LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life: Cheaper by the Dozen |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
Twice in the last month I have been asked if I would like to become a father. Some of my lesbian friends have gone baby-mad, and two different couples put out tentative queries about maybe anteing up into a little cup to help them out. Im honored to be asked, of course. But I dont know. The last time I did this, it almost gave me a nervous breakdown. I was 13. It was eighth grade. Health class. We were discussing the responsibilities of parenting. Our teacher, Mr. Travis, decided that we were taking the whole thing far too lightly, and needed a lesson in the difficulties of having young ones to care for. So we all became parents for a week. Our children were eggs. Mr. Travis gave us each one and we held them anxiously while he explained what his exercise entailed. We were to name our baby eggs and decorate them. We had to have them with us at all times. They couldnt sit in our lockers. And if we had to be involved in some activity that took us away from our chargeslike gym classwe had to find a babysitter. At night, of course, we were allowed to refrigerate them, lest they become overly spoiled. If we managed to make it through the week without any harm coming to our egg children, we would receive an A on the assignment. But should our little ones become scrambled, or even cracked, we would fail. It was that simple. We took to the challenge with mixed emotions. Most of the girls thought it was great fun, while the boys looked at the fragile eggs cradled in our clumsy hands and immediately considered hard boiling them to make them sturdier. This, however, was one of the many options forbidden to us. So we did the best we could. What we hadnt counted on, however, was the almost irresistible appeal of infanticide. What started out as a well-intentioned exercise in parenting soon turned into a bloodbath. Like some kind of primal instinct, destroying other students children became our foremost goal. Each of us wanted to be the last one standing come Friday. We jostled our rivals on the stairs and "accidentally" bumped into one another in the lunch line. The sound of an egg hitting the floor while a bereaved parent howled in anguish became music to our ears. My egg was named Rupert. He had a cheerful little painted-on face. I was careful to keep him with me at all times, eyeing anyone who came near me with suspicion. I even walked home with him every night, lest some high school bully on the bus kidnap him and pitch him out the window, as had happened to Anne Chattam one afternoon when she refused to hand over five bucks to free her precious Charlotte from the clutches of a tenth grader. By Wednesday, fully half of the class had lost their egg babies to either neglect, accident, or murder. There had even been one case of a hired nanny shaking an egg in her charge so badly that it had cracked, and although she claimed she was just rocking it to sleep, none of us believed her. On Thursday, the pressure intensified. Those without eggs decided that the rest of us would join them in failure. It was an all-out slaughter. Eggs were ripped from their parents arms and hurled against walls. Some anxious kids tried to protect their offspring by sending them to live with younger siblings in the lower grades for the day. But that proved their undoing, as day care was strictly forbidden and Mr. Travis pronounced them unfit parents. By Friday morning, there were only two of us remaining, me and my friend Carolyn. This wouldnt have been a problem under normal circumstances, but Carolyn and I were always vying for the top spot in our classes, and at the moment we were in a dead heat. Whichever one of us was the best parent would be victorious. When the moment came to present our healthy bouncing babies to Mr. Travis, Carolyn went first. She carried Mellicent to the front of the class and held her up. Mellicent had beautiful yellow glued-on hair, and she was the picture of health. Mr. Travis beamed and wrote an A next to Carolyns name. Carolyn started to return to her seat. As she passed me she stumbled (I swear it was an accident), sending Mellicent to the floor. But instead of the usual smacking sound, there was just a gentle cracking as Mellicent shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. There was no yolk, no gore. Mr. Travis walked over, bent down, and examined the remains of Carolyns egg. "Well," he said. "It seems someone tried to get away with blowing out her egg. Would you like to explain this, Miss Pratt?" Carolyn turned red. Shed been caught. She was an egg-blower. It was a trick none of the rest of us had thought of. We were impressed. But Carolyn had still cheated. "I guess that makes Mr. Ford the only responsible parent in the class," Mr. Travis said. He picked up Rupert and shook him, making sure he was still intact. "Good work" he said. "A." I took Rupert home that afternoon triumphant. I was a good dad, and I had the grade to prove it. But now that the week was over, I had no idea what to do with my boy. Being a father had been a good experience, but I wasnt sure I wanted to spend the next 18 years carting Rupert around and tucking him into the refrigerator every night. My mother was in the kitchen, making a cake. A bowl of eggs sat near her. Sensing my opportunity to be rid of my responsibilities, I slipped Rupert in next to the plain old eggs and held my breath. When my mother reached into the bowl, I watched as Rupert was lifted out, cracked against the side of a bowl, and mixed into the batter. My mother, too busy reading her recipe, had never even noticed his little face as she ended his life. That night, as I ate my piece of chocolate cake, I had a few pangs of remorse. But by the second piece Id forgotten all about it. So when my lesbian friends try to lure me back into fatherhood, Im tempted to give it another try. But then I think of little Rupert, and how sweet he tasted, and I think maybe its not such a good idea after all. Michael Thomas Fords new book, Thats Mr. Faggot to You, is in stores now. His last book, Alec Baldwin Doesnt Love Me, recently won a Lambda Literary Award for best humor book. If you feel like it, write him at Shopiltee@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 9, No. 7, June 18, 1999 |