Well, the Bible started at the beginning, so why shouldn’t I? It was a Tuesday. It was a Wednesday. I don’t remember the day, in all honesty. I just know that it was yet another day in the hell on earth that called itself Saint Paul the Apostle’s Academy. The school itself seemed nice enough, with the buildings covered with the facade of a welcoming nature, but once your parents start on their five hour car drive home and you were left to fend for yourself, you remove the veil, cross the threshold, and you’re left with the very disappointing realization that you are not the first man to grace those hallowed halls with your presence.
My dad bought my way to Saint Paul’s so I could have the best education money could buy. He could afford to, what with his outrageously excessive fees for his high profile clients and all. No matter how much he spent on admission fees and room and board, my dad couldn’t buy the ability to wipe away the looks I received from my peers. I once walked into my room after my history class to discover a swastika and the words “Go home, kike” painted above my bed.
The added benefit of being the only one with a name like “Ziegler” at Saint Paul’s was that every roommate I had miraculously received a transfer to another dormitory, leaving me with a room all to myself. This meant that I could focus on my studies. Even if they didn’t want a part of me, I would have something to rub back into their faces. I consistently received the highest marks of my class. By senior year, I was sitting comfortably on top of my class.
Anyway, it was Thursday. I’m almost certain. Graduation was upon us, and it was almost time to announce the valedictorian. Saint Paul’s had a long tradition of bestowing the title on the young, distinguishable man with the highest marks, no questions asked. For some reason, they decided to start a new tradition for my graduation class: the top five of the class would be interviewed by a committee consisting of an assortment of teachers and administrators.
I later discovered that this was the only year Saint Paul’s used this method.
My appointment with the committee was that afternoon. I had prepared myself for every question imaginable. I had spent hours refining how I would skillfully articulate what could be said in a straightforward manner by simply stating “I’m better than everyone else. I deserve this the most.”
I walked up to headmaster’s office, where the meeting was supposed to be. It was ten o’clock, Friday morning, and I had reported to his office as instructed. I arrived only to find the door shut and locked with no one home. I waited. Ten fifteen. No one was there. Ten thirty. No one was there. I waited until about ten after eleven until I left. I thought that maybe the meeting had been postponed and I just didn’t get the message in time.
I went back to my dorm room and waited. I was never called.
The very next week, Saint Paul the Apostle’s Academy had announced the valedictorian of the graduating class: James O’Connor, a boy of Irish descent who it seemed frequently had a higher blood-alcohol level than grade point average. Anyone looking from the outside in at the statistics of the class would undoubtedly raise a brow when he saw the choice for valedictorian. But I knew why. Everyone on campus knew.
The day before the graduation ceremony, a mannequin was hanged on the lamp post just outside my window. Along with the noticeable quality of being on fire, the dummy had a large, protruding fake nose glued to it and a bag with a dollar sign in its hand.
In all of my years at Saint Paul’s, I never had the fortune of meeting Jerome until the day of graduation. We sat in the back corner, next to the other Zs and the one or two Ys in the class. He was a nice boy. He didn’t hate me. We ended up talking to each other as the pride of Saint Paul’s, James O’Connor, slurred his way through his speech. After the ceremony, he didn’t leave as quickly as he could. Instead, he waited to finish our conversation. We kept in touch over the next few years, but didn’t really meet again until after we made it through college.
He invited me to a bar one night so we could catch up. As it turned out, neither of us did much in college to take note of. Both our fathers died, something I had mentioned but he failed to in our correspondence. I asked him why he never mentioned it. His rather callous reply was “I’m glad the bastard’s dead.” His comment created a rather awkward air for next hour until we walked back to his apartment. As we walked in, I couldn’t help but ask him why he was glad his father was dead. Jerome looked at me and inexplicably and quite without warning began to sob. I took him to my shoulder in an effort to hush his blubbering for long enough for him to form words, an endeavour I thought to be in vain until almost ten minutes after he began. He finally calmed down and, after half a box of tissues, could talk.
“He provided for me. For that I can be thankful. But the man was a bastard. A pedophile. A creep.” He paused to catch his breath. “Every day when I came home from school as a kid, I wasn’t allowed to do my homework or read until he was through with me. Some days he wouldn’t even allow me to go to school.”
I had met his father and he actually had seemed a decent enough man. Disbelief would probably describe my state of mind at that moment. All I could do was give him a hug. I mean, what are you supposed to do when your only real friend tells you that his recently deceased father molested him as a child? After a minute I pulled back and we looked each other in the eye.
We used only one bed that night.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”
I won’t forget those words. Not for as long as I live. As short a time as that is. They don’t quite know what it is, but the general mood is that it’s only a matter of time. As I understand it, my body is a time-bomb. I’ve been diagnosed with an apparently incurable virus of some kind. The doctors asked if they could perform some tests on me to gain a better understanding of the disease I have because it was so unknown. Sure. Why the hell not?
The details of my remaining life were grim at best. As far as they could tell, from experiences with other patients, my body would shrivel up like a raisin in the sun until I ceased to exist. There was no telling when that process would begin, as far as they could tell. Here, in the end, I’ve realized that my life had become what I’d always wanted to be. In a way, it’s what I always was to the James O’Connors of the world. And to Jerome.
I am special.
My American Dream? To gain a sense of inclusion, belonging, and trust in a world which is destined to fight you and damn you. To be able to fit in, yet stand out as exceptional.
My dad bought my way to Saint Paul’s so I could have the best education money could buy. He could afford to, what with his outrageously excessive fees for his high profile clients and all. No matter how much he spent on admission fees and room and board, my dad couldn’t buy the ability to wipe away the looks I received from my peers. I once walked into my room after my history class to discover a swastika and the words “Go home, kike” painted above my bed.
The added benefit of being the only one with a name like “Ziegler” at Saint Paul’s was that every roommate I had miraculously received a transfer to another dormitory, leaving me with a room all to myself. This meant that I could focus on my studies. Even if they didn’t want a part of me, I would have something to rub back into their faces. I consistently received the highest marks of my class. By senior year, I was sitting comfortably on top of my class.
Anyway, it was Thursday. I’m almost certain. Graduation was upon us, and it was almost time to announce the valedictorian. Saint Paul’s had a long tradition of bestowing the title on the young, distinguishable man with the highest marks, no questions asked. For some reason, they decided to start a new tradition for my graduation class: the top five of the class would be interviewed by a committee consisting of an assortment of teachers and administrators.
I later discovered that this was the only year Saint Paul’s used this method.
My appointment with the committee was that afternoon. I had prepared myself for every question imaginable. I had spent hours refining how I would skillfully articulate what could be said in a straightforward manner by simply stating “I’m better than everyone else. I deserve this the most.”
I walked up to headmaster’s office, where the meeting was supposed to be. It was ten o’clock, Friday morning, and I had reported to his office as instructed. I arrived only to find the door shut and locked with no one home. I waited. Ten fifteen. No one was there. Ten thirty. No one was there. I waited until about ten after eleven until I left. I thought that maybe the meeting had been postponed and I just didn’t get the message in time.
I went back to my dorm room and waited. I was never called.
The very next week, Saint Paul the Apostle’s Academy had announced the valedictorian of the graduating class: James O’Connor, a boy of Irish descent who it seemed frequently had a higher blood-alcohol level than grade point average. Anyone looking from the outside in at the statistics of the class would undoubtedly raise a brow when he saw the choice for valedictorian. But I knew why. Everyone on campus knew.
The day before the graduation ceremony, a mannequin was hanged on the lamp post just outside my window. Along with the noticeable quality of being on fire, the dummy had a large, protruding fake nose glued to it and a bag with a dollar sign in its hand.
In all of my years at Saint Paul’s, I never had the fortune of meeting Jerome until the day of graduation. We sat in the back corner, next to the other Zs and the one or two Ys in the class. He was a nice boy. He didn’t hate me. We ended up talking to each other as the pride of Saint Paul’s, James O’Connor, slurred his way through his speech. After the ceremony, he didn’t leave as quickly as he could. Instead, he waited to finish our conversation. We kept in touch over the next few years, but didn’t really meet again until after we made it through college.
He invited me to a bar one night so we could catch up. As it turned out, neither of us did much in college to take note of. Both our fathers died, something I had mentioned but he failed to in our correspondence. I asked him why he never mentioned it. His rather callous reply was “I’m glad the bastard’s dead.” His comment created a rather awkward air for next hour until we walked back to his apartment. As we walked in, I couldn’t help but ask him why he was glad his father was dead. Jerome looked at me and inexplicably and quite without warning began to sob. I took him to my shoulder in an effort to hush his blubbering for long enough for him to form words, an endeavour I thought to be in vain until almost ten minutes after he began. He finally calmed down and, after half a box of tissues, could talk.
“He provided for me. For that I can be thankful. But the man was a bastard. A pedophile. A creep.” He paused to catch his breath. “Every day when I came home from school as a kid, I wasn’t allowed to do my homework or read until he was through with me. Some days he wouldn’t even allow me to go to school.”
I had met his father and he actually had seemed a decent enough man. Disbelief would probably describe my state of mind at that moment. All I could do was give him a hug. I mean, what are you supposed to do when your only real friend tells you that his recently deceased father molested him as a child? After a minute I pulled back and we looked each other in the eye.
We used only one bed that night.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”
I won’t forget those words. Not for as long as I live. As short a time as that is. They don’t quite know what it is, but the general mood is that it’s only a matter of time. As I understand it, my body is a time-bomb. I’ve been diagnosed with an apparently incurable virus of some kind. The doctors asked if they could perform some tests on me to gain a better understanding of the disease I have because it was so unknown. Sure. Why the hell not?
The details of my remaining life were grim at best. As far as they could tell, from experiences with other patients, my body would shrivel up like a raisin in the sun until I ceased to exist. There was no telling when that process would begin, as far as they could tell. Here, in the end, I’ve realized that my life had become what I’d always wanted to be. In a way, it’s what I always was to the James O’Connors of the world. And to Jerome.
I am special.
My American Dream? To gain a sense of inclusion, belonging, and trust in a world which is destined to fight you and damn you. To be able to fit in, yet stand out as exceptional.