You chased and pulled,
Teased and poked.
Until I screamed so loud
your eardrum broke.
You stole and lied,
Blamed and abused.
Until that day you shoved,
But I didn’t budge,
and your own hand got bruised.
You twisted truths,
Played trust to your ends.
And just as I thought
we might make amends,
you threw a kick—
which I caught with a palm.
I held you
at
an
odd
angle.
While a crowd looked on.
I gave you a choice—
fight
or sit,
you wriggled and jerked,
and I didn’t loose my grip.
Finally,
you sat,
hard on the bench.
And thanks to the crowd,
I wasn’t bullied ever since.
This crowd was bigger,
And didn’t know like them..
But I was no longer
the only one suffering
your malicious intent.
And so, as you stood at that stage
playing martyrs for praise.
I shook in my seat,
fists cocked back in rage.
All three of you went,
Had stood solemn from the crowd,
put on quite the show,
got applause,
took a bow.
And when you each left
and returned to your seat
I rose
from the back
of the darkest
auditorium seats.
I stomped down to the mic
shaking with fear,
Not from what I would say
but from what they all
might hear.
The teachers watched
as I turned to the crowd,
a thousand pairs of eyes,
group B
of our school’s
two-thousand-strong pride.
I did something then
I’d done countless times,
but never with such distilled anger
waiting with an acid sharp diatribe,
and never with the decision
to address them all
Being
completely
And utterly
My
call.
I allowed myself to do it,
to sense them then.
Ground myself down,
Feel the soul of my kin.
Find their pain,
Sense their boredom,
frustration.
Taste their curiosity,
smell their disgust,
and hear disdains vibrations.
My heart caught,
an undercurrent,
familiar, hard, and
always in range.
Our shared desperation for something,
God, for anything,
to
just
finally
change.
“I think it’s great,
That you all came down to say,
you believe
and want
inclusion
today.
But.
It bears pointing out:
this is not the first
nor the second
Or fourth,
eighth,
or thirteenth time,
that the district has sat us down
to feed us the,
“stop being hateful, homophobic, ableist, racist, asshats”
plea line.
None
of
this
is
new.
neither the problems
not you.
Not even the message of love and acceptance
they try to convey.
But hey,
Those of you
who came down before,
If you have
Somehow
Truly been changed
over this last half a day?
How ‘bout you make it stick this time
instead of wiping it from your memory
as soon as you feel so inclined?
Maybe.
To start.
Don’t say that you care,
but then do
nothing
once you clique up
out
there.
Quit the gossip.
Quit the teasing.
Stop with the
passive
aggressive
fights.
and for godssake,
stop.
back-stabbing.
everyone
who walks out of sight.
Can you give that a shot?
Is it too much to ask
That you try to care for
Longer than a bathroom hall pass?
How about going a whole month?
before one of you jokes
about that
“Hilarious”
hate-crime,
You heard about
from your folks?
We
are
all
tired
of listening to this shit,
while you pretend to shift from it.
We slog through this crap,
do the political dance,
for the benefit of our donors,
—your parents.
All so the district doesn’t
embarrass Mr. Moneybags’
little offspring
piss-ants.
You all know who you are.
I won’t mark you by name.
You do it yourselves
with your hateful little games.
Now,
last time, you’ll remember,
I gave you a choice,
This time, however,
I’m using my voice.
I’m throwing you a challenge.
And given that ‘performance’ we just saw
I think it’s one you can manage,
Instead of playing the saint today,
and only in here,
Go act like you aren’t piss-ant bigots
for the rest of the fucking year.”
A gasp and whoop went through the hall,
I looked to my friends,
but the noise had not come from them at all,
Their jaws were all slack
and each looked …aggrieved?
Not one of their expressions
looked impressed or pleased;
Just embarrassed.
Mortified. Almost…
bereaved?
Irritated, then
that I’d need a new crew,
I handed the mic back,
and up the stairs
I flew.
I went to my seat
ignoring the dramatic high-five attempts,
and all the false bravado
which just made my jaw clench.
Even pre-internet, I found karma farmers
vile horrid things.
Secondhand valor
just shame
with fake golden wings.
My friends let me scoot past
to my seat and sit down,
but all that was said was,
“you were… different.”
With a frown.
I sighed
and said nothing,
zoned out ‘til the end,
then snuck to the library,
to sit with my only
true friends.
I waited until no one was
left in the hall,
no one to give me weird looks
or yell
more dumbass
catcalls.
My mask had blown off,
my guy friends
were too stunned.
Until now, they’d just seen me
as a quiet recluse.
The reject all girl groups
had shunned
and set loose.
They no longer saw
a helpless meek pet,
they, and everyone else,
would see
an inferno,
just waiting
to be set.
And that,
in my experience,
no one
ever
wants
to protect.
The librarian caught me
before I could leave.
And looked at me slyly,
winking mischievously.
“I knew you had that in you,”
she said,
“always did.”
“Never underestimate
the voice
that hides
in the quiet kid.”
I took that to heart, more than I knew.
And from that point forward,
the voice I’d hidden
grew.
It burns bridges
and builds them,
fights for clarity
and nuance.
It makes sure I don’t falter,
I risk and advance.
It got me stronger,
so I could rely on myself,
No need for protection
given by anyone else.
I keep my voice close,
bring it out only when I must.
It sits
and it waits,
collecting details,
but
never
rust.
I keep it sharp,
and wicked,
always ready to wail,
Because here’s the truth
of this quiet child’s tale—
My quiet is as alive,
Holding back armies
of truth in my head.
But.
Push me
too far
and
My quiet is dead.
