Scott (last name withheld) made it official when he called me faggot. That was the only word the blond basketball jock ever uttered to me in high school. Faggot. We were alone on a walkway, two students passing in the light of day. Faggot. I idolized him and his balling skills, thought he had one of the best asses in our class. Faggot was all I knew about how Scott (last name withheld) felt about me.
One day, the basketball jock showed up to school with bruises all over his face. A short time later, he transferred to another school. Faggot. My socially retarded mind created an entire mythology based on my lone interaction with Scott (last name withheld).
I dreamed of a novel where a blond basketball jock calls a black nerd faggot, but what the blond jock really means is, “can we be faggots together?” The two lost souls drift through life until reuniting as adults. The story ended with the black character dying tragically. Faggot.
They called me faggot in high school. They were right. I was, still am and always will be a faggot. But never again will I ever be a faggot who believes that men like Scott (last name withheld) are better or better off than me.
And never again will I conceive of novels where the black heroes of my dreams die tragically. Faggot.