This Gay Kid In My High School Lives In My Mind . . . Without A Name
I decided to write a novel when I was fifteen years old.
When I was in tenth grade, a girl came up to me in the hall at school and pointed to a boy with the most amazing blond hair I’d ever seen, a shimmering river of gold that brushed his hips as he walked. He was six feet tall, string-bean thin, dressed in white laced up pants, platform shoes, a gauzy shirt, and light makeup. The girl whispered that he had been beaten up by the jocks, hospitalized for three days.
I asked why and she answered, “Duh, because he’s gay.” Then she smiled sweetly and skipped off to her next class.
I couldn’t stop shaking for hours.
A few weeks later, I realized I hadn’t seen the blond boy for several days.
Around a month later, the same girl came up to me again, as though reporting a hot piece of gossip, and told me she heard the boy had died, beaten to death. Then she shrugged and said, “Who cares, one less f— .”
That night I promised myself I’d write about that boy some day. I wouldn’t let my readers feel indifferent like that girl. I’d write in support of the gay community, against bullying.
My high school had a transient population, with a significant number living on the streets, so a student’s disappearance was unremarkable. I had no idea whether this girl actually knew what happened. Still, I felt haunted by the rumor. I began to ask about the boy, but nobody knew anything.
Most chilling, nobody knew his name.
Decades later, I told a journalist friend that I was writing a novel about that rumor. She suggested I visit the archives, do some research, find out if the murder took place. I hesitated and to my surprise, I heard myself telling her that I wasn’t writing about the real person. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I had carried this boy deep within me since I was 15 years old, and he had taken on mythical proportions.
I was writing about a fantasy person who (like too many real people) had died of homophobia. During that conversation, my novel’s silent hero was born.
As I wrote the book, I considered what to call him. I knew he’d be a curious combination of a silent character, and simultaneously the most powerful presence in the novel. Should I give him a catchy nickname like Dash? A stately name like Hamilton? A likable name like Timmy? A powerful name like Rex? As I rejected one name after another, I realized that his character was grounded in his namelessness. So I kept him nameless, and I built the plot around his living without a name.
I decided to write this book decades before I knew Donald Trump’s name, before banning books became a groundswell, before transgender and nonbinary were declared not to exist. Today, as I watch the post-election culture unfold, the divisive values that my novel fights against are growing — a mentality of hatred, rage running amok, Us vs. Them. My country’s Commander-in-Chief actively endorses an ongoing process of dehumanization. In political terms — in the Divided States Of America, all people are not created equal. In personal terms — it’s a form of taking away their names.
I wish the election results had been different. I wish our administration didn’t define empathy and decency as a self-interested power surge. I wish so many people in my homeland weren’t hurt by their statements, their policies, their actions. I wish that rage and hatred weren’t contagious. I wish the people in charge cared enough to understood that gaining power by stepping on others isn’t sustainable.
Eventually, they’ll fall, and they’ll drag countless innocent people with them. They’ll all land hard, and some will survive while others won’t. Donald Trump’s name will be remembered, but most of the names of the innocent casualties will be forgotten, caught in a crossfire of dehumanization.
I’m writing for every person on the LGBTQ+ spectrum who doesn’t feel safe being who they’re meant to be.
I’m writing for that boy who disappeared from my high school so long ago, whose name nobody knew.
I’m writing for the day when nobody has to live without a name.
___
Back in tenth grade, I promised myself that I’d write a novel about that rumor some day, and my some day is now. Hollywood Pride is available on Amazon and in Barnes and Noble's online bookstore. amykaufmanburk.com
When I was in tenth grade, a girl came up to me in the hall at school and pointed to a boy with the most amazing blond hair I’d ever seen, a shimmering river of gold that brushed his hips as he walked. He was six feet tall, string-bean thin, dressed in white laced up pants, platform shoes, a gauzy shirt, and light makeup. The girl whispered that he had been beaten up by the jocks, hospitalized for three days.
I asked why and she answered, “Duh, because he’s gay.” Then she smiled sweetly and skipped off to her next class.
I couldn’t stop shaking for hours.
A few weeks later, I realized I hadn’t seen the blond boy for several days.
Around a month later, the same girl came up to me again, as though reporting a hot piece of gossip, and told me she heard the boy had died, beaten to death. Then she shrugged and said, “Who cares, one less f— .”
That night I promised myself I’d write about that boy some day. I wouldn’t let my readers feel indifferent like that girl. I’d write in support of the gay community, against bullying.
My high school had a transient population, with a significant number living on the streets, so a student’s disappearance was unremarkable. I had no idea whether this girl actually knew what happened. Still, I felt haunted by the rumor. I began to ask about the boy, but nobody knew anything.
Most chilling, nobody knew his name.
Decades later, I told a journalist friend that I was writing a novel about that rumor. She suggested I visit the archives, do some research, find out if the murder took place. I hesitated and to my surprise, I heard myself telling her that I wasn’t writing about the real person. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I had carried this boy deep within me since I was 15 years old, and he had taken on mythical proportions.
I was writing about a fantasy person who (like too many real people) had died of homophobia. During that conversation, my novel’s silent hero was born.
As I wrote the book, I considered what to call him. I knew he’d be a curious combination of a silent character, and simultaneously the most powerful presence in the novel. Should I give him a catchy nickname like Dash? A stately name like Hamilton? A likable name like Timmy? A powerful name like Rex? As I rejected one name after another, I realized that his character was grounded in his namelessness. So I kept him nameless, and I built the plot around his living without a name.
I decided to write this book decades before I knew Donald Trump’s name, before banning books became a groundswell, before transgender and nonbinary were declared not to exist. Today, as I watch the post-election culture unfold, the divisive values that my novel fights against are growing — a mentality of hatred, rage running amok, Us vs. Them. My country’s Commander-in-Chief actively endorses an ongoing process of dehumanization. In political terms — in the Divided States Of America, all people are not created equal. In personal terms — it’s a form of taking away their names.
I wish the election results had been different. I wish our administration didn’t define empathy and decency as a self-interested power surge. I wish so many people in my homeland weren’t hurt by their statements, their policies, their actions. I wish that rage and hatred weren’t contagious. I wish the people in charge cared enough to understood that gaining power by stepping on others isn’t sustainable.
Eventually, they’ll fall, and they’ll drag countless innocent people with them. They’ll all land hard, and some will survive while others won’t. Donald Trump’s name will be remembered, but most of the names of the innocent casualties will be forgotten, caught in a crossfire of dehumanization.
I’m writing for every person on the LGBTQ+ spectrum who doesn’t feel safe being who they’re meant to be.
I’m writing for that boy who disappeared from my high school so long ago, whose name nobody knew.
I’m writing for the day when nobody has to live without a name.
___
Back in tenth grade, I promised myself that I’d write a novel about that rumor some day, and my some day is now. Hollywood Pride is available on Amazon and in Barnes and Noble's online bookstore. amykaufmanburk.com
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