Dash

On the back steps with Bambi, the neighbors’ dog

(Sometimes in the Summer, when there’s not a lot going on in the classical music world here in Gotham, I write about personal stuff. One episode from my unhappy high school years in the little town has been running thru my mind recently: the day I won the 40-yard dash. This story originated on Oberon’s Grove in July 2025.)

I can’t remember now whether I was in my sophomore or junior year in school…those years were sort of a blur, full of sotto voce name-calling, gay slurs written on my locker and even on my music stand in the band room. A slam book was circulated, in which various students would anonymously write what they thought of their classmates…even my own girlfriend couldn’t think of something nice to say about me. The guys who were my immediate classmates could sometimes be very nice to me in a one-to-one conversation but when their buddies or sports teammates were around, they turned against me. I was never physically attacked; my older siblings were very popular…and my brother would have beat the crap out of anyone who laid a hand on me. 

Anyway, as the school year was winding down, we had some days of phys ed skills tests: there was tumbling, parallel bars, trampoline skills, rope climbing, taking basketball shots, and more…these were done indoors. I didn’t make a fool of myself, but compared to the jocks in my class I felt ridiculous. I actually was doing really well in the rope climb until I got halfway to the ceiling and realized I did not know how to get back down…so I gave up and dropped to the floor, which seemed better than possibly falling from the ceiling to my death. Of course, everyone expected me to fail in all these tests, so I was just affirming my status as a loser.

On the last day of these trials, we went outdoors. The last ‘event’ was the 40-yard dash. I was standing amidst my classmates, some of who were on the track team; I watched them rush to the finish, knowing that anything under 5 seconds was considered excellent; even my nearest rival for class klutz ran it in just over 6 seconds. I didn’t expect to surpass him, but then I had this idea: what if I could imagine my bullies were chasing me, planning to tackle me and rub my face in the dirt? 

I stepped up, and the pop gun sounded. I remember how exhilarating it felt to be moving so fast. It was over so quickly, I could not believe it. The guy with the stopwatch called out my time, but I never heard what he’d said; but apparently I was the fastest of the lot. All I knew was that my classmates surrounded me, patting me on the back. “You gotta join the track team!” said Mark Scriber, captain of the team and my secret idol; he’d never, ever said anything against me, despite the peer pressure (he had no peers, actually)…

Anyway, in the cafeteria the word went around and for a couple of hours, I was a hero. It didn’t last very long, and of course one of my meanest detractors came to the conclusion I had not been running, but flying…like a fairy. 

For a while, people were nice to me…but it only lasted a day or two and then things were back to normal. I continued to be verbally abused and laughed-at for months to come. Even onstage at my graduation, as I was returning to my seat with my diploma, someone said “Queer!” under his breath as I passed by.

My unhappiness continued after I’d graduated. It took me another seven years to come to grips with my reality, which I’d known since I was nine. Interestingly, I found something prophetic in my Yearbook while thumbing thru it a few months ago: one classmate knew my destiny even then: 

Now if I could only remember who Beansy was. 

~ Oberon