I was outed as a Flaming Queer the second I showed-up for School Picture Day wearing a black turtleneck, dirty-face, unwashed hair and stretch pants split-up the crack. I wasn’t gay, I was just Queer. In my day-our day-‘queer’ didn’t mean homosexual or rather a horrible name for someone who is homosexual. In those years queer meant you were in Band, Chorus, or Mime. It was probably harder to be seen with a clarinet in your locker than to be thought of as homosexual.

I was the Big Queer who went to Six Flags Great Adventure with a t-shirt. On my back, in a giant decal, was MY NAME: Viki! I did not have carefree fun when hordes of drunken teenaged boys screamed my name from across the park. Not because I was a fox. Because I was queer. Typically the first thing I heard every long day in the school halls were, "Hey-REED! I heard you don’t wash your hands after you use the bathroom! HA?!" At which point, I would turn to show my tormentors how much they hurt me only to be hurt in my face by a flying spiral notebook. It’s not easy being queer.

Think about it, how bad of a queer do you have to be to be rejected by peers that grew up with you in the 1970's and 80's. How ungodly gay must I have been to earn the wrath of dinks wearing culottes, clogs, feathered Farrah-Dos, Bonne Bell lip gloss, and puka-shell chokers?

The subversive life of such an outcast only gets worse because one of two routes are taken in Junior High: you get stuck in a ‘tard class’; or you join an ultra-queer school activity. Either way, you find other queers which only causes your gayness to stink-out that much more. Precious true freaks like myself were fortunate enough to participate in both of these pathways to hell. I was stuck in a ‘super genius’ class because of exceptional creativity. I wasn’t exactly a ‘super’ genius because I also took remedial math, because I couldn’t compute without paper and pencil. It gets worse: I joined Mime Class, Guitar Class, and ultimately auditioned for a part in Cedar Drive Junior High’s production of "Oliver!". And won a big role: that of the undertaker. A man.

Where to begin? Tard Class was tedious fun that involved completing endless ‘dittos’ of the most joyless subject, math. Add to that, the fact that everyone else in Tard Class was: handicapped, a threat to themselves, carried a switchblade, or me. Safe to say a ‘wise’ queer would try not to make eye-contact or so much as raise a hand in Tard Class, because juveies were always on the prowl for a fight 24-7 and it didn’t matter if that fight wore a bad training bra or not. The true retards were seated-up front because they actually wanted to learn and the teachers focused on the pity they had for all of us more than the erasers that whipped past their ears and clapped onto my nice, dark-brown wardrobe.

Mime? It didn’t seem so queer at the time. Well, we’re talking about an era that gave birth to "Shields and Yarnell". Robin Williams was hysterical, right? No. Everything was wrong about the Cedar Drive Mime Troupe. Common to suburban Junior Highs around America of our generation; a phenomenon known as ‘The Hip Teacher Who’s Down With You Kids" erupted. Perhaps you remember yours. The hippy teacher who wore long uneven hair and no make-up, the radical ex-minister who started out as a substitute teacher, or the ex Viet-Nam Veteran who sits on his desk and says God Damn and Mother-Fucker. These teachers usually stayed where they belonged: in art or music departments, where turnover is high and the gym teachers won’t hurt their eyes from rolling them when lookin’ at their pansy faces. Our hip teacher was Doug Clayton. From his very platform shoes and bell bottom hip-hugger pants to his wacky ties, side-burns and John Lennon glasses; he was pure queer ringleader material. He thought he’d change the way the music department had been run. I’m sure he thought that was the reason he got the job over the tenured piano teacher spinster. She retired. Let me just describe him this way: you could call him Doug. He would share his love of Rock and Roll with all of us. Attendance would be one-hundred percent cool in his class and The Kids would finally love to learn. They’d all come to him for advice, like Ken Howard in "The White Shadow". Doug was white all right. Soon all queers were covered with white grease-paint as the Cedar Drive Mime Troupe prepared for presumably a career in mime. Another option. I can draw realistic pictures of sneakers or be a mime when I grow-up. Doug must’ve been playing his Pied Piper of Faggotry the day he held sign-ups for Mime Class. I never saw any of the losers sign-up, yet there we were a week later.

Fifty Junior High Queers standing in five rows of ten. Like Marcel Marceau, except not talented or French. We had to trained in leotards. Do you hear the ‘tard’ in leotard? I didn’t until about five of the most popular kids banged on the gym windows as they loitered in the halls (as only popular kids can get away with). The gymnasium windows were soon taped over so we could perfect being outcasts in private. The troupe contained every freaking nobody in a typical junior high: fat kids, the ugly girls, uncoordinated egg-heads, brainy girls that looked middle-aged, black kids (all two of them), the chorus spazazoids, any foreign kids from the local Military Base, the asthma kids, and me. All us looking misshapen and lumpy in our black leotards, white dolphin shorts, capezio shoes and rainbow suspenders. I did remind you that Robin Williams was Morking all over the place at the time. Yes, rainbow suspenders; thick as you can get-em and twice as queer.

I hated mime in my own bedroom, so why I would go through the motions with forty-nine big-time spit-ball magnets remains a mystery orbiting the planet. Formation walking into the wind; mass trapped in a box activity; groups of invisible catch and drop, fifty pathetically-uncoordinated twerps trying to lean on imaginary ledges and forty-seven usually dropping like bowling pins on League Night. There’s no music involved. More static than rotting bark. Nothing to disappear into except the silence and the echos of flat-footed pencil-pushers and booger-eaters not being synchronized in the least. The benefit was missing Silent Study Time in the morning. What would be the consequence of mime? To perform mime in public, of course.

There seemed to be some protection from this odd form of self-abuse behind the papered windows of the gym doors. But no amount of black, white, and red Criscoesque make-up or painted on smiles could conceal my terror. For sure, the only mime routine I would remember was walking against the wind, running away from the crowds, and wetting my underwear.

Doug arranged for the best fifteen queer mimes to perform in a wondering artisan method at a totally artless place, the Monmouth Mall in Middletown, New Jersey. We’d pair-up, miming our lumpy asses-off for tired shoppers and Doug could prove to the school board that he was truly a ground-breaking teacher. Everyone wore the mime garb in the bus but slapped the clown-sludge on our faces in the public restrooms. I spent thirty-five long minutes perfecting my expression of regret. My partner in mime (I sooo apologize for that one) Patti (one of the most brutally dissected kids in all of my school years), was as brazen as she was pear-shaped and clumsy and who cares?! She’s picking a flower or is she bobbing a yo-yo? She was gusto times ten and doin’ it! For myself, I preferred to do a routine I called "mime trapped inside a bathroom stall". Whether because of Patti’s desire to act her ass-off, or Doug sending another mime in after us, I was forced out of my cocoon too soon. I delayed my exit with skill; moving slo-mo was finally useful. Upon my exit, I stood under a plant bitching and panicking about not wanting to do this when I forgot that I was wearing make-up. I didn’t remember clamping-on the hideous lifting and crack separating suspenders and shorts. I rubbed my tired eyes with my white gloves and came up with fists that appeared to have been in a fight with another mime. Patti attempted to stray-off with her inscrutable ‘petting a live flower that bounces’ shtickla and I hauled-butt back towards the ladies’ room. There was mon salvation, the windowless-door of the public bathroom, when suddenly I heard a woman’s voice. A woman’s and a child actually. Fighting about potty training behind a stall. Before I could retreat into another stall, they emerged. The mother’s words cut through me like piss in the snow, "Look, sweetie! It’s a clown! A CLOWN!" God, no. Please, God. Not just a patron of the mall, but a mother and a tot being denied diapers. She needs some distraction and a cigarette. I was the distraction. My first portrayal was mime scared clueless and frozen in a block of crap. What do you do? You act like a robot butler. It’s doubtful the toddler was anything other than bewildered and constipated. The mother kept waiting for the payoff, like I would pull a nickel out of her kid’s ear or a trick bouquet out of my rear. Nope. Just a robot butler. There’s no second hand in ‘mime-time’-no clock or measurement that would define and end. Of course nothing draws attention more than a mother yelling "Look, honey, it’s a CLOWN" in a public venue. I was circled by mothers who wanted a respite, like pigs to a trough: one by one, curious, then ravenous. Alas, I would not offer them so much as a chance to adjust their Legg’s panty-hose. You can only rigidly bend your elbows, head, waist and hands so many ways and so many times. Robot-Butler-Mime-Clown was finit. It was at this moment in time that the word, "smattering" was invented, as the applause gave me permission to escape. My heart pounded, sweat erupted from behind white greasepaint and a hideously happy stranger stared back at me from the bathroom mirror. None of this was worth the half-day of school that we missed. For once Tard Class seemed a pleasure.

On the return bus ride back to Cedar Drive, I fantasized about accidents and scattered mimes on the roadway. Who would stop to help us? We’d all look the same-how would my parents identify me? They’d have to refer to dental records. I could hear the coroner now: "I’m very sorry to tell you this, Mr and Mrs Reed; but that Robot Butler is your Mime, ‘er’ I mean daughter."

Doug’s career at Cedar Drive featured a renewed interest in musical productions, guitar lessons after school, rock and roll history appreciation (which meant that every prankster appreciated the fact that Doug left every blessed 400 record albums in his collection unprotected and very destructible in our choir-room). He choreographed the infamous disco-dance history semester; your final exam was the creation of your own disco dance with the eventual performance of said dance with queer partner of the same sex in front of entire class which couldn’t wait to mock you. The day my disco dance was unveiled, is one of those personality forming events. You either break free from your shell or you do what the teacher says and suffer intense humiliation. When Mr. Clayton introduced Patti (again, my partner in mime) and me. I refused to budge, and said, with a surrendered slack in my vocal chords, "Why should I do this? NO one asks me to dance. We shuffled very reluctantly to The Bee Gees, ‘Night Fever’, messed-up our original moves by a bump and dosey-do and developed scoliosis from trying to hide my face from my body for the rest of the year. Despite Doug’s ability to put queer-bait in potentially inflammatory situations, I felt sorry for him when he took a mental health hiatus. Apparently the same guys that trashed his very priceless record collection began making death threats at his home, on the phone. To his pregnant wife. He could’ve changed his number and of course even a mob of thirteen year-olds aren’t going to actually kill him. (Toilet paper hanging from your trees is generally not a precursor to an assassination.) But they did squash his spirit. Doug, the same guy who put me in rainbow suspenders and made me hustle in front of peers and got me worked up into auditioning for a part in "Oliver" had hit a wall. When he returned from his ‘vacation’. He wasn’t ‘cool Doug’ anymore. He was ‘Mr. Badass Clayton’. Never smiled again, that I could recall, outside of whenever he would throw chairs at the floor to command attention. It didn’t deter or scare anyone, it just made us all laugh. Wow, a teacher that was so queer, he blessedly diverted attention from me and Patti and The Others. Sadly, I ran into Mr. Clayton, almost a decade after my Queeraissance. He was selling overpriced costume jewelry and watches at The Monmouth Mall. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or much hair for that matter. He was so burned that the smoke from his record collection was still wafting off of him. I wanted to apologize for all the pain he must’ve endured. But instead I just boogied away.

That’s enough queer to last anyone’s lifetime, but not enough for mine. I lived, breathed, and ate queer. Fag was my middle name. I didn’t cuss and if I did, I might only say ‘dammit’ or ‘ass’. I had a darker secret in my book-bag. I wanted to be Linda McCartney more than Viki Reed. Linda McCartney? The tone-deaf, saggy-breasted, big-nosed, wife of Paul McCartney and Wings? Sure, you bet. I knew every Wings song and had a 33rpm disco-version of "Daytime, Nighttime Suffering". Three copies of "Back to the Egg" is not a financial sacrifice when there’s a scratch on the first two albums. I read the lyric sheet for "My Love". No, it wasn’t fair. Why was Linda going all over the world, taking photographs, dressing very casually and queerly, sans bra, straight blonde hair, keyboardist in a rock band, and making out with the cutest Beatle of all time, having his babies and living on a farm in Scotland. That should’ve been me! I was so obsessed with Linda, that I could capture her likeness ‘free-hand’ in great detail. If she was going to appear on TV, I’d stay up late or get up early and miss the bus to hear her fake English accent. I was doomed. Other girls my age mimicked posters of Tiegs, Fawcett, Brinkley, Principal, Benatar and the like. My role model slouched and had no lips. It was my dream to warble "JET! Whooo...oooh..oooh" to a stadium crowd. Who could sleep? I would never stroke Paul McCartney’s pubic hair-so dark and lush as it was in Linda’s ‘love portraits’. There would be no song written by a world famous hunk just for me CALLED just insert my name! Perhaps it was the resulting bitter frustration that drove me to join both the Captain and Tennille and Hudson Brother Fan Clubs.

Now, I’m pretty sure there’s no law demanding you wear a cowl-neck sweater or colored Levi’s or a cobra-snake chain belt when listening to "Muskrat Love", but there should be. Own your queerness, name it, wear it, be it. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with listening to "Who’ll Stop The Rain" seventy-three times in a row with headphones on. Maybe my beagle was delivering a message from God by eviscerating my headphones. So what if neither the Captain or Tennille responded to my fan letter or rendering of their "Love Will Keep Us Together" album cover. Just because I only ever got three newsletters in a whole year-that doesn’t mean they don’t care? They must’ve lost my address. The Hudson Brothers? Well, first they guested on other variety shows, then I had a lot more time with Brett Hudson when the trio got their own very popular variety show. They rocked, they joked, they acted; they did everything. Brett was my favorite and I wore that Hudson Brother Shirt with their logo until it disintegrated. Of course, I couldn’t wear it to school, but why share Brett, Mark, or Bill with anyone. If they were so queer then why did Goldie Hawn marry Bill Hudson? Answer me that? I only got one newsletter from them, but to this day I have my "Hey, Margolis!" button. Chuckie Margolis was a ‘character’ study by the youngest and cutest Hudson, Brett. Paul was taken, but Brett would adore every queer molecule in my faggotized adolescent body. No, he wouldn’t; he was ten years older than me at least and I wasn’t even legal to drink.

Guessing what would’ve been if I’d had a better ass, or nice teen-boobettes, or an iota of self confidence and popular friends is pointless. I can’t go back and crack skulls or defumigate the clothes I wore. Not worth it. I wasn’t even the kind of big-time queer that existed in Cedar Drive. I wasn’t extremely anything; not fat, not stupid, not handicapped, not ugly. I was one of those Kleenex queers. Totally disposable, numerous and anonymous; we were their tissues to blow, wipe, or wad-up when there was nothing else to do. We provided color in an otherwise boring day. We raised the bar for the major school queers and mixed it all up for people who wanted to talk to us, but didn’t want to be tainted by friendly contact with us. I can’t imagine what would memorialize my tenure at Cedar Drive. I don’t have to. There was that one day in Gym Class. After you exit the locker rooms (Hell’s real kitchen), and run to your place in your squad-row on the floor and class officially begins. The butch lady and the tree-necked male coach blow their whistles. A minute later all kids are silent and facing forward. All kids except for one part of my body. My sphincter. My gut lurched with an uncontrollable retching ball of gas. Not a stinking one, but a rapid deployment of noise. A semi-automatic ass. If it weren’t for the high-walls of the gym, I would’ve sworn the echos of my misfortune could carry all the way back to my house, where all of the family pets would lift their ears in a jolt. It didn’t even have to be loud, the acoustics were so good in that gym. A few people looked around, I convinced myself that the girls in front and behind me had no idea it was me. Everyone in the gym looked around, including me; I even added a shrug and an absurd pantomime (all my studying was paying-off!) "Was that a fart I heard?!" As if the fact that my face was violet and crimson with utter horror wouldn’t tip-it off to those who were only hearing the reverb bouncing-off the backboards on the other side of the court. Oh, they knew it was me. What more a queer legacy than that?

A QUEER LEGACY: YES OR NO ANALYSIS

Go back in time, to your teenage years. Answer truthfully because I see your hiney, it’s big and shiny.

1.Back in your school-days, when you enter the cafeteria for lunch were you likely to say:

Hey! Who hocked on my bagel? YES OR NO

2. If you went to grab your coat out of the closet in your home room at the end of the day what would you find in your coat?:

Chewed-Up Tootsie Rolls inside the sleeves YES OR NO

3. During Recess, would you:

Voluntarily sit in the library for detention? YES OR NO
Get boxed-off the asphalt by the closeted-lesbians who saw you as a mark? YES OR NO
Get slammed in the head by a kick-ball from 30 feet away...by someone you knew? YES OR NO
Sneak away, behind the soccer field and get high? YES OR NO

4. Have you had more:

Wedgies than friends? YES OR NO
Zits than wedgies? YES OR NO
Scabs than zits? YES OR NO
Pounds than I.Q. ? YES OR NO

5. Did you prefer:

Alessio Jeans over Sassoon? YES OR NO
Lee Jeans over Levis? YES OR NO
Corduroy over Jeans? YES OR NO

6. Was your middle name worse than your first name? YES OR NO

7. Did either your first or last name or both rhyme with the word for a bodily function, an insult referring to mental incompetence, or a word that described your most obvious weakness? YES OR NO

If YES, was this coincidence of alliteration abused by other students? YES OR NO

8. Was your most intimate friend : fat, handicapped, mentally challenged, or smelly? YES OR NO

9. Did you carry a hair pick in the ass-pocket of your pants? YES OR NO

10. Was there ever a point when your hair had a style or cut that stayed put and looked attractive? YES OR NO

11. Did you suffer from dandruff? YES OR NO

12. If YES, did you believe Head and Shoulders Shampoo actually worked to cure this? YES OR NO

13. Did you wear lots of scarves for ‘fashion purposes’? YES OR NO

14. Where did you sit on your school bus:

Very front rows? YES OR NO
In the middle section, with your face hidden? YES OR NO
Towards the rear of the bus, clustered too many to a seat, turning to the absolute rear? YES OR NO
In the absolute rear, toting a tape deck, radio, and/or a joint? YES OR NO

15. Were you more likely to have a t-shirt bearing:

The Rolling Stones’s Lips Logo? YES OR NO
Journey on Tour? YES OR NO
Beam Me Up Scotty T-Shirt? YES OR NO
Jack Daniels T-Shirt? YES OR NO
Andy Gibb Live! T-Shirt? YES OR NO
Led Zepplin’s Exploding Dirigible Album Cover? YES OR NO
Billy Joel’s The Stranger Applique? YES OR NO

16. Did you date:

A popular kid (on a team or a cheerleader or plain super cute) YES OR NO
A super mature kid who volunteers after school and plays an instrument YES OR NO
Yourself (while picturing Richard Dreyfuss or Barbara Eden in her Jeannie costume) YES OR NO

Tally your YES and NO count. If you answered more than two questions YES, you pass muster as a bonafide Junior High School Queer. You are probably also on your second marriage, lacking a college degree, tried to get into acting, and gotten into minimum of two car accidents, and still have a hard time finding friends who don’t have just as many YES answers as you do.

Brain Candy E-Zine has no rights to this story.  The rights belong to the author.

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