KarMel Scholarship 2004
|
“GSA” By
Amy Dachenbach, WI Desciption of
Submission: “Fictional: A
bisexual teenager goes to a new school and discovers the GSA.” - Amy |
Do they know? Does it show?
I walk down the hallway, seemingly confident. I’m wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt that shouts, “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK…” as they approach me and “SO WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING?” as they glance at my back. My backpack, which is back in the classroom, gives the same message, covered in pins that support rebellion and individuality. My hair is long, brown, and virgin to go against the coloring fad; my face is pale to fight the fake orange tan rampant in this school.
But I find myself thinking “Can they see?” as people pass me on my way to the bathroom. New school, got to make the right impression. I can’t let them guess my secret thoughts. I walk into the bathroom and see a girl wearing a short black skirt with chains, purple mesh and cloth top, and pseudo combat boots. She smiles at me as I walk past, and then bends down to grab her bag. I practice my mastered art of the subtle checkout, my heart beating faster at the sight of her backside.
I quickly lock myself in the stall, trying to get a grip on my body. I listen to her boots echo away and sigh. “They can’t know,” I silently remind myself.
A couple classes later I find myself staring at my English book, letting the teacher’s words float through my skull like a spring breeze. Verbs, nouns, objective, subjective, poetry, gay, bisexual…the words catch in the dream catcher of my mind and I listen, fighting the blush that creeps into my cheeks as my classmates snicker.
“Now, stop that!” my teacher scolds. “We are going to study gay, lesbian, and bisexual authors whether you guys like it or not, so I expect you to be mature about it.”
Some guy behind me whispers, “I bet she’s a dyke.” A girl whispers back, “I’d better be careful.” I want to turn around and defend my teacher, want to yell at the asses behind me. Instead I sit there, sliding a bit lower in my seat, feeling like a heel.
On my way out I notice a poster with an upside-down triangle on it. I quickly scan it, not wanting to look interested. All I can catch before I shuffle out the door with the rest of the cattle are the words “Safe Room”. I’m thinking about the meaning of the sign when I bump into a guy. “Sorry,” I mumble, bending down to help pick up his papers.
“No problem,” he responds cheerfully. He collects his papers and flashes me a cute smile before going on his way. I’m just thinking about how there is finally a guy worth drooling over in this school when I catch sight of a rainbow patch on his backpack. I’m amazed, and after that I can’t get the insane voice in my head to stop saying, “Maybe you’ll be okay in this school.”
Two days have gone by and there’s a school assembly introducing some of the clubs. I find a seat next to a couple people that I’ve met and sit down, ready to be bored. I notice the girl from the bathroom (I think her name is Laura) sitting next to Rainbow Patch Boy. I put a couple words into my friend’s conversation about the principal and try not to stare.
The presentations start and I don’t even feign interest in most of them. The usuals go up: Spanish Club, German Club, and Computer Club. IMAGINE holds my interest for a little bit. It’s a club that promotes awareness of sexual assault, rape, and abuse.
I am distracted (again) by two punks sitting behind me. They had been making rude comments since the presentations had begun but these were the worst.
“I bet none of them have been raped.”
“Yeah, it’s not rape if you enjoy it!”
I turn to my new friends and find their eyes wide with anger. Maggie, a girl with really short blonde hair, quickly scribbles in a notebook we have been using to talk and passes it down the line.
“I’m this close to sicking rabid squirrels on them,” read the note.
I giggle and write, “Sounds good. I would beat their brains out, but it looks like someone beat me to it.”
This gets laughs as it goes back to Maggie. She sets it down on the floor as the theater erupts into applause. I look at the stage and see a petite girl walk up by herself. She stands on stage, blushing and silent. The house goes quiet, waiting expectantly.
“Will members of the GSA please join me?” Her words ring out clear in the hushed theater and people from all over stand up. Every stereotypical group seems to have a representative, along with people who don’t seem to fit into any clique I can think of.
“Look, it’s the Fag and Dyke Association of America,” comes from behind me.
That comment pushes Beth, my blue-haired friend, over the edge. “If you tow don’t shut up I’ll make you eat your textbooks and then report you to the office. So shut the hell up.”
I look at her in amazement, then smile.
“We are the Gay-Straight Alliance,” the people on stage say in unison. I nearly choke on my own saliva.
“We believe in ending discrimination of lesbians, gay, bisexual, and transgender people in our schools and then our nation,” says a tall girl in a trench coat.
“We believe in fighting for acceptance,” a boy with long brown hair claims.
I listen to them, feeling so joyous that I can’t describe it. I see both Laura and Rainbow Patch Boy up on stage and I have to bite my cheek to keep from grinning. I am enthralled with every word they say, and when they mention their next meeting is tomorrow third hour, the debate begins within me over whether or not I should go.
I stand by the door of the lecture room, staring at the door, deciding whether to make a controversial move or not. If I go in, I’m jumping into ice water without a suit. If I leave, I’m becoming one of Them. I take a deep breath and jump.