The Inexplicable Logic of My Life Read online

  “True that,” Sam said. “I think there are a lot of things that find a hiding place in our bodies.”

  “Maybe those things should keep themselves hidden,” I said.

  We slowly made our way home. Sam and I didn’t say anything for a long time, and that silence between us was definitely unsettling. Then Sam finally said, “Nice way to begin senior year.”

  That’s when I started shaking.

  “Hey, hey,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you this morning that we should kick some ass?”

  “Funny girl,” I said.

  “Look, Sally, he deserved what he got.” She gave me one of her smiles. One of her take-it-easy smiles. “Okay, okay, so you shouldn’t go around hitting people. No bueno. Maybe there’s a bad boy inside you just waiting to come out.”

  “Nah, not a chance.” I told myself that I’d just had this really strange moment. But something told me she was right. Or halfway right, anyhow. Unsettled. That’s how I felt. Maybe Sam was right about things hiding inside of us. How many more things were hiding there?

  We walked the rest of the way home in silence. When we were close to her house, she said, “Let’s go to the Circle K. I’ll buy you a Coke.” I sometimes drank Coke. Kind of like a comfort drink.

  We sat on the curb and drank our sodas.

  When I dropped Sam off at her house, she hugged me. “Everything’s gonna be just fine, Sally.”

  “You know they’re gonna call my dad.”

  “Yeah, but Mr. V’s cool.” Mr. V. That’s what Sam called my dad.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But Mr. V happens to be my dad—​and a dad’s a dad.”

  “Everything’s gonna be okay, Sally.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Sometimes I was full of halfhearted yeahs.

  As I was walking home, I pictured the hate on Enrique Infante’s face. I could still hear faggot ringing in my ears.

  My dad. My dad was not that word.

  He would never be that word. Not ever.

  Then there was a loud clap of thunder—​and the rain came pouring down.

  I couldn’t see anything in front of me as the storm surrounded me. I kept walking, my head down.

  I just kept walking.

  I felt the heaviness of my rain-soaked clothes. And for the first time in my life, I felt alone.

  Me. Dad. Trouble.

  I KNEW I WAS in deep trouble. Deep, deep. We’re talking deep shit. My dad, who was sometimes strict but always thoughtful, and who never yelled, came into my room. My dog, Maggie, was lying on the bed next to me. She always knew when I was feeling bad. So there we were, Maggie and me. I guess you could say I was feeling sorry for myself. That was a strange feeling, too, because feeling sorry for myself was definitely not one of my hobbies. That would be one of Sam’s.

  Dad pulled the chair away from my desk and sat down. He smiled. I knew that smile. He always smiled before he gave me one of his serious talks. He ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I just got a phone call from the principal at your school.”

  I think I averted my eyes.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I looked into his eyes. We looked at each other for a long instant. I was glad I didn’t see anger. And then he said, “Salvador, it’s not okay to hurt other people. And it certainly isn’t okay to go around punching people in the face.”

  When he called me Salvador, I knew it was serious business. “I know, Dad. But you don’t know what he said.”

  “I don’t care what he said. No one deserves to be physically attacked just because he said something you didn’t like.”

  I didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally I decided I needed to defend myself. Or at least justify my actions. “He said something really shitty about you, Dad.” On another day, I might have cried. But I was still too mad to cry. Dad always said that there was nothing wrong with crying and that if people did more of it, well then, the world would be a better place. Not that he took his own advice. And even though I wasn’t crying, I guess you could say I was a little ashamed of myself—​yeah, I was—​otherwise I wouldn’t have been hanging my head. I felt my dad’s arms holding me, and then I just leaned against him and whispered, “He called you a faggot.”

  “Oh, son,” he said, “do you think I’ve never heard that word? I’ve heard worse. That word doesn’t carry any truth, Salvie.” He took me by the shoulders and looked at me. “People can be cruel. People hate what they don’t understand.”

  “But, Dad, they don’t want to understand.”

  “Maybe they don’t. But we have to find a way to discipline our hearts so that their cruelty doesn’t turn us into hurt animals. We’re better than that. Haven’t you ever heard the word civilized?”

  Civilized. My father loved that word. That’s why he loved art. Because it civilized the world. “Yeah, Dad,” I said. “I do understand. But what happens when a friggin’ barbarian like Enrique Infante is breathing down your neck? I mean”​—​I started petting Maggie—​“I mean, Maggie is more human than people like Enrique Infante.”

  “I don’t disagree with your assessment, Salvie. Maggie’s very tame. She’s sweet. And some people in this world are lot wilder than she is. Not everyone who walks around on two legs is good and decent. Not everyone who walks on two legs knows how to use their intelligence. Not that you don’t know that already. But you just have to learn to walk away from wild people who like to growl. They might bite. They might hurt you. Don’t go down that road.”

  “I had to do something.”

  “It’s not a good idea to jump into the sewer to catch a rat.”

  “So we just let people get away with things?”

  “What exactly was Enrique getting away with? What did he take?”

  “He called you faggot, Dad. You can’t just let people take away your dignity.”

  “He didn’t take away my dignity. He didn’t take away yours either, Salvie. You really think a punch to the nose changed a damn thing?”

  “No one gets to call you names. Not when I’m around.” And then I felt the tears falling down my face. The thing about tears is that they can be as quiet as a cloud floating across a desert sky. The other thing about tears is that they kind of my made my heart hurt. Ouch.

  “Sweet boy,” he whispered. “You’re loyal and you’re sweet.”

  My dad always called me sweet boy. Sometimes when he called me that, it really pissed me off. Because (1) I wasn’t half as sweet as he thought I was, and (2) what normal boy wants to think of himself as sweet? (Maybe I was going for normal.)

  When Dad left the room, Maggie followed him out the door. I guess Maggie thought I was going to be all right.

  I lay on the floor for a long time. I thought of hummingbirds. I thought of the Spanish word for them: colibrís. I remembered that Sam had told me that the hummingbird was the Aztec god of war. Maybe I had some war in me. No, no, no, no. It was just one of those things. It wasn’t like it was ever going to happen again. I wasn’t the punching-other-guys-out kind of guy. I wasn’t that guy.

  I don’t know how long I lay on the floor that evening. I didn’t show up in the kitchen for dinner. I heard my father and Maggie walk into my darkened room. Maggie jumped on my bed, and my father turned on the light. He had a book in his hand. He smiled at me and placed his hand on my cheek—​just as he’d done when I was a boy. He read to me that night, my favorite passage from The Little Prince, about the fox and the Little Prince and about taming.

  I think if someone else had raised me, I might have been a wild and angry boy. Maybe if I’d been raised by the man whose genes I had, maybe I’d be a completely different guy. Yeah, the guy whose genes I had. I hadn’t ever really thought about that guy. Not really. Well, maybe a little.

  But my father, the man who was in my room and had turned on the light, he’d raised me. He’d tamed me with all the love that lived inside him.

  I fell asleep listening to the sound of my father’s voice.

  I
had a dream about my grandfather. He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear him. Maybe it was because he was dead and the living didn’t understand the language of the dead. I kept repeating his name. Popo? Popo?

  Funerals and Faggots and Words

  THE DREAM ABOUT my Popo and the word faggot got me to thinking. And this was what I was thinking about: Words exist only in theory. And then one ordinary day you run into a word that only exists in theory and meet it face to face. And then that word becomes someone you know.

  Funeral.

  I met that word when I was thirteen.

  That was when my Popo died. I was a pallbearer. Up until then I hadn’t even known what a pallbearer was. You see, there are a lot of other words you meet when you run into the word funeral. You meet all Funeral’s friends: Pallbearer, Casket, Undertaker, Cemetery, Headstone.

  It felt so strange to carry my grandfather’s casket to his grave.

  I was unfamiliar with the rituals and prayers for the dead.

  I was unfamiliar with how final death was.

  Popo would not be coming back. I would never hear his voice again. I would never see his face again.

  The cemetery where he was buried still had an old-world approach to funerals. After the priest had commended my grandfather to paradise, the funeral director stuck a shovel in the mound of dirt and held it out. Everybody knew exactly what to do. A silent and somber line formed, each person waiting for their turn to grab a fistful of dirt and pour it over the casket.

  Maybe it was a Mexican thing. I didn’t really know.

  I remember my Uncle Mickey gently taking the shovel out of the funeral director’s hands. “He was my father.”

  I remember walking up to the shovel and taking a fistful of dirt and looking into my Uncle Mickey’s eyes. He nodded. I still see myself throwing the dirt and watching it hit Popo’s casket. I see myself burying my face in Aunt Evie’s arms. I see myself as I looked up and saw Mima sobbing into my dad’s shoulder.

  And I remember one other thing about my Popo’s funeral. A man standing outside smoking a cigarette was talking to another man, and he said, “The world doesn’t give a damn about people like us. We work all our lives and then we die. We don’t matter.” He was really angry. “Juan was a good man.” Juan, that was my Popo. I can still hear that man’s anger. I didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

  I asked my father, “Who are people like us? And why did he say we don’t matter?”

  My dad said, “Everybody matters.”

  “He said Popo was a good man.”

  “Popo was a very good man. A very good and flawed man.”

  “Did the two of you talk? I mean, like you and I talk?”

  “No. He wasn’t like that. I was close to him in my own way, Salvador.”

  I was so curious at thirteen. But I didn’t understand much. I took words in and even remembered them, but I don’t think I understood anything.

  “And people like us? Did he mean Mexicans, Dad?”

  “I think he meant poor people, Salvie.”

  I wanted to believe him. But even though I didn’t understand anything at thirteen, I already knew there were people in the world who hated Mexicans—​even Mexicans who weren’t poor. I didn’t need my father to tell me that. And I also knew by then that there were people in the world who hated my father. Hated him because he was gay. And to those people, well, my father didn’t matter.

  He didn’t matter at all.

  But he mattered to me.

  Words exist only in theory. And then one ordinary day you run into a word that exists only in theory. And you meet it face to face. And then that word becomes someone you know. That word becomes someone you hate. And you take that word with you wherever you go. And you can’t pretend it isn’t there.

  Funeral.

  Faggot.

  Dad and Sam and Me

  Dad took me to school the next day. To have a chat with the principal. When we picked Sam up in front of her house, she was all smiles, trying too hard to pretend everything was cool. “Hey, Mr. V,” she said as she jumped into the back seat. “Thanks for the ride.”

  My dad just sort of smiled. “Hey, Sam,” he said. “And don’t get used to it.”

  “I know, Mr. V. We have two legs.” She rolled her eyes.

  I could see that my dad was stifling his laugh.

  Then the car got real quiet, and Sam and I started texting each other.

  Sam: Stand ur ground

  Me: This ur idea of life beginning?

  Sam: Worry, worry, worry. And b sides, I’m not the one who punched Enrique

  Me: True that. Am in deep truble

  Sam: Yup yup yup. Lol

  Me: Zip it

  Sam: Dn’t apologize for anythng. Enrique had it coming. He’s a pig oink

  Me: Lmao. I dont think any1 else shares our pov ☺

  Sam: Well F them!

  Me: No cussing in dad’s presence

  Sam: Lol

  Dad interrupted our texting. “Will you guys stop that? Were you raised by wolves, or what?”

  Raised by wolves. One of my dad’s favorite expressions. Old-school. “No, sir,” I said. “Sorry.”

  Sam just couldn’t help herself. She always had to say something—​even if it was the wrong thing. She wasn’t good at shutting up. “I can show you our texts, if you like—”

  I could see a small grin on my father’s face as he drove. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll pass on that one.”

  And then we all started laughing.

  The laughing didn’t mean I was in less trouble.

  When my father and I walked into the principal’s office, Enrique Infante and his father were sitting there, both of them with their arms crossed, looking sullen. Sullen was a Sam word. On certain days she was very good at being sullen.

  The principal, Mr. Cisneros, looked right at me when I walked in. “Salvador Silva, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t suspend you.” It wasn’t really a request—​it was more of a statement. It was like he’d already decided.

  “He called my dad a faggot,” I said.

  Mr. Cisneros looked over at Enrique and his father. Enrique shrugged. Like he didn’t give a damn. He definitely wasn’t sorry. Unrepentant—​that was the exact word for the look on his face.

  The principal’s eyes shifted back to me. “Physical violence is unacceptable behavior—​and it’s against school rules. It’s grounds for suspension.”

  “Hate speech is against school rules too.” I wasn’t really upset. Well, maybe I was and trying to act like I wasn’t. Anyway, the words I spoke came out calmly. For the most part, I was actually a pretty calm guy. Well, I had my moments. Apparently.

  “The way I understand what transpired,” Mr. Cisneros said, “you weren’t on school grounds. We can’t be held responsible for what our students say when they’re no longer on campus.”

  My father smiled, kind of a snarky smile. I knew all about his smiles. He looked at Mr. Infante—​then directed himself to Mr. Cisneros. “Well, then we have nothing to discuss, do we? If the school can’t be held responsible for the things students say off school grounds, then the school can’t possibly be held responsible for the things they do off school grounds either. I’m wondering if anything can be accomplished here.” Dad paused. He wasn’t finished. “In my opinion, neither of these boys has anything to be proud of. I think they deserve some kind of punishment. But you can’t punish one without punishing the other.” My dad paused again. “It’s a question of fairness. And apparently it’s also a question of school policy.”

  Mr. Infante had this really angry look on his face. “My son just called you what you are.”

  My father didn’t flinch, didn’t skip a beat. “I happen to be gay. I don’t think that makes me a faggot. I’m also a Mexican-American. I don’t think that makes me a taco bender. I don’t think that makes me a beaner. I don’t think that makes me a spic. And I don’t think that makes me an illegal.” There wasn’t any an
ger in his voice—​or on his face. It was as if he were a lawyer in a courtroom, trying to make his point to the jury. I could tell he was trying to think of what he was going to say next. He looked at Mr. Infante. “Sometimes,” he said, “our sons don’t fully understand the things they say. But you and I, we’re men. We do understand, don’t we?”

  Mr. Cisneros nodded. I didn’t know what that nod meant. I’d never been in his office before. I didn’t know anything about him—​except that Sam said he was an idiot. But Sam thought most adults were idiots, so maybe she wasn’t a reliable source of information regarding Mr. Cisneros.

  The room was quiet for a long second or two. Finally Mr. Cisneros arrived at a solution: “Keep away from each other.” Sam would have said it was a chicken-shit solution. And she would have been right about that too.

  Mr. Infante and Enrique just sat there, spreading their sullenness around like it was peanut butter. And then Mr. Infante’s voice filled the small office. He pointed his finger at me: “You’re really going to let him get away with this?” That was the first time I really understood why people used the expression stormed away. That’s exactly what Mr. Infante and Enrique did—​they stormed away.

  It was hard to read what my father was thinking. Sometimes he had an amazing poker face. Too bad he didn’t like to gamble. Then he looked at me. I knew he wasn’t very happy with me. “I’ll see you after school,” he said. “I want to have a few words with Mr. Cisneros.”

  Later, Sam asked me what I thought my dad and Mr. Cisneros had talked about. I told her I didn’t know.

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “Well, I’d want to know. It’s not as if that conversation had nothing to do with you. Why don’t you want to know?” She crossed her arms. Sam was an arm crosser. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything. There are just certain things I don’t need to know.”

  “Need to know? Or want to know?”