Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover (17 page)

He returned to the stage and strode to the very front and center. “Guys. There are a lot of us who are gay. There are a lot of us who are straight. There are a lot of us who are so pretty we stop traffic. If yesterday is an example of how you behave around gay guys, then we’ve got a problem. We’ve got a big problem and we’re gonna deal with it right here and right now!

“Okay. Next tough question. This one is for the guys. Do you all have balls enough to admit that you were involved in yesterday’s attack? Huh? Come on. You’re such big men that you are responsible for defending the virtue of the school and keeping us all safe from the homosexual menace. You were so worried about the mere
rumor
that possibly, maybe somebody in your class was gay that you had to hurt him.

“What did he ever do to you? Did he rub up against you in the hall and say, ‘Hey baby, want to come up to my place tonight and get down and nasty?’ I seriously doubt it. Did he walk up to you while you were at your locker and squeeze your ass and say, ‘Nice butt, big guy!’? No. Did he walk up to you at the bus stop, admire your pants, and say, ‘Hey, dude! Nice jeans! Can I get into ’em?’ No. I doubt that as well. So what did he do to you? Nothing! That’s what he did to you.
Nothing
.”

Nobody moved. “No guys with balls here, huh? About what I figured.” He turned away and then stopped, as if he suddenly remembered something important. “Oh. Do you know what I’ve discovered? I’ve discovered that those who complain the loudest, the most frequently, most vigorously, and most irrationally about gay guys? They’re simply covering for their own deep-seated fear of admitting that they are gay themselves.

“So, all you closet cases who feel the need to beat up somebody to cover your own homosexual urges, to cover up your own sexual attraction to men, we’re onto you. We know the score now. And you know what? The world will be a whole lot better when you simply finally admit to yourself that you’re attracted to guys and get on with life. Admit you’re gay, and you’ll be happier. I don’t care if you admit it to the world—you do what you need to do—but when you finally admit it to yourself we’ll all be a lot happier… and safer. That’s about all I have to say.

“I wasn’t there to see what happened yesterday, but I saw the aftermath… and I couldn’t stand by and become a part of a hate crime. I’m better than that. And I hope that you are too. Thanks. Oh, and a couple of you guys—you know who you are—there’s a nice policeman in the back who wants to talk with you. Thanks, guys. Have a good day and make me proud.”

Much to my surprise, the audience applauded, rather loudly, when Bill finished. Not everybody. No, not everybody, and not all equally vigorously, but the cumulative effect was rather overwhelming. There were a couple of whistles and a couple of cheers. Bill had done an exceptionally good job, and I was so proud of him.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when he walked down from the stage, came over to me, and grabbed me for a big hug, lifting me off the ground and just about hugging the stuffing out of me. I wanted to be mad, but in reality I was just so comforted by the assurance of his presence that was too happy to be mad. “Thank you,” I said, barely getting the words out.

“Love you,” he whispered as he set me back down.

“Ditto.”

G
ETTING
through the rest of that day after Bill’s kickass presentation was difficult because I was really distracted. I still hurt in several places, including my shoulder, and everybody wanted to talk with me and assure me that they didn’t realize and didn’t mean to contribute to my assault. For my part, I didn’t know how to handle all of their attention. Several times throughout the day Bill appeared at random times to check on me and ask how I was doing. Apparently he had been getting as many, if not more, people wanting to talk with him than I had been experiencing. That night we were going to have a lot to discuss.

Finally, finally, finally, the last period of the day was over and we were able to head home. Bill put me into his car and drove us home, even though it wasn’t an afternoon he would normally be going home with me. He had practice of some sort that afternoon, but he simply told me he wasn’t going and that I was more important. If it didn’t hurt so much, I probably would have smiled a huge smile. But it did hurt, so I didn’t do it.

It was so good to be home. We had a quiet remainder of the afternoon, got our homework done, and played some games—I still didn’t understand how Bill was so good at these games that he swore he’d never played before I introduced him to them, but he was. I held my own sometimes, but he kicked my butt sometimes too. I wasn’t used to that. But since it was him I could adapt.

We had just finished dinner when the phone rang. My father was closest to it so he grabbed it, even though my mother hated to have anyone answer the phone while we were eating or still at the table.

My dad got a very serious look on his face. “Yes, this is he.” He was listening to someone. “I don’t understand.” More listening. “I’m not following you. This doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.” More listening, and then call was apparently over. He sat and simply looked at the phone receiver for a minute.

“Honey?” my mom said. “What’s wrong? Who was that?”

“That was the president of the Board of Education.”

“Oh, did she hear Bill’s wonderful presentation this morning?”

“She wasn’t there, but she saw a video.”

“Someone recorded it?” she asked. “Good. He was brilliant. It was golden!”

“Wait a minute!” I said. “How do you know?”

“I was there. I sat in the back and listened to every word Bill said. He was brilliant. I was so proud of him!”

“She doesn’t seem to agree.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“That’s about what I said to her too. She said that the principal made a serious error in judgment by allowing a student to address the students on this subject. She objected to the message. She objected to the language. She objected to… well, just about everything.”

“I don’t believe this!” she said, outraged. “He was brilliant!”

“She’s placed the principal on administrative leave pending an inquiry into his decision.”

“What?”

“And she’s placing Bill on suspension.”

“For what?” she shouted.

“Sorry, Bill, but she says you’re barred from entering the school grounds for the next week until the Board of Education next meets, at which time they’ll consider whether or not to readmit you.”

Well so much for a good feeling from today! Son of a bitch! That didn’t last long!

“Like hell she will!” my mom shouted. “I will not stand for this! She’s stepped over the line this time, and she’s not gonna get away with it. We need to take this public and put her in the spotlight. She’s condoning hate and violence! That’s what she’s doing! We’re gonna call her out!”

My mom was up from the table and on the telephone in no time flat. My mom had been active in the community in a number of ways, working at the church, doing her rescue work, helping out whenever she saw a need she could handle. As a result, she had a very wide network of acquaintances that she could call out in a crisis. And this was a crisis. Oh, yes, this was a grade-A, first-class crisis.

I only caught some of what she was saying on the phone, but it was clear she was assembling a crowd—no, more like a mob by the sounds of it. She activated every phone tree she could. She had people she knew calling people she didn’t know. She outlined an action plan that she threw together on the fly and told everybody what, when, where, and how. She spoke with a woman whose husband could make the wooden handles for picket signs. She asked a printer whose family she had helped if he could print some signs quick. She gave him a bunch of brief messages he could use. She spoke with someone else who could bring something to combine the handles with the signs. She spoke with someone else who knew the schedule of the board president, who in fact lived across the street from the nutcase and could monitor her comings and goings.

And then she turned to the more difficult calls. She got in touch with the local TV stations and, when she was able to speak to a reporter, gave them the story. She spoke clearly, coherently, concisely, and told them what was planned. She asked each of them to send a camera crew to cover what she called “calling her out for condoning hate.” Oh, this was going to be interesting. Once my mom got fired up, once she got an idea in her sights, she was like a dog with a bone—don’t try to take the bone away from the dog or you’ll lose an arm, at a minimum.

When she wasn’t calling people, people were calling her. One of the callers was her uncle. He had been there at Bill’s house when we got him and his mom out of there. He was a county judge of some sort. She asked him a series of questions about what was legal in terms of protest and what was over the line. He gave her several pieces of advice and agreed to be present the next morning.

Bill and I were numb with shock. Would this crazy roller coaster we were on ever stop so we could get off? This was insanity. We were just high school kids! We shouldn’t have to deal with things like this!

While my mom made phone calls, Bill and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. My mom had previously supervised us when we did that, but this time she was completely preoccupied with activating her version of the National Guard.

At some point she got off the phone and briefed my father on what she had arranged. He called her his little spitfire—I didn’t know what that meant, but she seemed to approve of what he said. We had finished cleaning up the kitchen by then. She talked to us next, outlining what she had set up. She really was quite an organizer. To go from zero to a hundred miles an hour in something like six seconds flat was an amazing feat. But she had done it.

The next morning we were up, showered, dressed warmly, fed, and in cars by 5:30 a.m. At 6:00 a.m. the protesters were assembling at the board president’s house—actually about a block away so that we could assemble the signs. When everything was ready, we proceeded to the woman’s house. In no time flat the peace and tranquility of the early morning hours were completely disrupted by a crowd of more than fifty people marching back and forth in front of her house, carrying signs and shouting, “Stop the hate!” and things like that.

It didn’t take long for the woman inside the house to come marching out, furious, demanding to know what was the problem. My mom informed her in no uncertain terms that she, the board president, was the problem because of her actions condoning hate and violence. She told the woman that she wasn’t going to stop until every single member of the community knew exactly what the president had done.

As they argued, people marched carrying signs that said:

“Stop the hate!”

“Hater!”

“Hate breeds violence.”

“Child abuser.”

“Bigot.”

“President hates students.”

“President encourages violence.”

“President condones violence.”

“President encourages attack on students.”

The signs looked really good. The printer had done a good job. They looked very professional, were bright, were clear, and looked far better than some half-assed handwritten things we had seen at other protests.

The TV stations hadn’t sent camera crews yet—they had agreed to place coverage on their schedules, especially when my mom informed them that they rarely, if ever, provided any coverage of news from our end of the county. She asked them why they never came our way when news was happening. I had no doubt that they would be there at some point today.

In case they didn’t make it, my dad had brought his video camera and was creating a record of the whole thing, probably not as well as a professional cameraman, but at least he was recording the event. My mom also directed me to take pictures with the camera on my smartphone. After she reviewed them, she had me e-mail them to every possible news coverage group in three counties. She had done her homework and was working to get the message out.

The crowd grew a little bit bigger as more and more people started to arrive. A lot of folks had to get to work. A lot of them worked out of town, so they had to get on the road for their commute, so an early morning picket was all they could do. My mother welcomed them all with words of gratitude. She got people organized in chanting together for more effect. Someone gave her a bullhorn, which she started to use, amping up the volume.

Other people from the neighborhood started to arrive to see what the commotion was all about. Word spread, and people from farther away started to arrive to check it out. By the time the TV crews arrived at about seven thirty we were at maximum crowd. I really wish I had counted the number of people, but at the time it just didn’t occur to me to do that. Maybe I could go back and look at the pictures and get a count that way, or at least a really good estimate.

My mom was interviewed by several camera crews. She gave a synopsis of the story in abbreviated fashion so that it might survive editing and make it on the news. She extolled Bill and his heroic efforts at stopping violence against innocent people. She told about the outcome of that heroic act and how appalled she was that this woman was in any way responsible for the well-being and welfare of children when she so clearly encouraged violence against children under her charge. She was laying it on thick.