preface

As I get older, more and more I feel the need to tell stories about myself, my family and friends, and people who have come and gone through my life. Not necessarily the ordinary mundane, everyday stories, mind you. I want to tell of the richness and learning, the spectacular successes and abject, mind-numbing failures that violently shape and define us to our very core. Those moments we found ourselves saying nope, that's NOT how I'm going to live my life. As the kids say, not today Satan. The mundane does have it's place to be told, but not this story.

This one could perhaps sound like the story of every rebellious teenager that ever existed to date. Parents or other authority figures tell us what to do, how to do it, what to think, how to act, who to love, who to hate, how to live and not live. I think a lot of parents do just fine. No seriously, I really do. Parenting is tough work, but it's important work. As someone told me once (can't remember who now) parenting is "the hardest but most rewarding job you'll do."

On the other hand, a lot of parents do a questionable job of raising well-balanced, thoughtful, free-thinking humans. Lucky for me I ended up mostly in the latter though the cost was sometimes onerous and even dangerous. I was fortunate enough that my mother would repeatedly tell my brothers and me, "Think for yourselves!!" The irony in this is we went to a church (yeah, you knew religion was coming into this) that taught completely the opposite. A church that said, "If you're not in our club, you don't belong and deserve torture and hatred, fire and brimstone, and burning in hell.. Even to this day, I've been unable to reconcile this paradox in my mind. I've since let it rest, because in the end we parents do the best we can. And no one is perfect. No one. We are but varying degrees of imperfection, failure, and success.

The scene is the west side of Tulsa, OK USA in the mid-80s. (That's 1980s for you spring chickens). My brothers, mother (aka mama), and I lived on the east end of a two bedroom duplex. The bros and I rotated between bunk beds with a trundle bed underneath. So yes, we three shared one bedroom. Talk about close quarters!

My brothers had graduated and were waiting to go off to college (another story another time), and I was a sophomore in High School. I worked at the local grocery store. Back then you could work at age 15. At least I think we could. The manager hired me, so I worked. I made $3.25 an hour bagging groceries after school. I received cash every Friday.

So the scene opens up. I was in English class, was about to pee my pants, and my teacher had given me a hall pass to go use the restroom.

The Making of a Friendship

I walked out the door from my English class. The door squeaked shut with a dull, hollow THUNK. I noticed I had an loose shoelace and knelt down to remedy. As I was tying my shoe I heard deep, growling yell, "What are you doing, loser?" I glanced about 10 yards down the hall and saw two other teenagers. One was a short boy of small stature and sandy blonde hair wearing slacks, dress shirt and a tie. Huh, I said to myself. It's Evan. He was in my trig class in fifth hour. He had thick glasses that constantly slid off his nose. Sure, he was a nerd and maybe a little too quiet. You've got to watch the quiet ones, you know, or you'll end up with a knife in your back. But I had no problem with the guy. He was wicked smart and had helped me more than once in trig class with the vile, random collections of formulas and charts and arcs and curves and all the other bullshit that boggled my mind, yet I somehow still managed to get an A in the class, despite cheated off of Evan without his knowledge quite a bit. Well, he probably knew, bc I knew he cheated off of me in French class 4th hour. I had a knack for languages.

The other teenager was a tall, burly, stocky fellow. He had straight, dark bangs like a girl and a long mullet in the back. Or what was it called back then? Short in the front, party in the back? Yeah, that was it. He had on clean, shiny boots. Justin Roper boots. I'd always wanted a pair of those. Nice boots. I looked down at my worn tennis shoes. They were muddy. I kept my boots at home in the closet. They weren't cowboy boots, though. Work boots, for when my uncle put my brothers and me to work in the summer at his little farm.. In any case, this boy's name was Goliath, Golly for short. Well, that wasn't his real name, of course, it's just what we all called him. Big ol' dude. And a complete and total asshole. He was like my history teacher. He was only there to play football. Stupid jock. I hated jocks. Well, I didn't hate them all, just the ones that used their position of being in the spotlight to taunt and torture those less "popular." Such a stupid word. Popular. Whatever. I wasn't part of many cliques. Tried to get along and get the hell out and go home at the end of the day in one piece.

So there they are. Evan and Golly. Evan looked embarrassed and was trying to walk away. Goliath kept pushing him and slapping him in the back of the head. Poor little dude. He looked frail. Like a leaf that could be caught up in the wind and fluttered away.

"Golly!," I hollered at him. "What the fuck are you doing, Coach dipshit is looking for you!"

"Shut up, Red. No he isn't," Golly gruffly replied to me while grabbing Evan's shirt, shaking him a bit and then letting go finally.

"Dude, I ain't making shit up. You better get down there. He seemed pretty pissed off."

Golly's face changed ever so slightly, "He's pissed??"

"Yup," I had a stern look on my face.

Golly stood there for a minute looking confused. To egg him on, I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk off acting like I didn't give two shits about any of it. (I didn't, plus I was lying, of course.)

"Ugh... Your lucky day, punk head," he said to Evan and stomped off throwing a paper wad over his shoulder.

I walked up to Evan.

"You alright, man?" I smiled.

"Yeah, thanks. I was just in the bathroom."

He hurried off to get back to his class. I didn't know which one it was.

---

Everyday it was my habit to eat in the cafeteria, as I received free lunch. Growing up poor while mama went to college never bothered me that much. Sometimes I'd get a new pair of shoes a little later than I'd hoped, but I was always more concerned with wearing a hole in them than I was concerned with fashion really. My brothers were the same way. I don't think mama realized it at the time, but all the days we spent with our uncle on his little farm really made quite the impression on us. In our own childhood ways, we were comparing that life to the one we had on the west side of Tulsa, OK.

The cafeteria lady greeted me and already had a tray ready for me with extra milk as always. I liked Sandra. She was an older black woman who had a great, bellowing laugh, and kindness was her thing. More often than not, she'd give me extra food, and sometimes have a bag full of snacks for me to take home. I'd sneak them in at home tucked in my backpack. Mama was always like, "Where did all these cheese crackers come from? Or "why is there a banana peel in your bed, son?"

More often than not, there were only a few of us in the high school cafeteria. A lot of kids just went to the pizza bar down the hall, or went off campus with their friends to partake in greasy food at the many fast food restaurants. I wasn't subject to such luxeries often. Mama didn't have enough moolah for that nonsense everyday, so it was a little treat to get some French fries at the cafeteria. But I mean, who could protest the cafeteria's amazing yeast rolls? Right? Sandra, the cafeteria server would always be there with a few extras after school when I would drive my shitty truck home or was walking because it was broke down. The bus didn't run where I lived because it was so close to the school.

I was eating the cafeteria's famous cheese pizza when I spotted Evan at the cafeteria door. He looked confused. He normally didn't eat there, but I think his mom packed a lunch for him everyday. I'd see him outside on campus sitting somewhere eating with other boys his age or reading a book.

I called Evan over to sit with me. I needed to ask him if he could help me with the trig homework. He obliged, of course. I remember thinking, "How can anyone actually like math?? I despised it and frequently accused the teacher of teaching us stuff we'd never use at our minimum wage jobs at the local Sonic or Warehouse Market. (btw Warehouse Market has been called many things. Back during this time it was called Family Market, but I refer to it now as Warehouse Market as that's what it is called today. Some of their stores are called Cashsaver now... I worked there in the 80s when it was called Family market and that whole area of Sand Springs was not developed like it is today and the old Sheffield Steel Mill was still in operation by the Arkansas river. Anyway tmi)

In any case, Evan said he'd help me with my homework. We finished our lunch and talked about how funny it was that Coach HistoryTeacherWhatsHisName was dating the OldLadyBiologyTeacher. Everybody knew about it. They thought they were so secretive, but you could tell. They'd be sneaking glances at each other between classes all day long. Hell, I bet they did the nasty in the teacher's lounge where THEY COULD SMOKE CIGARETTES. Holy hell, times have changed.

Evan asked me if I could give him a ride home, which was odd to me, as I'd seen him many times before walking to the neighborhood not a few blocks away from the school. I reckon it was about a mile. I didn't mind, so I agreed. Said we could stop by Old Man Bruner's grocery and get a free candy bar. It was located just down the street from the old Central Junior High School. I think it's the 9th Grade Center now. He agreed and we took my rickety, barely functioning 1972 Mazda B2000 to Bruner's, and I dropped him off. He asked if I'd pick him up in the morning. I laughed and indicated I would if I could get my leaking tire fixed, and if it was cool with mama. I'd call him and let him know.

Mama, of course, was ok with me picking Evan up for school as long as I didn't go anywhere else and came home first to finish any homework I might've had. So that's how it went for several months. Had one class with Evan, the dreaded trig class, we ate together at the cafeteria most days, and I took him home. That was about the extent of our friendship. I wouldn't say we were like "best friends", we just got along well, and back then that was saying something.

The Computer and the Ass Kickings

Have to admit, I'm rather proud of that section name. Sounds like a good name for a band or something. There was one event that changed a lot of our lives back in the mid to late 1980s. THE COMPUTER. I came home one day, and my mama proudly showed my brothers and me this sparkly, shiny new "IBM Compatible" computer. We didn't know what this meant, really, because the only one we'd ever seen was the computer teacher at school. I think the attendance clerk at school had one, too.

Mom showed us how to insert something called a floppy disk into this slot on it, and the magic began. What was most interesting to us was this device that you set the phone into. Those old phones, mind you. The ones with big giant ear phone and microphones. Ours was an actual "modern" rotary phone. Forget calling the radio station on those things when there was a contest on the radio. Couldn't redial fast enough, but we sure as hell tried.

That was our introduction to the pre-Internet. I had Evan come over, and we'd spend hours trying to figure out how to connect our computer to one at a friend's house down the street. We also found something called a BBS. There was one called "Tulsa BBS" among others. You'd have your modem set up, dial the number, set the phone into the modem, and off your screen would go, slowly, line by line as 300 Baud modems did at that time. It was slow but exhilarating for us.

Evan always had bullies messing with him. I tried to help him realize that those assholes were nobody and would amount to a whole lot of nothing, that his intellect would help him go much further in life than them. He would shrug it off, but I could tell it bothered him.

The jocks were certainly mean to Evan, but the girls were sometimes even more cruel. Especially, the cheerleaders. Well, just some of them, of course. Most just ignored him. There were a few whose parents weren't from the rich neighborhood and could relate to the likes of us. Just friendly ladies who were NORMAL. I'd try to get Evan interested in asking some of them out, or even just any girl for thta matter. He actually went on a double date with me and my girlfriend once. He went with a young lady named Courtney who just adored Evan. I could never understand why he didn't like her "in that way." I always just shrugged it off as Evan being Evan.

One spring day, for some reason, the jocks were being especially cruel to Evan. I wasn't always around to protect him. I never understood why he wouldn't defend himself. He wasn't a weakling or a wimp. He'd always just sit there and take the beating. I mean, if you're going to get your ass kicked, might as well go down fighting right? Not Evan. He told me the sooner he went to the ground the sooner the kicks would be over and he could leave. I didn't like that. Not one bit. When I'd take up for him, they'd threaten me, but they knew better, because I had a tendency to see red when threatened with violence and they'd get a fierce resistance if they tangled with me. You see, that's how bullies are. They always bully the ones they think are weaker than they are or who won't defend themselves. The path of least resistance. This is one reason I despise them so much.

Being a redneck, I always carried a hunting knife on my hip. I also had a baseball bat behind the seat in my beat up truck. Occasionally, I'd have a rifle in the truck, because my brothers and I had hunting plans, but not usually.

Things were so different back the 80s and before. The school administration didn't think much about the hunting knife I had. They all knew I liked to go fishing and hunting and actually expected me to have the knife. They would literally think something was wrong if I didn't have it with me. A whole other world, man. They probably would have given me a warning about the rifle, but wouldn't have done anything about it. Most of them knew I wasn't going to shoot the place up, I was just going to try to bag a deer with my grandpa's rifle that he had given me as a child. Nothing more, nothing less. It's just the way it was. I know in small town Oklahoma, especially when my uncle and grandpa were growing up, such things weren't even thought about. In fact, it may have seemed odd that one did not, in fact, have a firearm in the truck.

So that sets the scene for the fights poor Evan would have to defend himself from. When I wasn't around, he'd get his ass kicked at least once a week. It was starting to piss me off. The teachers wouldn't do anything. They just said, "He needs to take up for himself." They'd only intervene if it looked like he was really going to get hurt, which I had always thought was bullshit.

The jocks would always corner Evan close to my truck. Sometimes, he'd get away, sometimes not. Even when I gave him a copy of my truck key to "hide", he wouldn't use it. I never knew why. It always puzzled me.

One fine, warm spring day, I walked to the parking lot to find my truck surrounded by a throng of people with a lot of football jerseys on. I already knew what was going on. A crowd meant a fight. I ran over and there was Evan, doubled up on the ground, his face bloodied, and his glasses BROKEN. I had finally had enough of this fucking bullshit. I saw red and the anger surged into me.

I ran as fast as I could threw my backpack in the back of the truck and punched Golly (who had punched Evan) as hard as I could. Goliath fell over with a grunt and someone tackled me from behind. Wresting myself loose, I felt an anger I'd never felt before. I calmly walked to the driver side of my truck and pulled out my aluminum baseball bat and proclaimed the following:

"Gentlemen, you have a choice," I reared back with the bat.

"Either leave us alone, or two things are going to happen. One of you is going to get bashed in head, and the next person to come at me is going to get stabbed with this knife on my hip."

Everyone got quiet. We sorta stood there staring at each other. Golly was dumbfounded, but determined. You do stupid shit when you're a teenager, and like me, Golly simply started swinging.

I guess luckily, by that time, school staff saw what was happening and intervened and someone had also called the police. The police didn't do anything, but let the school staff handle the situation. That was typical back then. Parentis Loci and all that.

The "Love" of Christ

Church was a big part of my young childhood. I, of course, didn't have much choice in the matter, BUT I actually didn't mind going that much, because I had a lot of friends there my age. It was a smaller church in a small building that held about 100 people. The pastor was fire and brimstone and the Sunday school teachers were expected to maintain "Biblical" standards for teaching. What this meant, in reality, was that they were only allowed to teach what the pastor believed. Let's call the Pastor "Richard". No, that's probably not a good name. Let's call him "Rick" instead. Rick was ultra-conservative and anyone that crossed his "teachings" was severely reprimanded - not only by him, but by the rest of the church, as well. We kids tried hard to stay out of his way, but it was hard, because most of the kids there were the same age as the pastor's kids, with whom I was good friends with. So a lot of my time was spent with them, even at school. Luckily, they never ratted on me for my "sinly" lifestyle of constantly cussing and griping about the stupid "feet washing" services the pastor made us endure. Yes, we literally were forced to wash each others' feet. How fucking gross is that?

Anyway, at one point there was a Sunday School teacher named Jeremiah. He "taught" my best childhood friend and me of the "ways of the Lord." We were the only two in that class, and obviously we were both male, because most of the things he "taught" us were male based. There were no girls in our class. I've talked to my friend since then, and we both look back at Jeremiah as a kind of freak of nature, because one day in our class he just totally went off about gay people, in particular gay males. He would rail about how satanic they were and would go into explicit detail how gay males had sex. Wholly inappropriate for young children to be hearing. Mind you, we were like in 6th or 7th grade. We had better things to do than think about sex. We were barely thinking about girls even then. In hindsight, the whole adage of he who hates them the most is the most closeted. Or something along those lines. It was a total nonissue for us, we had never even met, seen, or known a gay person. That we knew of, of course. Most gays in Oklahoma at that time were either closeted or kept far, far away from the ilk of church.

Basically, what this church was doing is still mostly in practice today at churches like this. The church chooses a group of people with whom they disagree and condone hate and violence against them. Blacks, natives, latinos, gay people, all of the LGBTQ+ community. You name it, you were not in the club if you were any of those. It was a vile and hate-filled place to be now that I look at and think about it again. It's a wonder I was able to liberate myself from such ways of thinking. This was mostly due to my mama who taught me that "everyone is loved" and to "always think for myself." She was always progressive in a lot of ways, but also somehow, conservative in others. In the end, she said, it was not my place to judge anyone, which I have come to completely disagree with these days, especially considering the current leadership of this country, and the pervasiveness of hate it exudes mostly by ultra-conservative rightwing Christian fascists.

So yeah, the love of Christ is a phrase appropriately applied and completely contrary to what these people teach and believe. They are hypocrites of the worst sort. They are so blinded by their hate, they don't see the fascism they are espousing or the fear and division they're sowing. The Jesus I've read about is face-palming himself right now, if he even ever existed, of which there is little proof. Needless to say, yes, most of my GenX friends who were forced to endure this low-level of Dante's Hell later became atheists, not only because of the lack of proof for the claims they made, but also... well... who would want to be associated with such scum? Such hateful people? Not I.

The love of Jesus, indeed.

Now, I'm not going to leave you "good Christians™" out on the ledge of being despised. There are some of you that actually practice the love of Christ. What I read in the Bible about Jesus was mostly cool stuff like, "Love your neighbor as yourself." Help the poor, welcome the stranger, feed the hungry, clothe the naked. These items of virtue. It's hard to argue or disagree with that. Regardless, Christians take a weird stance on even those things. I've heard them say, "hate the sin, not the sinner, I'm not helping them!" Oh lordy. So that sets up another part of this true story. I was taught that: gay=evil, love=hating, acceptance=not accepting, pull up your bootstraps, etc. Sound familiar?

Now some of you may be thinking, ah.. Red is gay. Well, actually I'm not. I'm a pretty damn straight arrow. I'm just a white Redneck with an itch for computers. But I've worked and partied with so many gay people, a lot of folks assume that I am, which I actually find kinda amusing. But really, the vast majority of gay folk make damn good friends. (there's another story for another time. And also, if in today's Tulsa, OK USA you still need a church and you're gay, you'll be welcomed and are safe at Boston Avenue United Methodist Church in downtown Tulsa. What's funny is I've never been physically in one of their church services. I used to "watch" the services on KTUL channel 8 at the same time on TV with my mother when everyone was social distancing during the COVID pandemic. Pastor Wiggs is a righteous dude. (update: I've read that Mr. Wiggs has retired and only does part time work for the church now)

Umm.. What the hell, dude?

This is the part of the story where everything gets turned on it's head. Two things hit me and both changed my life forever. The first was that I got an opportunity to study abroad for a year. I applied for and received a congressional scholarship and the German government to study in a city in Germany. In return, a student would come to my old high school and study there or wherever a suitable family could be found. I had always found it humorous that I had studied French for three years and my study abroad wouldn't even be in French, but in German. Alas, it was what it was, and I was super excited.

As the time neared and the last day of school was upon us, Evan and I were sitting in my beat up pickup smoking a "cigarette." It was our way of celebrating being friends for a year and probably to also lessen the pain of saying goodbye. We were laughing and talking when Evan suddenly reached across the truck, pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek, and said how much he was going to miss me. We were high as a kite, but I was sober enough to be taken aback and pissed off.

Dude, what the fuck, man? Don't be doing stuff like that. The hell is wrong with you?"

Evan looked ashamed and sad, "I'm sorry, Red, I'm just high as a kite, but I have to tell you something."

"Fine, that's cool, but simmer it down, people are gonna think we're faggots or something."

"I'm gay, Red."

Long, excruciating silence.

Evan looked at me apologetically. Like he just said the worst thing of his life.

A million things were going through my head. What the hell? As far as I knew, I had never even known a gay person. Hell, I had really never even given it much thought. I was sheltered from such things and was taught to hate them. Granted, I really didn't give a damn if someone was gay or not as long as they left me alone. That's what hearing the same thing over and over did to me.

Evan looked straight ahead and was silent.

sigh

I dropped Evan off at his house. His mother was on the porch and waved. I was struggling. I had quietly decided that I was NOT ending a friendship for something as inconsequential as being gay. Evan was my friend, and I figured we'd apologize and that'd be it.

"Look," I said. "I don't care that you're care, dude. Really, it's ok. I'm not, and I didn't expect that from you. I'm sorry I reacted that way. I'll see you at the going away party tomorrow, right?"

He managed a small smile, "Of course, I'll be there. See you then." He ran to his mother and gave her a hug.

Shit, shit shit shit, I thought to myself. In hindsight, I should have done something differently. Something nicer to make him feel better. He was my friend. I had failed him.

I didn't know what to do.

Goodbyes

Evan never showed up at the going away party. I tried to call him, but nobody answered the phone. Not even his mama. The day previous was the last thing I ever heard from him.

Six months later, I got a letter from the principal of the high school of where I had gone that Evan had passed away from an apparent suicide. Took a bunch of his mother's prescription drugs and slept to death.

I ugly cried for months. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, but I was also angry? I remember asking myself questions, that in hindsight were worthless. Why hadn't he told me earlier? I honestly didn't think it would have changed anything. But if I think about it more, maybe it would have? I don't know. He was closeted in the ultra-religious state of Oklahoma, not exactly a mecca of safety for gay people at the time. Heck, not even now except in the metro areas.

It's been close to 35 years since Evan's death. His mother has already passed away, and sometimes I feel I'm still coming to terms with it. I think about him almost everyday. Sure, I say I'm an ally now, but where was I back then? It wasn't Evan's fault he pecked me on the cheek. Dude was high, af. I should have just shrugged it off and said to myself he was just high.

If there is a heaven, Evan is there. He believed in God. I didn't. But sometimes, I kinda wanna believe just to see him again, slap him on the back and say, what's up, man?

---

Check on Your GenX Friends

I'll leave you with this tweet thread from Michelle Belanger from July 3rd, 2022. I was still on Twitter back then, so give her a follow there if you are and visit her website. She has a lot of cool books.

Your Gen X friends are not OK, especially if they were part of a counterculture, queer/queer adjacent, or otherwise marginalized by dominant white Christian society.

Everything we fought against & everything stacked against us in our youth has returned with a vengeance & it hurts. This is not the world we were promised.

But we’re Gen X, so we know promises are made to be broken. Catastrophizing comes as naturally to us as breathing.

Despite that, we held onto hope, sought solace in art & music & stories; tried to make the world better.

And we saw change. Not all of our friends made it.

The mortality rate of Gen X is a demoralizing statistic.

Those friends who made it through trauma, poverty, depression - well, some of them we lost to the constant & crushing propaganda. Some went so far left they came back out on the right That kid in our class who died of bullying - we knew why they did it

Why the jocks always picked on them; why they were the target of cruel games like Smear the Qu**r.

Even if we weren’t allowed a word for it, we knew.

And we started to hope the world had changed … Hope does not come easily to Gen X. We grew up at a time when we were told the world would end in global nuclear war. And that was a reasonable prognosis.

Then there was acid rain, endangered species, AIDS & the hideous oppression of queer folk; the Satanic Panic.

So much but things changed & for a little while, we saw a glimmer of hope.

Movements in our society making headway for equity, social justice, tolerance of different identities, practices, beliefs

It wasn’t perfect – far from it – it was a start

More than most ever dared hope for
But we also know promises are made to be broken. We know our system is the most broken promise of all.

We already lived through one man being fairly elected & another gaming the system to become president in his place

It’s so hard to believe our votes count for anything
Even so, we try.

The Gen X folk in my circle, we know the world is a bleak & soul crushing hellscape where all the odds are stacked against anyone seeking to change it.

Yet in the face of this, angry & glum, most still TRY - if only out of spite.

But we are tired. Bone-weary
And I know I’m not alone in the feeling I’ve had over the past few weeks:

That all our efforts meant nothing

That we are forgotten, undone, erased

That we are right back in the repressive hellscape of our youth, only worse

That we’re too old to relive this fight
I don’t have a solution and I don’t have a point beyond check on your Gen X friends

Because we are the champions of hiding how severely fucked up we are - grinning & bearing it was literally beaten into most of us

And almost all of us at some point had an exit plan
(Elder Millennials & Xoomers from the punk scene are probably feeling this, too)
In case folks worry about me - I am weary to my very marrow

But I have a fantastic support structure: a loving found-family cobbled together from fellow misfits, outcasts & queers & my wife @ElyriaRose is the pillar of kindness I never believed I could have in my life ❤️
To the folks in here asserting that they are Gen X and they are not sad or exhausted, I think that’s great!

I hope you are prepared to take that energy and apply it to activism & grassroots work & civil disobedience because none of this is going to fix itself
This has gone unexpectedly viral and I just want to say how heartening it is to see the solidarity in responses

And I’m honestly shocked at the absence of trolls and shit-takes

Not sure how long that will last, but it’s a refreshing change
Given the number of retweets on this thread, there is a huge temptation to keep it going, but I said everything I really wanted to in the original posts

We’re not OK, but we’re in this together. What else do we do but soldier on?

Anyway, let me just say: thanks for reading

---

fin