some of the most sumptuous in the history of art.”
Al Franken had this to say about Dr. Bob Jones Jr.’s art collection in Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them : “You see, Dr. Bob II had spent some summers in the late 1930s as a tour guide in Rome, Paris and Vienna, and had acquired a taste for fine art. Luckily, when he returned to Europe in the late forties, he was able to acquire quite a bit of it at very reasonable prices.”
The Washington Post story concluded with a revealing tidbit about Jones. Dr. Bob Junior had a personal requirement that all of his paintings feature a Biblically-based subject. However, one painting that was thought to have been about Pharisees was about a “heathen subject” instead.
“I thought [Jones] would be dismayed, but not at all,” said the collector who discovered the mistake. “When I told him they weren’t Pharisees he said, ‘That’s all right. We’ll just call them scribes.’”
Dr. Bob Junior told us about a new disease that only sodomites could get and it was deadly. This was proof that God strikes dead those who mock His name. I thought Junior had finally gone crazy. How could a disease know if someone liked sex with men or women? It turned out Junior was right, sort of. This was how I learned about AIDS.
I had problems of my own. I got pubic hair way before any other guys in my junior high gym class. It embarrassed me. But suddenly I was the third tallest guy in the eighth grade. That was different. My voice also changed, but not in a good way. Instead of becoming deeper and more masculine, at first it had a higher pitch, like a woman with a deep voice, but still a woman’s voice. When I answered the phone at home, no one asked for my mother anymore, they just started in with “Hello, Ruth…” or even worse, “Missus Merritt…” I felt like shit. My voice was changing, but into a woman’s voice!
In the South, any hint of effeminacy in a male was not about to go unnoticed. Randy was a fat, typical bully type and he had his little sidekick Brent. Randy and Brent. One day I was walking and Randy and Brent were standing on the side—which wasn’t allowed—loitering was forbidden, but Randy and Brent were doing it anyway. I was walking toward the area where my Mom was picking me up. My head was lowered and I was thinking my own thoughts, when all of a sudden I realized Randy was focused on me. He was making the limp-wristed motion with his hand calling, “Hey, Richie.” I knew he was making fun of me and I locked eyes with him and then looked quickly away, not breaking my stride. Yet, I felt this intense heat inside of me and I knew my face was red. Because he knew he had gotten to me at that point, he pumped up his name-calling.
At first I was so shocked I couldn’t even process it. As I got farther away I wanted to cry. When I got in the car to go home I was very upset, very disturbed. I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t tell my mom what had just happened. I couldn’t tell her that the other boys thought I was a sissy.
After that happened then I thought back wondering, Wow, if this is what I’m seeing now what did people say up until this point? ”
After that, the two eighth graders made fun of me every day. They mimicked the way I walked and they made limp-wrist motions whenever they saw me. I cried at night about this but during the day I paid strict attention to how I walked and tried to butch it up, a phrase I wouldn’t learn about for years.
By high school my voice sounded manlier and no one called me “Missus Merritt,” on the phone, so that was one less thing to worry about in a growing list of concerns. And I liked the freedom in high school as opposed to junior high and got into the swing of things with band, debate, student government, theater and drama, and of course, chorus. I discovered that within certain circles I could be popular.
Things were generally okay, but not always. At night alone in my room I’d cry for
Al Franken had this to say about Dr. Bob Jones Jr.’s art collection in Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them : “You see, Dr. Bob II had spent some summers in the late 1930s as a tour guide in Rome, Paris and Vienna, and had acquired a taste for fine art. Luckily, when he returned to Europe in the late forties, he was able to acquire quite a bit of it at very reasonable prices.”
The Washington Post story concluded with a revealing tidbit about Jones. Dr. Bob Junior had a personal requirement that all of his paintings feature a Biblically-based subject. However, one painting that was thought to have been about Pharisees was about a “heathen subject” instead.
“I thought [Jones] would be dismayed, but not at all,” said the collector who discovered the mistake. “When I told him they weren’t Pharisees he said, ‘That’s all right. We’ll just call them scribes.’”
Dr. Bob Junior told us about a new disease that only sodomites could get and it was deadly. This was proof that God strikes dead those who mock His name. I thought Junior had finally gone crazy. How could a disease know if someone liked sex with men or women? It turned out Junior was right, sort of. This was how I learned about AIDS.
I had problems of my own. I got pubic hair way before any other guys in my junior high gym class. It embarrassed me. But suddenly I was the third tallest guy in the eighth grade. That was different. My voice also changed, but not in a good way. Instead of becoming deeper and more masculine, at first it had a higher pitch, like a woman with a deep voice, but still a woman’s voice. When I answered the phone at home, no one asked for my mother anymore, they just started in with “Hello, Ruth…” or even worse, “Missus Merritt…” I felt like shit. My voice was changing, but into a woman’s voice!
In the South, any hint of effeminacy in a male was not about to go unnoticed. Randy was a fat, typical bully type and he had his little sidekick Brent. Randy and Brent. One day I was walking and Randy and Brent were standing on the side—which wasn’t allowed—loitering was forbidden, but Randy and Brent were doing it anyway. I was walking toward the area where my Mom was picking me up. My head was lowered and I was thinking my own thoughts, when all of a sudden I realized Randy was focused on me. He was making the limp-wristed motion with his hand calling, “Hey, Richie.” I knew he was making fun of me and I locked eyes with him and then looked quickly away, not breaking my stride. Yet, I felt this intense heat inside of me and I knew my face was red. Because he knew he had gotten to me at that point, he pumped up his name-calling.
At first I was so shocked I couldn’t even process it. As I got farther away I wanted to cry. When I got in the car to go home I was very upset, very disturbed. I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t tell my mom what had just happened. I couldn’t tell her that the other boys thought I was a sissy.
After that happened then I thought back wondering, Wow, if this is what I’m seeing now what did people say up until this point? ”
After that, the two eighth graders made fun of me every day. They mimicked the way I walked and they made limp-wrist motions whenever they saw me. I cried at night about this but during the day I paid strict attention to how I walked and tried to butch it up, a phrase I wouldn’t learn about for years.
By high school my voice sounded manlier and no one called me “Missus Merritt,” on the phone, so that was one less thing to worry about in a growing list of concerns. And I liked the freedom in high school as opposed to junior high and got into the swing of things with band, debate, student government, theater and drama, and of course, chorus. I discovered that within certain circles I could be popular.
Things were generally okay, but not always. At night alone in my room I’d cry for
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