I'm Still your Fag...
If your name is Blane and you aren’t rich, and you aren’t a model—and you don’t have any abilities such as sports, singing, or charisma to attract a ton of friends—then you are just a fucked up individual at my school.
I should have been named John because that’s the type of name where you can blend into the woodwork. Only, I guess that would not work with me because I happen to be the only fag at my school. Oh, there are tons of gays and lesbians—the ones that intend to come out of the closet once they graduate. But I was ripped out of the closet the very day that I was caught doodling the name of a guy that I liked all over my notebook.
That was two years ago. I’m a senior now and everyday in school is just like…well walking through the seventh level of hell.
I read once that someone asked Yoko Ono why she never smiles and she said that it’s because people associate her smiles to the grinning Japanese caricatures that they see in movies, and therefore she swore that she would not be that smiling fool. That’s when I stopped smiling. People pass me on the street and say, ‘Smile. It’s not that bad.’ And I say. ‘Fuck you.’ And they are so surprised that a Japanese person isn’t accommodating, nodding their heads and bowing like a fucking Cheshire cat. I suppose there are lots of things that piss me off. Take for instance my name; Mori not Lori. But can anyone at school get that straight? No. So now I’m Lori.
Want to know what else pisses me off? That I was not born that small petite dainty Japanese girl. I’m 5’10’ and I’m no where near to being skinny. So if people are going to look I give them something to look at. My hair is a mohawk and I wear only black; black clothes, black makeup, black nail polish—but I’m not a Satanist so I also wear a cross (this is more to spite my Buddhist mother).
There is probably only one thing that makes life as a freakishly tall, Japanese-American, non-smiling anarchist bearable and that’s my friend Blane, though even that is masochistic. I love every single thing about him--even while he is in love with a guy that would never look at him twice.
Why should people care so much that I run up and down a football field catching and throwing a ball? But then twenty girls are lined up waiting to catch my eye…for what? Because I’m Quarterback? That only means that I get the blame whenever something messes up. So the kids in school think I’m a hero and the guys on the team think they would do a better job than me.All I want to do is play football.