Date: Wed, 3 Oct 2007 23:23:39 -0500
From: Nifty Mark <nifty.mark@gmail.com>
Subject: Playground of My Heart

Disclaimer
------------------------------------------------------------------------
This may be true, it may be fiction.  It may be a combination of the
two, but I don't believe that matters since nothing torrid takes place
here.  If it is true, I would have changed the names of the innocent.
If it isn't, then it doesn't matter, does it?

Do with it as you will.  I relinquish any rights to this story...


Playground of My Heart
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm probably one of those rare persons who knew I was gay from a very
young age, perhaps as young as five years old, but I never really put
two and two together until I was around nine years old.  It was the end
of my fourth grade year in Wichita, Kansas when I first 'came out' to my
best friend, Jeff. I was only 9 then and to me 'being gay' just meant I
wanted Jeff to be my brother and, in my fantasy life, we would be best
friends and (for some reason) we would sleep naked together in my twin
bed, cuddled up, and I'd stroke his tummy and kiss his ear.  I'd heard
the 'birds and the bees' speech from my parents by then, but there was
no way I could translate that in my 9 year old mind beyond a male
inserting his penis into a woman's vagina and putting his seed (I
imagined passing an apple seed) into a woman. Sex Ed, as tame as it was,
was not until fifth grade.

When I came out to Jeff, we were on the playground playing during recess
in a *giant* tractor tire painted blue, sitting inside the tire. At a
quiet point, I told him "I have to tell you a secret."

"What?" he asked, obviously curious. We were both somewhat nerdy boys,
so we had many intellectual conversations. But I think he could tell
this wasn't an ordinary thing I wanted to tell him.

"I think I'm gay," I said. Just like that. I guess I'd planned a little
bit more of a speech, but hadn't prepared anything. So that's the way it
came out.  I looked down and, after a couple seconds, when he said
nothing, I glanced up into his eyes behind his thick glasses. What I saw
scared me. Not that he appeared angry, just confused. Until that moment,
I don't think I had considered the consequences of that simple
statement, but they sure hit me at that moment. My best friend in all
the world, the boy I loved might actually... not want to be my best friend.

"What do you mean? You like boys?" he asked, obviously still confused.
This was early 1980 and there was no such thing (so far as I knew) as a
gay rights movement. Sure, Stonewall had taken plan 10 years earlier,
but that hadn't filtered down to Midwestern America by that time. I
don't think we were at a point in US history where witch hunts were
carried out, and certainly no pedo panic. But I'd just broken about a
thousand unspoken and another hundred or so spoken rules.

"I don't know," I began back-pedaling. But I knew. And he knew. And it
scared the holy crap out of me.  Rather than lie, I said "I guess so.
But don't worry, I'm not gay for you or anything..."

"Ok, then," he replied, obviously somewhat relieved. I wanted to die. He
tossed a tiny rock at me from the ground in the center of the tire and
smiled. "Don't worry," he continued. "It's ok, Mark. I won't tell
anyone."  And to my knowledge he never did -- we never discussed it
again. And although nothing appeared to change between us after that, I
was changed forever.

***

I entered fifth grade in the autumn. As always, I was younger than most
of my classmates, turning 10 that September, and I was small even for my
age.  I learned I was assigned a male teacher, Mr. Anderson.  I was
actually pretty excited about the prospect-- not for any sexual reason.
It just seemed special.  My dad didn't share my sentiments, however, and
proclaimed Mr. Anderson (unseen) as gay.  That, of course, intrigued me
a little but still not in a sexual way.  At that time, I still had no
concept that an adult could be attracted to a child.  A 'dirty old man'
to me was just a vagrant.  I looked to Mom curiously and, most likely to
keep me calm, she said "Nonsense. We don't know that.  And even if he
is, so what?"  My father just rolled his eyes as he often did when she
spoke her mind.

That same year my father, a military officer, was stationed on a remote
assignment overseas and, perhaps for that reason alone, that school
year -- the year I turned ten -- ended up being one of the best years in
my life. Not that anything momentous happened, but without my father
around, I found an alternate male role model -- a gentle, loving, and
caring male. And I think I learned more about myself, about love, and
about life in general than any other year since.

Mr. Anderson, as it turned out (of course?), was gay.  He was a just a
tad effeminate, and that was not common where we lived.  In fact, he
stuck out like a sore thumb. But, for some reason, there was no public
outcry.  He was, quite simply, an amazingly gifted teacher. And, like
very many schoolboys, I fell for my teacher. He just happened to be a
male. He was a reasonably handsome guy, young (maybe 25) with blond hair
and a moustache. He always wore his thin gold chain with a cross
pendant. He was quite fit, and I learned later he was an avid swimmer
and (years later) became a swimming coach in another state.

He was also a gifted pianist. He played piano for our school choir and
we had a piano in our classroom.  Ours was a self-contained 'gifted'
class, just like in fourth grade, so I guess the classroom was bigger
than the 'normal' classrooms.  And Kansas had exceptional schools and an
excellent gifted program.  I played flute and, if may be immodest, was
somewhat of  a prodigy.  Now I had never had piano lessons, but had
played around on my grandmother's piano enough to impress my friends
(and my parents).  And Mr. Anderson.

Early in the school year, I was sent to my classroom during recess one
morning to await my punishment for breaking some minor playground rule.
I don't remember what it was, but it doesn't really matter anyway.  I
spent a few long minutes waiting for recess to be over and I kept
looking at the piano, which I knew I wasn't supposed to play.  But I
swear to this day that piano was calling me over.  And I cracked.

I looked around and, seeing nobody, I sat at the bench and pressed a
couple keys.  The acoustics of that large, empty classroom transported
me to a concert hall. I began playing a song I particularly loved at the
time, "Both Sides Now," a Joni Mitchell song which Judy Collins had made
popular a dozen years earlier or so.  My version was pretty much just a
copy, but it was slower because I wasn't all that skilled at playing
piano. And I got caught up in my own performance, my treble voice
literally reverberating in the cavernous room.

"My God, child," I heard Mr. Anderson gently exclaim from somewhere near
the classroom door behind me. I froze, terrified, and the tears started
flowing. I was going to be in trouble while awaiting a punishment for
some other infraction.  This day was turning out to be apocalyptic.
"Where have you been all my life?" he continued, crossing the room
toward me.  When he saw me crying there, sitting on the piano bench, he
put his arm around me.

"What's wrong?"  in a soothing, but concerned voice.  He rubbed his hand
gently up and down my back and tenderly squeezed my shoulder, trying to
comfort me. His touch calmed me some, and I stopped crying, but my sobs,
like hiccups, wouldn't stop. I was embarrassed. "Is everything ok?" he
prodded.

Sniffling, I answered tentatively.  "I'm... sorry I was (sniff) playing
your piano, Mr. Anderson."

He stood and seated himself on my left side on the piano bench, scooting
me over. "The piano is meant to be played," he stated calmly. Though I
understood his words, I admit I was a little confused. "My rule is that
I don't want anyone playing *with* the piano." After a pause, he asked
"Why would I be upset with you for playing such a beautiful song? And an
angel's voice as accompaniment..." he trailed off, looking past me as if
remembering something from long ago.  His right arm was still around my
shoulder, and still gently massaging.

"You mean you liked it?" I asked, pretty sure I knew the answer.

"No. I loved it," he said matter-of-factly.  "Where did you learn to
play?" I shrugged my shoulders.

"I guess playing with," and then correcting myself "I mean playing my
grandma's piano when I was younger," I responded.  By younger, that
meant... oh, a few years ago.

"You don't have a teacher, Mark? You haven't taken lessons?" he asked,
looking into my tear-stained eyes.  And his stare captured me. I
couldn't look away from his big blue eyes.

"No," I answered meekly, finally looking away as if I were admitting
some sin.  And so it was that I gained not only a teacher, but a piano
instructor. And, at the same time, I gained a new father figure-- and a
friend.  I never did get in trouble for whatever I had done that day.  I
never gave up the piano and we practiced during nearly every recess and
sometimes before and after school.  I joined the school choir at his
urging.  He flattered me by saying he'd never heard such a pure voice as
mine, and I was sold.

I think it's important to add that, despite my hopes and prayers to the
contrary, Mr. Anderson never molested me. He touched, and held, and
hugged me often, but he never crossed a line-- that line.

Toward the end of my fifth grade school year in late spring, 1981, our
class had gone on a field trip to the roller skating rink. During the
last 'couples' skate, I stood at the edge of the wall, looking out onto
the floor as several of my fifth grade classmates paired up and skated
hand in hand.  This was the year my friends started noticing girls. Mr.
Anderson came to my side and put a hand on my shoulder. When I looked up
at him, he asked "Are you going to skate?"  Since I had no partner, I
shook my head.  "Want to skate with me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows
and extending his hand. Johnny Rivers' song "Swaying to the Music (Slow
Dancing)" was playing.  I placed my small hand in his, we skated onto
the floor as if we were the only ones in the rink.  It was the most
romantic highlight of my short life to that point. I can't honestly tell
you if it caused a stir or if anyone noticed-- I was in my own world.
But I never heard anyone mention it.

As our class returned from the rink to our school, a couple of us rode
with Mr. Anderson in his white Chevette. I remember we sang along to
songs on the radio and Mr. Anderson sang along with us. His voice was
simply amazing.

As we drove into the school's parking lot, everyone kind of piled out of
the small car just as one song ended and another began. I started to
exit the car when I looked back and saw Mr. Anderson listening to the
song on the radio, a faraway look in his eyes. I sat back down in the
passenger seat and quietly closed the door.  It was Juice Newton's
rendition of "Angel of the Morning" which had just been released.  He
gently placed his right hand on my thigh and rubbed his thumb along my
jeans while we sat, silently listening to the song.  I was young and
innocent, but I got the gist of the song and, though tiny, I remember my
erect little penis was clearly visible through my tight jeans.  He
looked up from my lap to my bright green eyes, and I saw his were
somewhat moist.  When the song was over, he turned off the car and we
returned to the classroom without saying a word.

On the last day of the school year, I helped him straighten up the
classroom.  My father would be returning from overseas later that
summer, and Mr. Anderson and I already knew my father had been
transferred out of state and that we would most likely never see each
other again. When we were done cleaning up, I told him "I want to give
you something to remember me by."

He let the preposition at the end of my sentence go without comment-- a
first. He smiled and said "I got you something, too." He reached into
his pocket and pulled out a little black velvet jewelry box. As I looked
up into his eyes, I already figured out what it was. For the first time
since I had met him, he wasn't wearing his cross.

I opened the box and passed my right index finger along the tiny cross.
It felt sacred and almost electrical.  "I can't take this," I sighed,
shaking my head. My eyes were holding as many tears as they could
without actually running down my face. "I didn't get you anything like
this..."

"You must take it, Mark.  You cannot deny a gift from a friend. It would
hurt me too much if you did," he said, placing both his hands on my
cheeks and, with his thumbs, he wiped the tears from my eyes.  I simply
nodded.  I couldn't refuse. He was right, after all.  He took the chain
from the box, unclasped it, and placed it on my neck. Then he bent down
and kissed me softly on my my forehead, his moustache tickling me.  And
then he hugged me, folding me into his arms as I sobbed, and the flood
gates opened, my tears soaking his shirt. I reached up between us,
fondling the cross.

When I had calmed down, he tilted my face up toward his and asked "So
what did you want to give me?" He was smiling like a child at Christmas.

"Well, nothing as good as this," I replied, holding the cross up and
looking down on it.  He chuckled, but said nothing.

I moved over to the piano and patted the bench to my left for him to sit
next to me. As he sat down, I leaned forward and began to play and sing,
my voice still cracking a bit from my crying.  "There'll be no strings
to bind your hands, not if my love can't bind your heart..."  I'd never
seen a grown man cry up to that point.  Had it been my father, I would
have been scared.  But with Mr. Anderson, I knew I had picked just the
right gift.

Mr. Anderson and I never spoke again after that day and I have never
returned to Kansas, but I never forgot about Jeff, or our brief
discussion in the tractor tire, and I've never forgotten Mr. Anderson...