It Starts With A Word

by Lise

I know people say they're just words, sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me, and that I should be the bigger person and just ignore it, but it's almost enough to make me want to wretch. I mean, I know that people are entitled to their own opinions, and I know that I can't change anything really, but sometimes I'd like to try, just like to do something to make them see how hate is just... just...

Any minute now. Any minute. I know this type. I know how they act and what they say, what their poisoned minds spits out into the world. They're probably even with the Friends of Humanity, or something like it. Nazi sympathizers, FOH-- they're all the same, right? These guys fit the profile perfectly. Stupid, for one. They talk like FOH thugs, and they've already cursed about eight times in the last five minutes. Any minute now... just wait for it...

There. They said it, and now I hate them. I hate the word. I hate it. I hate it so much, and I want to hit anyone who uses it. Language is a weapon, just like anything else. You do more harm with a foul word than a slap. And here we are on the bus, Chris and I, and Chris is trying not to cry, even as those guys at the back are bad mouthing who we were, our very existence-- how we were born, for crying out loud. That's just WRONG. No one will ever convince me it's right.

But, they've already gone through every racial and ethnic group they could think of that wasn't theirs. I guess we were bound to be next.

Some guys came to me one time and asked if I'd want to go to a meeting. Against the 'new threat to good citizens, moral citizens'. It was while I was sitting in a classroom in my college. I was waiting for my TA-- he was always late-- and then these guys came up to me and started being all friendly. I was a little bit confused, but thought, Hey, maybe they're good guys.... And then out came the hate pamphlet. They wanted to know what I though, whether I'd ever be willing to write an article or two. Because I seemed like a strong citizen. I was a Republican. I voted "No" twice about letting radical reforms mess up the college scheduling-- solely because I thought it was stupid to try and reschedule around halfway through the year. Nothing on my public record was suspect. The college doesn't collect information about risky stuff. Not yet anyway.

Oh look, Chris' hands are clenched. I can tell because we're sharing the bus seat, and they're sitting beside me. I want to comfort Chris, try and calm those nerves down, but I'm afraid of getting jumped by the neanderthals behind us if one of us starts using our powers-- and I think it's the only thing that'd help right now. Chris tends to unconsciously charge up if I get close, and so I don't. We both have to keep things all locked away, at least for now...

Did I mention that Chris and I are mutants? Lucky us.

When they asked if I wanted to write for their hate rag, I kept quiet, and they told me about a little 'party' that was gathering, wondered if I wanted to join them. Their party, I assume, meant a lot of people listening to someone with a hate-on for everyone that wasn't a good Christian, practising monogamist, and all that junk. I didn't answer them, though I wish I had-- I was too gutless to tell them to screw themselves, and too disgusted to try and find out anything else about them to report. I did report what they told me, gave the pamphlet to the Student Services Centre. The girl behind the desk was very nice, very sympathetic, but I think she was just happy that it wasn't more racial specific stuff. Lately, the tension around here with ethnic gangs has gone through the roof.

She was white. So am I.

And now, just when I thought I was going to get to go home and relax for a few hours, spend some time to just relax... now I have to listen to them bad mouth people going past on the street. The skinny kid deserves a gutter name. The girl with the skirt too short, oh, she's a whore. That guy, pale, big girly eyes, unnatural looking, doesn't even look all human, he must be... I can't even say it. They act as if they were better. As if, by the very words, they could elevate themselves above all the scum floating down around here, trying to pollute their society, their genepool, their culture, their family values....

Will you shut UP back there?

There it is again. That word. I hate them, every last one. They know it all, don't they. Be all end all to knowledge, every last one.

Do I sound bitter? Know-it-alls like them have been making my life hell, maiming my self esteem and crushing my ego, ever since I was 12 and I knew about it, about what I was. They knew better, of course-- needed to remind me about it every day at school, needed to remind me about the status quo, and what was right and what was wrong.

Those damn human instincts again... must propegate the right genes and all... they know best...

What those guys don't know, can't see, are the nasty names I'm thinking in my head. It's not like I can do anything else but think them-- I'm much smaller than they are, and besides, I have Chris to worry about. It's the only rebellion I have against them. They started with bastards, and went down from there, including the inbreeding of their parents, their sexual preferences turning to goats, and even the way they smelled.

If I had a mutant power like Chris, I'd use it to blast them, I don't doubt it. I know it would heighten mutant and human tension, but damn would it feel good. But being able to fine tune an engine, or a guitar, doesn't lend itself very well to blasting. I mean, I can feel the different pitches in someone's voice, for crying out loud, I can feel the vibrations. I know what they're saying, and the tone grates on my nerves. I think they've put down everyone and everything.

I wish someone would put them down. For good.

Chris is fidgeting now, like always. It's an upset habit, but it gets rid of some of the energy. I mean, Chris can't fully control the charges, and the last thing we'd need is for the beautiful hands sitting next to me to start glowing or something. Be the end for sure.

We don't look much like mutants-- just a couple of good ol'American boys. Probably why I was approached by those idiots last week, asking for guest writers for the "Society for Family Morals and American Values". Since I was a college student, studying psychology, would I be interested in contributing some information about what turns good people's children into sinners. Since I look like a healthy, concerned citizen, and since I'm studying sociology.

Looks can be deceiving. I mean, the bastards back there look intelligent.

Did I tell you that I voted against the college being allowed to collect medical data on students for educational and census data? They wanted to have permission to catagorize blood type, basic genetic background, and any other major illnesses, defects, or concerns. I wonder what paranoid governmental official came up with that one. Ah, the age old question of 'our side versus their side'. Will wonders never cease?

For crying out... if those guys talking loud back there aren't quiet soon, I'm going to make them be quiet. It's a good thing we're pulling onto 4th-- just a few more blocks and we're rid of them, Chris and I...

The bus slows down. Chris hasn't said anything for about fifteen minutes. The air is strained, but then, it's been a tough few weeks. The other passengers barely notice the two of us stand up-- he's so damned thin these days... anyway, this is our stop. A private clinic. Thank God my parents have the money to fund Chris' medical, otherwise I don't know what we'd do. So far, nothing bad has happened, but... who knows, right? Weird disease aside, Chris is the best thing that's happened to me, and I can't do enough to help.

I can't really do anything to help though. Couldn't even protect him from those grown-up-bullies, and they weren't doing anything but talking.

Weird diseases. You must see the news, watch those poor wretches dying of the Black Plague over in India, or that nasty flesh eating disease... Chris is so weak-- another victim of the Fates. Last week, when we went to see the doctor, he almost tripped down the aisle on the bus, and a pair of teeny boppers laughed at us. I ask you, is that nice?

At least they didn't say anything. He's so frail these days.

But today, it's all fine. We manage to get up and out the door without incident. I look behind me once, carefully, trying to see if the tough guys are going to follow us or not. Apparently today, they're content to point, stare and mock. Fine with me. I'll do it back.

We get onto the sidewalk, where I'm again confident enough to take Chris's arm, to help him be strong. I want to gather him up, and tell him he doesn't have to be strong -- that I will -- but we're both afraid. But I take his arm. I have courage for that. He mumbles to me, "Mike, sometimes..." but there's nothing to finish that sentence.

Words fail us, when they come so easily to the people that deserve so much less.

They yell out the bus window at us, and laugh amongst themselves, feeling all proud, high and mighty. High fives all around. I'm just relieved they didn't decide to get out and follow us... Chris isn't crying. Chris is angry. Angrier than either of us have been in a while. This can't be a good thing, but.... anger is better than fear.

Fear. Another word I hate. Living with Chris' HIV has brought fear into our lives, home for dinner, and it's staying. Fear and I are now on a first name basis. Every time he coughs, I hear those words echoing in my head. The words that other people say, to try and make it okay to point and laugh, to call us unclean, to call Chris impure. I hear them in my head, and the hate festers. How does language get away with being so cruel, so casually? Of course, a word can't be taken to court, a word can't be throttled to within an inch of its life, so I'll have to deal with the messangers.... I'm sorry. The last taunt is still ringing in my ears, and even though I've been hearing it all my life, it still stings. I still want to lash out. It's not right.

Someone has to teach them a lesson.

I hate the F word. If I could, I'd up and gun down every last piece of scum that used it. It scares me, but it's true. My blood boils as I sign the papers for his medical insurance. Chris' hands glow faintly, which shows that he's upset as well-- though his face is as calm as ever. I can feel the vibrations of the noises around me, and they hurt.

The words. I can feel them. They soak in, if you let them. I hate that kind of person, I hate me for hating them-- none of it will help Chris, but I can't help it. You say faggot, and I want to kill you.

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