My Hair

Poem By: Alex Scofi

Part 1 - The Lesson

She never touched me.

But she taught me a lesson

She was my teacher

She taught me Shakespeare

She taught me about toxic relationships

How to people can exist, but sometimes they get tangled

And hurt

Her father killed himself too

We shared stories

And one day we shared

intimacies

We never touched

I thought she was a friend

My immature brain thought she was a lover

We never touched

In my story she was a hero

It started when I came home

When I came home I wanted to teach

I became a substitute at my hometown high school

We never touched

At the time I thought it would be a good idea to say Hi

I thought she would smile

When she saw me something strange happened

When I look back I realize it was my first time seeing complete terror

A cornered animal

We never touched

I stopped getting offers to work at the high school

We never touched

Things started getting strange when I went to revisit my old teachers

I asked to see her in the office

The room froze

The principal came back

He told me I needed to leave the premises

He asked a security guard to escort me out

A confused child walked out of his school escorted by an adult

He wept in his room when he got home.

We never touched.

In my story she is a villain

We did touch

But not how you think

See a child was touched

A child had a woman's hand where a stranger's hand wasn't supposed to be

It slid in

It wrapped tightly around

A heart

A beating heart

She caressed it away a mother might

I thought that that touch was ok

I didn't know what a bad touch was

I only learned at 24, when that hand clenched down as hard as it could

And dug in its long pretty nails

I didn't know I could bleed there.

When the detective called

I told him I didn't know what he was talking about.

I asked him what I had done.

He told me that I knew.

I never touched her.

I learned a scary lesson that day.

If only I didn't have a dick.

The story about an adult having inappropriate relations with a child would never have been my responsibility.

I yelled in my room.

I never touched her.

Foreword:

I don't think that as a society we understand how boys are abused. Sometimes I don't think we understand that boys can be abused. The incident described in this poem never had any form of physical contact, but what I endured I now believe was a form of abuse. It took me a long time to get to this place of understanding. I want to share this story for the other boys and men who may not understand that they also can be abused.

Part 2 - Through Her Eyes

I wanted to cut my hair

I remember sitting in the car

Crying

Why was I so weak?

So dumb

So stupid

I felt like a child in a torrent of words

And the words moved so fast

Slicing like daggers

Cutting.

It was so simple.

Cut your long hair!

And yet for some reason

All these decisions that seemed like they were about my body

How it looked

How pretty it was

How handsome it was

Those choices

I never felt like I made them

Or didn’t make them.

When I was a small boy

My mom bought me a doll

I took one look at it

And then ran back outside to kick the soccer ball with the other boys.

I wish I still had that confidence, bravado, self assurance.

Now I always feel indecisive.

Like my compass knows True North.

Like a finger, a pretty, pretty finger was pushing my instincts

Off.

Yet here I stand

At 26, staring in a mirror

My eyes look fucking gorgeous

The eyeliner is on point to perfection

And yet

I go out wearing a hood

Terrified of what the world would think

But it wasn't the makeup that made me scared

It was the fact that they were looking

The fact that even without the eyeliner

When they saw me

They still saw, not even a pervert,

Just a threat

a predator,

a villain.

I feel like I know that word from somewhere before.

Part 3 - My Hair

I grew out my beard.

When I looked in the mirror.

A man smiled back.

Even with the hair lasered off my neck.

The hair that remained.

It was my hair.

Where I wanted it.

There's power in a beard.

I saw the hair on my legs

I didn't like them.

And that made me smile.

Because I knew when I shaved that hair.

I wanted it gone.

Not to prove to anyone that those legs weren't a threat or weren't as strong as they really were.

Those were soccer legs.

Strong enough to make you double take when you saw them.

They were stunning.

And damn would they look good shaved.

There weren't any lessons.

No epiphanies.

Just work.

Unpacking my shit.

And packing it up again.

Twice a week.

Monday and Wednesdays.

Unpacking.

And packing again.

Each time the luggage a little less heavy.

Each time a little more... me!

There's no longer any fear when I walk about.

Whether I have long hair on my head and heels on my feet and a beard growing proud.

Because I chose those heels.

I chose that hair.

And when someone looks at me.

I smile back