julian94
07-13-2011, 05:14 PM
The ending is intentionally vague.
With sweaty hands and an unparalleled focus, I stood here, gazing at the building with the L.G.B.T flag hovering on top; ambivalent thoughts filled my mind: to go or not to go inside? I wanted to go but my body remained frozen on this cold pavement, unmoved even by the cold winter gale blowing against me.
Think, think.
People kept staring at me. Some were from the building and others were random passersby. The former had an air of sympathy; their smiles were quite sad but were understanding. They had inviting looks but did not approach me. The latter however, gave me these glares; they had these disgusted looks that made me extremely small and insignificant.
I felt powerless against them.
I wanted to cower in fear and hide.
I mean, what could I do?
A tall black guy, with green eyes and flowing straight hair; standing in front of a fairy building, their reaction were quite understandable.
Every aspect of me was fake in their eyes.
From my hair to my green eyes, all were unsightly and feminine for a male African. I wanted to tell them that they were not fake, that they were natural, and that I was born with them.
Though, I knew that they would not listen. Who would anyways? An African guy with naturally straight hair was unheard of.
As a young child, people found this cute and adorable.
As I grew older however, they started criticizing it, eventually hating every aspect of it.
The adults who previously commented on it suddenly started despising my appearance—and my existence as a whole. Their friends started telling hateful things about it and thus, in the process, they were forced to adopt the same opinions. They were like sheep, blindly following the shepherd.
This gave them a sense of comfort. This gave them a life with no real hardships.
They had ordinary problems such as paying the facture in time or taking care of their loved ones, and these were enough for them.
Who could blame them though for wanting to live this kind of life?
Who was I to judge them as individuals?
Again, I was powerless.
I was frequently bullied too.
‘Gay’ and ‘faggot’, people at school would give me the typical insults of the 21st century.
There was no real harm to that, and I would always shrug them off with a smile. However, as I grew older, they became more violent and the bullies started to get more physical.
I would frequently come home with a bruise or two and, along with a smile, lie to my mother how it happened.
She eventually discovered this though and had me to change schools. Nonetheless, it would always end up the same as the problem was on me. It was how I looked.
Because of this I did not have any friends, but I never felt lonely.
My mother would always be there to support me and to accept me for myself. I never knew my father for he had abandoned us when I was still very young. So my mother, as a single parent, had to be a warrior and a worrier at the same time. She would fend off predators trying to harm me, like a fierce lioness, and her maternal hug and strong kinky hair left me in a sense of warmth and comfort. I was protected.
And now that I was here, I had the chance to enter a world where I was sure to be accepted by everyone, to have friends. I was sure to be loved. So why was there a foreboding voice inside me telling me not to go?
Conflicting thoughts filled my mind until I finally realised how wrong all these were. I was pathetically forcing myself to become someone I was not.
If I do enter then I would not be any better than those people who bullied me. Those sheep.
Tears started to fall from my widened eyes; I was ashamed and in shock of what I had tried to do. More people gazed at me. I did not care. With a heavy step, I went on with my life.
With sweaty hands and an unparalleled focus, I stood here, gazing at the building with the L.G.B.T flag hovering on top; ambivalent thoughts filled my mind: to go or not to go inside? I wanted to go but my body remained frozen on this cold pavement, unmoved even by the cold winter gale blowing against me.
Think, think.
People kept staring at me. Some were from the building and others were random passersby. The former had an air of sympathy; their smiles were quite sad but were understanding. They had inviting looks but did not approach me. The latter however, gave me these glares; they had these disgusted looks that made me extremely small and insignificant.
I felt powerless against them.
I wanted to cower in fear and hide.
I mean, what could I do?
A tall black guy, with green eyes and flowing straight hair; standing in front of a fairy building, their reaction were quite understandable.
Every aspect of me was fake in their eyes.
From my hair to my green eyes, all were unsightly and feminine for a male African. I wanted to tell them that they were not fake, that they were natural, and that I was born with them.
Though, I knew that they would not listen. Who would anyways? An African guy with naturally straight hair was unheard of.
As a young child, people found this cute and adorable.
As I grew older however, they started criticizing it, eventually hating every aspect of it.
The adults who previously commented on it suddenly started despising my appearance—and my existence as a whole. Their friends started telling hateful things about it and thus, in the process, they were forced to adopt the same opinions. They were like sheep, blindly following the shepherd.
This gave them a sense of comfort. This gave them a life with no real hardships.
They had ordinary problems such as paying the facture in time or taking care of their loved ones, and these were enough for them.
Who could blame them though for wanting to live this kind of life?
Who was I to judge them as individuals?
Again, I was powerless.
I was frequently bullied too.
‘Gay’ and ‘faggot’, people at school would give me the typical insults of the 21st century.
There was no real harm to that, and I would always shrug them off with a smile. However, as I grew older, they became more violent and the bullies started to get more physical.
I would frequently come home with a bruise or two and, along with a smile, lie to my mother how it happened.
She eventually discovered this though and had me to change schools. Nonetheless, it would always end up the same as the problem was on me. It was how I looked.
Because of this I did not have any friends, but I never felt lonely.
My mother would always be there to support me and to accept me for myself. I never knew my father for he had abandoned us when I was still very young. So my mother, as a single parent, had to be a warrior and a worrier at the same time. She would fend off predators trying to harm me, like a fierce lioness, and her maternal hug and strong kinky hair left me in a sense of warmth and comfort. I was protected.
And now that I was here, I had the chance to enter a world where I was sure to be accepted by everyone, to have friends. I was sure to be loved. So why was there a foreboding voice inside me telling me not to go?
Conflicting thoughts filled my mind until I finally realised how wrong all these were. I was pathetically forcing myself to become someone I was not.
If I do enter then I would not be any better than those people who bullied me. Those sheep.
Tears started to fall from my widened eyes; I was ashamed and in shock of what I had tried to do. More people gazed at me. I did not care. With a heavy step, I went on with my life.