by Timothy Beushausen
I recently contacted an ex-classmate from high school on Facebook (who had amazingly wished me a happy 60th birthday), and chatted with him for a few minutes, more than we ever talked to each other in four years of school. He had hit dotage a few months before I did, and wanted to know if I still look as young as my avatar from 15 years ago. Not. Like Alice and the Walrus, we spoke of many things, and at one point he mentioned his musical talent, which in me is merely a passion rather than a talent. He plays the viol, quite beautifully, which caused me to have one of the very few, full-blown aesthetic reactions I have ever had in my life. He brought up that he was persecuted in high school by the perceived association of piano talent with being gay, which brought back painful memories of being called such names since long before I had any idea what they mean. If that was the genesis of my becoming a commie-pinko-fag {in fact, my true sexual identity is that of a young, black lesbian stuck in an old, white man’s body (you don’t believe me? Then prove I am lying!)}, then it was basically the best thing that could have happened to me. I wouldn’t trade my life experiences for those of anyone else in the world.
