Cornhuskers

There is a brief mention of bullying

The whole house smells like fried chicken. I hate it. I close my bedroom door and pile towels to block the stench. Nothing stops it. The funk slips from the kitchen window and creeps up to mine. I wish I could nail and caulk my window shut. It’s a sneaky smell, and it finds the cracks and the smallest openings.

My grandmother’s fried chicken is “a family favorite.” Obviously, it's not mine. I refuse. I choose to be a vegetarian rather than eat that garbage. I’ll leave the dismembering of dead chickens to them. I make a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich with a tall glass of iced coffee and cream. I asked for a mini-fridge for my room. A godsend. I have my own little kitchen pantry, too. I have a coffee maker and a bowl of fruit that I keep full. I wanted a hot plate, but my grandfather refused. Instead, I got a tiny microwave.

We are a huge family, which is great if you’re a farmer. I am no farmer. I don’t know what’s been planted or when. I can't pay attention to that. My family is connected to the soil. I think my grandmother might have sprouted from the earth, and I’ll bet my grandfather eats dirt when no one's looking. I don’t belong here. I used to say that I fell out of a sunflower rather than the truth.

I am nothing like my family. They are not my brothers and sisters. They are my uncles and aunts. The prodigal daughter (and the oldest daughter) left home and got pregnant. It only took her nine months to find her way back. She disappeared as quickly as she came, dropping me off in the process. (And that’s all I’m going to say about her.)

I am the baby in this house. They are all older. My youngest uncle is about 10 years older than I am. So you get the idea. They don't all live here but they come over a lot. Most of the boys work the farm with my grandfather.

All of them care about the same crap. They love to watch football on Saturdays. I can't breathe when they watch football. I can't eat the food that they eat. It’s not just the chicken. Hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. Bratwurst. Beer can turkey. Stacks of ribs.

Jesus Effin Christ.

On Saturdays, I find myself out in the fields, alone. I hate the fact that we destroy everything we grow. We turn all of this corn into mortgage payments and tractor parts. We turn it into fresh paint for the old barn and a new carburetor for the F350.

It takes three things to survive on a farm: Patience, prayer, and a cellar full of food. Cans we buy, and jars we fill. My grandfather and my uncles carry them into the house. They pile them up and then we empty them. Eventually. The freezer is stocked with meats of the dead. We eat it all throughout the winter and then it starts all over again. It's life.

On Sundays we go to church, and the pastor tells us that we should love each other. We shake hands. We welcome each other into Jesus. We do his dirty work. Where are you, Jesus? Show your face. You're definitely not that wooden white man hanging over the organ pipes. I know that.

Jesus would have been mocha like me or mahogany like Bobby Jenkins. He sits next to me in every class because our names are almost the same. He's been my friend since we were four. He's a good looking young man. He's got maple syrup colored eyes. I love Bobby Jenkins the way my uncles love the Cornhuskers. I could spend every Friday night watching Bobby run around the football field. The truth is... I do. Every game: home or away. He's good. The best in the state (At least that’s what I say to him when we have our wrestling sessions.)

I'm happy to call Bobby Jenkins my boyfriend even if he doesn't acknowledge it. Deep down he knows. He has to have known it for a long time. I don't think we're allowed to be in love. If he were a stalk of corn, I bet I could love him openly and without fear. I don’t think he’s gay. We are like a 50s sitcom couple. Great conversations and lots of laughs with separate beds (of course). He’s let me massage his back after a particularly rough game. He’s their running back. Number 22. I’m glad they all have numbers on their uniforms, but I would know him with or without the numbers. I would know him by his shadow alone. I KNOW Bobby Jenkins.

Everyone else in my family appreciates that we are farmers. I'm the selfish oddball. And according to the pastor, I'm a sinner. Now the pastor's never used that word that I have heard 10 million times (fag), but I know what he thinks. He’s called boys like me “sinners.” Boys who like boys. The funny thing is I don't think anyone really hates me. They just don’t want to see me wind up in hell. Or San Francisco. I think they mean it when they shake hands and say good morning. It's about the rows.

When you plow the fields, you've got to stay straight. You've got to do it in a way that makes sense. Predictable. I stand up there and sing with the choir, and I know my voice is special. It's dear to every worshiper. I sing out, true to our shared faith. The solos always belong to me. I see the way they look at me. We stand in rows. The pews are in rows. Everything's organized in Nebraska. The way the football players line up on the field. The assembly line my grandmother uses to jar peaches and tomatoes and yams, filling those jars with love. I'm allowed to shine because I'm different.

My love doesn’t line up in a row. My love is a dandelion blown all over the empty fields. My love is my hands on his tired body. Bruises show up on my skin better than his. I don’t play football, but I have been treated like one. Faggot. POW!

Bobby would never stand up for me in public. I don't hold that against him. I understand. I have enough protectors. Six uncles.

In truth, I am precious to everyone on the farm. I sing daily. No one ever says a thing. “Quiet down?” No. “Sean, go sing in your room?” Never. They love my voice like they love me. I sing to Christ on Sundays. The rest of the week, I am singing to her. She is neither the seed nor the stalk. She is the silky threads that protect the corn from the husk. (I'm breaking my own rule. I said I wouldn't say anything more about her… but just this little bit.)

I am sure her ghost is out there in those fields. That’s why I get so lost. I call out to her, down every row. (Dammit. I'll stop when I feel like I need to. Just be patient.)

I don’t belong here. I don’t know why she left me here. I feel so alone out here, but it’s the only church that would allow her spirit the freedom of redemption and forgiveness.

I don't know my father. The only thing he gave me was this beautiful skin. It’s the envy of my lily white "sisters." He took my mother. I never really met either one. Methamphetamine. That took both of them. I am their crooked broken son.

One Sunday after church, I talked Bobby Jenkins into coming out to the fields. This was when the stalks were high but not high enough for reaping. I remember it was a terribly hot July. We both took off our shirts. I was a scrawny mess. Long legs and long arms and a hairless torso. Bobby was a statue of a god like Persius or Hercules.

He asked if I wanted to “wrestle” (which was code for “fool around.”) I said, no. This visit to the cornfields was different. I asked him to hold my hand and let me lead him. We walked for a while, and turned left then right and left….and straight ahead. He had no idea where we were. That’s what I wanted. “I want you to meet my mom.”

“Your ‘mom’?” He was suddenly a little more cautious and dropped my hand. I didn’t mind because I wasn’t kidding. “Sean, isn’t your mom…passed?”

I loved him. As a friend or a lover or a brother…I don’t know. I just felt he always had my heart. I mattered to him. He would never take me out and leave me behind. I wanted my mom to see that I belonged somewhere. These fields might not mean the same to me as they did to her or her family, but they meant a lot to me. Any second, she would come around the corner to smile and hug me.

“She’s here, Bobby. I know that. I feel her. I wanted her to meet you.”

He stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder. We both looked up and closed our eyes to the brilliant sun. We were quiet until Bobby cleared his throat.

“This is a LOT of corn, brother.” He smiled, and I understood. Bobby wasn’t a vegetarian, but he was the oldest of his siblings. I hugged him.

“You see, mom? Leaving me here wasn’t such a bad idea.” I hugged Bobby hard. He kept me standing up even though my knees were buckling. Soon, all the stalks would be harvested and there will be nowhere to hide out here. Nothing to protect our love. I stepped back and put my hand out for Bobby. “Good morning, friend. Welcome.” I felt the peace of the moment, shirtless and happy.

“Good morning to you.” And the spirit moved us.