Memoirs of a Mimic Jacob Brown

Batesian mimicry is the process by which a hunted animal creates the illusion of danger, increasing the chances of survival by camouflaging against a background of toxic creatures or predators, and what I thought I saw before me then.

I’d claim a shared mindset though defiantly oppose my personality with the boys around me, who’d cast out of themselves whatever stomach-emptying insults came to mind and wore uniform expressions of angry, stoic, obnoxious men. Fights happened often, a battle to prove who was the mimic and who, the hunter. I’d lifted both arms and both fingers to the sky, showing the world what black and blue lettering I’d had stamped across my eye clearly reading “heterosexual.” and snarled through broken teeth at teachers corralling us down corridors, to be released at the cry of the bell.

Into overbrimming classrooms, in which I’d learn the breadth of my competition, the richness of the prize: manhood. At the twitch of a finger packs of hounds would loosen themselves upon any of our number, finding their evident homosexuality an afront to all masculinity. And so, each of five friends a lethal danger to the other, we patrolled like dogs to cure any love with shock therapy. Images of lethal injections gradually became videos of beheadings, and worse yet, for fear that our loyalty to all morality might be questioned.

A refusal to lose the right-to-bruises drove boys to be men, delivered along that path with the addition of an inability to vomit regardless of sight, smell, or sound. Men shed blood, sweat, and alcoholic piss only, anything else and a boyfriend was implied.

Once, I’d put myself between two raging bulls, hands outstretched. Delivering a slap to the face of he who’s will would have proved him the hunter. The next day I was told that I impressed by my emotional maturity. Pride hurt, I revealed a set of teeth that would never again form a row. I vowed to never again act the hero.

Every year my ego swelled at the thought of once-again becoming a worse, more harmful human being. My peers became familiar with the superiority of the Machiavellian in every historical context, according to a self-described villain.

But

I met him

Years having passed.

For the first time in longer than I’d wish to remember I wanted to be close to another boy, and yet his eyes narrowed with every mention of a scar I’d given. My damage did not impress this one.

As our acquaintance-ship began dissolving, I found myself desperate; willing to throw everything and my life away for a person who would not grant me honest competition.

I reflected on the time I’d wasted, in a year I would certainly never see him again. In months I learned to apologize, abandoned everyone I’d known, hid my scars. I’d have done anything to have him, most of all I’d fight, as if that wasn’t the easiest option.

Once I’d rushed headfirst into battle, clad in long-awaited perception of justice. Revealing myself to retain basic empathy in defence of the person I cared for most, at first I was met with confusion as to how I could sympathize with boys so unlike men. What remained of my ego was shredded by a sea of complaints. Each and every person wielding the uniform critiques as if love was subject to the whims of logical debate.

Boys who’d called themselves my friends found the most sensible option, to cut out someone cowardly enough to protect someone important to them.

Ignoring the teacher’s whims, throngs pressed around me seeking blood from an offered heart. Snapping and barking at every step I took. It was a surprise to the school when I outcast myself from that classroom, marching through the uneasy gaze of the group I had once mocked with.

I could finally unite my mind in abject defiance of the boys around me, could cast my self far outside from the social sphere they inhabited. Fights mutated into arguments, ceaseless slurry of poorly worded reminders that a gay existence was a threatened one. I raised my eyes to a familiar sight, a wingless angel in sunlight. For the first time in my life someone chose to guide my hand into theirs, gazed with authentic contentment not given before by even a singular of dozens of friends.

The competition never ends. But at least I’ll never hide again.