Page 5 of Ginjuh

Do you think I’m hot? He had responded after the tensest of moments.

What?! No! I stammered. It’s not like that, Jay. I just—

Dude, I’m just wondering if I’m hot. You’re gay…apparently…do you think girls will think I’m hot?

Well, since they can’t see your personality at first glance, you should be fine. I had quipped.

Yeah. He ignored the barb as he rolled onto his side on the bed and looked over the edge at me. But, like, if things were different, would you be into me?

Maybe you’re gay. I laughed.

Come on, man.

Fine. I relented. Yeah, man. You’re hot.

Queer. He winked at me.

Not enough to want you. I winked back.

You’re my best friend, Ginjuh.

Stop calling me that, assface.

Up until sophomore year of high school, I was still going through speech therapy and working on my speech impediment. Orofacial myofunctional disorder—that was the name the doctors and therapists gave my speech impediment. Basically, my tongue and other muscles around my mouth liked to do things they weren’t supposed to do—or they did things they were supposed to do but not when they were supposed to do them. Doctors and therapists told my parents that most kids grow out of it on their own, but my case was moderate to severe so I needed (dun dun dun) Speech Therapy. At first, it sounded like I was going to be taken to a dungeon to be whipped into shape by some guy wearing a leather hood…though, that might have been early signs that I had some proclivities I wasn’t quite ready to think about at the time.

My speech impediment had been a source of comedy for the family up until I was in fifth grade. A lot of young kids have lisps or slur their words or just say words in a funny way, but eventually they start to speak appropriately. It didn’t happen with me. In fact, the speech impediment was how I got my nickname that I absolutely loathed. When I was three-years-old and my speech was absolutely atrocious—even for a three-year-old—a teenage cousin at a family reunion, whom I had never met before, spotted my flaming red hair and the constellations of freckles on my face.

Ginger! He had chuckled.

Don’ cah me ginjuh! I had harrumphed.

That sealed the deal. Everybody at the reunion called me “Ginjuh” at least three times that day. My parents continued calling me that throughout my childhood, even when I reminded them that I didn’t like it. A fellow student heard my mom call me “Ginjuh” when she dropped me off at kindergarten…and it just snowballed. That kid heard it, repeated it to another kid, who kid repeated it to another kid…Ginjuh followed me from kindergarten, up through primary school, middle school, on and on and on. In less than 24 hours, I was going to be a senior in high school, eighteen-years-old, no longer with a discernable speech impediment (most of the time), and fellow students would be hollering “Ginjuh!” at me in the hallways.

Regardless of how much my own best friend called me “Ginjuh”, his attitude about my coming out had helped. He had given me the courage to actually come out to Grandpa—the only other person I had ever come out to besides Jay. When I had jogged over to Grandpa’s farm one summer morning, I just decided that it was time to tell him. He was my favorite person after all, so I wanted him to know who I was inside and out. Instead of answering him when he offered me coffee, I had climbed the stairs to his porch and plopped down into the chair next to his rocker. There was no lead-in, no gentleness to it—I just said: “I’m gay, grandpa.”

Grandpa took a sip of his coffee, placed the mug on his knee, his hand still on the handle, and looked out at the fields.

“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about that, Zach. But if you’re happy, I’m happy, son.”

“I am happy, Grandpa.”

He reached over and patted my knee.

“Then I guess this was a good talk.”

We had grinned at each other then and sat there together, watching the sun rise over the horizon to bathe the farm in golden light before we got to work. At the end of the day of back-breaking work on Grandpa’s farm, I was so happy that my best friend and my favorite person in the whole world didn’t give two shits about me being gay. It was all too much to contemplate coming out to anyone else right away. I wanted to revel in the fact that the two most important people in my life and not take the risk of someone else’s bad respond ruining that. So…I had just kept my sexuality to myself for the most part since I had talked to my grandpa. Sure, Jay still referred to my sexuality when we were alone or on the phone together, but he kept it to himself, too. And Grandpa wasn’t exactly gregarious with most people, so it went without saying that he didn’t let the cat out of the bag either. Even when he was in a talkative mood, Grandpa wasn’t into “tending other people’s flowers”, as he put it. He never would have said anything about me to my parents anyway. It wasn’t until the beginning of junior year that I came out to people at school. And, for the most part, no one really gave a shit.

Thinking about coming out to Jay and Grandpa made me smile nostalgically, a funny situation for an eighteen-year-old, as I got my shower, dried off, and put on fresh clothes. Twenty minutes after getting back to the house from Grandpa’s, I was freshly showered and ready to leave again. When I had made my way down the stairs again, my mom was in the kitchen, grinding coffee beans and banging around—a normal Sunday morning routine. At first, I considered just leaving and heading off to Jay’s house, but I stopped myself and made my way back into the kitchen. Leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, I watched my mom as she dumped coffee grounds into the machine and poured in water, then hit the “start” button. She turned, oblivious to the sounds of the rest of the house, and nearly came out of her skin when she saw me standing there. We both laughed as she brought her hand to her chest with a scream.

My mom was all auburn hair in flowing waves, disheveled in a lovely way from sleep, old, dingy bathrobe and bare feet. She looked to be her exact age of forty-two, but not in a bad way. She just looked forty-two: aged, experienced, tired, and in the middle of her life. However, she had a certain twinkle in her eyes and an easy smile that let one know that forty-two was still very young. She took her hand from her chest and put her fists on her hips as she grinned at me, trying to look admonishing and severe.

“Ginjuh!” She growled. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, mom.” I ignored the use of my nickname. “I just wanted to say ‘hey’ before I leave.”

She frowned.

“Why aren’t you at Senior’s house?”