The
first time I met Allan, we were sophomores. It was also the first time I met
Ron, who would eventually become one of my closest friends. That year was a
year of many firsts for me, but high school being high school, it wasn’t easy.
Allan
was an interesting guy, funny but insecure. Our relationship settled on that
gray area between acquaintances and friends; we joked around each other, but we
were never close. Ron knew him better, and they shared many intimate details
about their lives and dreams.
One
memory stands out among the collage of images that form in my head whenever I
think of Allan. It was free period, and we were joking in class. We didn’t have
a lot of homework, so we were rowdier than usual. Allan walked up to me. I
expected the usual banter, so his bullying came as a complete surprise.
“Bading
ka ‘no? (You’re gay aren’t
you?),” he said, giving my shoulders a little push. I’ve just gone through a
growth spurt, so the bullying surprised me on two levels: first, because I
thought we were friends; second, because he was a head shorter than me. If it
wasn’t so out of the blue, I could’ve kicked his ass.
Instead,
I kept my mouth shut. This was a new experience for me, and I had absolutely no
idea how to react. How do other people deal with it? I remember Ron once hit a
guy because the guy said something Ron didn’t like, and Ron is around
two-thirds my size. I wanted to hit Allan, but I felt paralyzed and unsure.
I’ve
been hiding in the closet for so many years that the idea that someone may
uncover my secret terrified me. And here he was, declaring the truth for all to
hear. I wanted to deny it, but I knew it was true, and that I’d only sound
insincere. I sucked it up and kept quiet.
The
bell rang. I spoke with Ron about the incident, and together we developed
several ways to exact revenge. Ron’s more of the physical type, he said he
probably would have hit Allan if the latter did that to him. I said I’d rather
be subtle, let’s destroy his reputation.
We
were only fantasizing really. I don’t doubt Ron would have hit him, but I
probably wouldn’t be able to go through destroying Allan’s reputation. It would
weigh on my conscience too much. Besides, I had the sinking feeling he was
bullying me to impress his friends.
Lunchtime,
the same day, Allan went up to me and apologized. I was still with Ron, still
cooking up ways to destroy Allan, and here he comes offering an apology. I was
angry of course, but I also understood. High school can be hard on those who
refuse to go with the tide.
***
We
were seniors, and Allan had to repeat a year because he got sick. It was Ron
who told me.
“Allan’s
dead. He killed himself last night. The last person he spoke to was his sister.
He tied a belt around a beam in his room, and hanged himself.”
I
didn’t know how to react. More than a year had passed since I last spoke with
Allan, so I forgot about him. The lukewarm friendship we shared had easily
dissolved into a fading memory. I knew he had a new set of friends now, but I
didn’t know anything else. No one was sure why he committed suicide.
Ron
asked if he can hitch a ride to the wake. I said yes.
***
The
story spread through school as fast as one would expect with news this big.
Rumors sprung like mushrooms. “It was because he got caught with X-rated
magazines and alcohol during a school retreat,” someone said. “His father beats
him up regularly,” a sophomore insisted. “He’s secretly gay,” said another.
The
last one struck me, not because it was true, but because I understood why a
closeted high school student would want to kill himself. I knew, because I
thought about it myself. I know that that part of my life made me who I am
today, but actually living that part was a nightmare. Being misunderstood is
only fun in hindsight, not when you’re being alienated at that specific point
in time when your peers’ approval is as necessary as air, or water.
Someone
once said that adolescence is the worst because that’s when you are at your
ugliest, in that period where it was the most important thing for you to be
your prettiest (or handsomest). It was a joke, but it was also true. My friend
Ioanis (who studied in the same high school) told me once that he never
understood why I considered myself an outsider.
That’s
because I was, I told him. Ioanis had already gone through the process of
coming out, and though he lived in the fringes of the high school hierarchy, he
had friends there, who knew him and accepted him. My secret forced me in a
place similar to the relationship I had with Allan: a gray middle ground that
offered few opportunities for real friendship. I was still lucky. I found two.
I
wondered what secrets Alan kept. What drove him to that final, desperate act? I
remember the boy, always funny, his words always tinged with an unsure quality,
and I realized I knew nothing about him at all.
***
We’re
at the wake, Ron and I, sitting a few rows away from the coffin. Ron pointed
out the father; a short, stocky man in a black Lacoste shirt, eyes red and
glistening with unwept tears. We sat for a few moments, unsure what to do. We
decided to approach Allan’s dad to offer our condolences.
He
was exceedingly gracious, with a voice that was much more composed than what
his face belied. He asked if we were Allan’s classmates. I said yes, but didn’t
elaborate further. I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up the fact that
his son had to repeat a year.
He
reached for this piece of cardboard that stood on the coffin, and showed it to
us. Proudly he said it was a poem written by his son, for an English class. It
spoke of love, and friendship, and understanding. In that context, a father
obviously holding back grief for a dead son, I wanted to weep. Ron was
unnaturally quiet. We said it was a nice poem, and sat back down.
Ron
was fidgety, and because I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked him what the
matter was.
“You
know that poem?” he asked. “I wrote that. I showed it to Allan one time and I
never thought about it until now. I can’t believe he passed it off as his own.”
I
was stunned by the complete absurdity of the situation. “Well, keep quiet about
it. I don’t think now’s the best time to accuse someone’s dead son of
plagiarism.” Moments later, I started to find the whole thing funny. “You know
what? Think of it as a parting gift. He was our friend after all.”
Photo
taken here.
