's what concerns me. I'm afraid Mark isn't mixing well with the other children."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"Well, he doesn't have many friends…" She glanced at me, clinging to my father's hand and staring at the ground. "Mr. Cohen, I can't specifically name any friends of Mark's."
My father didn't have anything to shout about that year. He hadn't any reason to be angry. But he was, anyway. "Well?" he asked in the car on the way home. "What, you don't like the other kids?"
"They don't like me."
"They tell you that?"
"No…"
"Well, then, you don't know, do you? Maybe they just don't know you. So I want you to start talking to them, Marcus. Go up to those kids and introduce yourself, ask if you can play with them. Okay? A boy needs friends."
"Sorry, Daddy…"
I don't mean that I am gay. I'm not. It's a hypothetical. If I was, I don't know how I'd come out. Maybe Collins knows, he's good with empathy for weird types. Musing, I flipped through the pages of my notebook. Somewhere I had written down clever wordplay, and the Sadie pieces needed clever wordplay. Everything had double or hidden or triple meaning, because despite the innate madness in having her step from her room to the jungle, as Sadie met Ethan, her imaginary friend, everything needed to be complex. He was her imagination, and that was her insanity: her imagination creating a better world for her.
Rest assured, no perfect world. Sadie had many dangerous experiences, and she didn't realize Ethan was evil until the very end. Simplicity would destroy that. It had to be very Raymond Chandler, very much… Sadie could easily be a little girl in a play world.
Shit!
I slammed the notebook shut, staring ahead at the wall, eyes wide. I had forgotten all about that picture. My heart thudded against my ribs; I tried to swallow but my throat had gone bone dry. And speaking of bones-- "Not now!" I hissed, then realized that I was whispering to my crotch and it wasn't listening, anyway.
I flipped back to that page, tore it out of my notebook and folded it, first in half, then in half again. If anyone saw this, I was dead. And I mean dead. My father, who barely used physical punishment, would strangle me. That is, if I hadn't died of shame from my mother's thick guilt. It's like drowning in jam.
Freshman Year: "Who was that woman?" Dad demands. "The one with your teacher. I didn't see a kid around."
"That's her partner, Dad."
"You have two Spanish teachers? Then why don't you have an A?"
"No, Dad--"
"Don't take that tone with me."
"It's not a tone--"
"It is a tone, Marcus, and I don't like it."
"Well then why are you doing exactly the same thing to me? It's so hypocritical." Talking back to my father is not in my nature. In fact, that's the last time I did it. But he wouldn't let me finish a sentence, and I barely had a B in Spanish, it was only because of one quiz. Besides which, there hadn't been a tone when he went after me. I think maybe it empowered me to think of myself as a high schooler. Maybe I was basking in Roger's self-confidence a little too much.
"You know what, Marcus? I'm not going to take this from you. Okay? You understand? Now, I asked you a question, I want an answer."
"To which question?" I honestly meant that. He had asked me three questions: Who was she, did I have two teachers and why didn't I have an A in Spanish? How was I supposed to know which question he wanted answered?
I said as much to Dad. "Just tell me who that was, Marcus."
"I told you already who she is, she's my Spanish teacher's partner."
"So you do have two teachers--"
"No, Dad. She's her life partner. G-d!" He grabbed my shoulder, bent me over and spanked me. I was fourteen and crying more from the sheer embarrassment of being spanked than from pain. Well, partially from pain.
A lot changed after that night. I didn't talk back to my father, in fact I hardly talked to my father. I also dropped out of Spanish class; Dad called the school to register a formal complaint. They explained that it would be unconstitutional to fire a woman for her sexual persuasion. There were no more Spanish classes but I could certainly be moved into an art class--but no, Dad said put him in woodshop. Let's keep that record as homo-free as possible, huh, Dad?
That's why I don't think homosexuality is wrong. That's the only reason. If Dad was so afraid of it, then it couldn't be a choice, I knew. No one's scared of a choice. If it's not a choice, it's not wrong.
The front door slammed. "Cindy! Mark!"
No, no! Not now! Why did they have to come home now? Ooh… I couldn't get that picture out of my mind, only it wasn't just a picture, it was moving and fast becoming life. My breathing was shallow and--
"Marcus David Cohen!"
Well, that's one problem solved. My almost-erection was over. In fact, my testicles were trying to climb inside my body, because when my father uses my full name…
Parent conference night was never a proud moment for me. After watching my parents congratulate Cindy, who had perfect grades though no honors or APs, I had to sit for, "Why do you do this to me, Marcus? Why? It's barely a passing grade! Are you trying to shame me into an early grave? Maybe if you spent less time with your friends, more time studying…" Then, within three minutes of the opening, "Don't cry. Marcus… Mark. Come on, it's okay, Mark. Hey, buddy--"
"But I just want you to be proud of me! And I'm really trying! I'm so stupid! I can't heeeelp it!" That's me, sobbing, with spit sticking to my teeth and lips so that every word is muffled. Meanwhile my father hugs me and explains that he isn't ashamed of me, no, he just knows that a bright kid like me can do better if I try a little harder and he's trying to give me incentive. And I cry myself out, wailing until I've fallen asleep that I really do try to be a good son.
This was about mathematics. I don't know what it is about me, but I can't seem to learn math. Roger tutored me, but ever since Collins started teaching our class two and three times a week I had actually felt smart, like I understood something.
Of course, when I was crying it was never about mathematics. It was about how stupid and useless I was. I even looked goyische, which was probably the reason my refusal to be confirmed upset Dad so much.
"Marcus! Get down here!"
That wasn't an I'll-kick-your-ass shout, but it was definitely a you're-trying-my-patience shout. I pushed back my desk chair, left the room and wandered to the top of the stairs. "Y-yeah?" I asked.
"Down here," Dad said, pointing to the ground in front of him.
Oh, shit. Dad did this eye-to-eye thing. If he was shouting at me, he wanted me to look him right in the eye and 'take it like a man.' Usually he didn't bother with that macho stuff, but when I'm in trouble it's always, Stand RIGHT HERE and keep your chin up. I went and stood in front of him, trembling all over.
"Marcus. You have never, ever done this." He showed me my report card. I didn't bother looking, fairly certain there was a D in the math spot instead of a C. "Marcus, are you looking?"
Last year was a model year. Not only did I have a C in Geometry, I had an even lower C in Chemistry. It didn't help that Roger had trouble tutoring me in both subjects. Geometry was his playground and as for Chemistry, well, "Roger, I need help with my Chemistry"/"Hehehe..." My Chemistry teacher suggested perhaps if I stayed away from bad-boy-slash-chemistry-genius Roger Davis and concentrated on my studies, I would do better. My Geometry teacher offered to assign a tutor for community service; he assigned Roger. Dad blew a gasket; between the dishes, laundry and yardwork it didn't matter that I was grounded because I barely had the energy to shower.
"Yes," I lied.
That's about the time I realize that my dad was not shouting. Of course, the bone-crushing hug that followed was a good indication of my math grade, but not good enough for Dad. He needed the entire house to know exactly how I was doing. "An eighty-six, MarK!" he cried, still crushing me in that hug. I grinned. "Eighty-six per cent! My son has an eighty-six percent in math!"
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
"I can't breathe."
"Oops." He released me; I took a deep breath and straightened my glasses, grinning inanely. Never before had my father come home from parent conferences and not instructed me to stand here and listen, and keep my chin up and meet his eyes. "Sorry, buddy, I'm just so proud." He ruffled my hair.
My dad has never, ever been like this. I guess he's never exactly hoped for a son who can't swing a bat or tell an isosceles from an equilateral triangle. Briefly I wondered if he would have preferred Roger. Roger plays sports. He's great at math. Or Collins. He's more than brilliant in math, in everything--except history, Collins is not very good at history, but he makes flashcards and is constantly studying.
If I had to trade places, though, I would trade with Roger. I knew that in a heartbeat. One day in my shoes and Roger would stop… stop doing that stuff he does. One day in his shoes and maybe I could understand. Maybe if I knew, I could actually help him.
Stop it, I told myself. This is your night.
I followed Dad into the kitchen, where Mom and Cindy stood by the sink, talking very quietly. The conference night ritual was older than life itself. For Cindy, it was: lay low, sneak up to your room with pizza when Daddy's so busy comforting Mark he won't see you. For Mom, it was: wait until Elias has carried Mark to bed and try to calm him down before he breaks something valuable. So when we walked into the kitchen together, their entire ritual was destroyed. I grinned hugely.
"Mark has a B in math," Dad announced. I grinned. "And he's promised me that by the end of the year, it'll be an A."
No, I haven't. But everyone was congratulating me and for once we were going to sit down as a family and eat pizza in celebration. Mom used to try telling Cindy when to turn the oven on and off, but Cindy almost always ended up burning whatever she was supposed to cook, so we had take-out. Well, my parents and Cindy did. Usually I only swallowed guilt and shame.
Not tonight. Tonight I burned my throat with pizza cheese. Tonight was my night, and I was going to enjoy it.
TO BE CONTINUED
Goyische: like a gentile
