Thank You, Martin

Martin and I attended grade school together. We shared classrooms for a number of years. He was one of a pair of non-identical twins. Martin was slightly-built and delicate-looking. He was a kind and gentle-natured boy. Over the years, we often walked part-way home together and talked about many things, our classmates, God, whatever was on our minds. His twin didn't join us; it was usually just Martin and I.

As we entered 7th grade I became aware of clothes and boys, in that order. The clothes were more important then, than the boys. I used to fall asleep at night fantasizing about what clothes and shoes and hairstyles I would wear when I grew up.

During the day, I gave a good bit of thought to what clothes I wanted for myself right then. Those were fantasies too, because we were poor, and I was, most certainly, not going to have those clothes. I was more concerned about what I'd wear to the school dance than I was about who I'd dance with.

As Martin and I walked home, sometimes I'd talk to him about my present day wardrobe fantasies, and he would listen. He seemed interested in my clothing fantasy life. He'd make suggestions, and say, "No, I think you should wear this kind of shoes with that dress." He was just so nice that I took it for granted that he would share my fantasies, and he did! I can tell you that there was not another boy (perhaps not even another person) that I knew who would have done that.

Sometime during the eighth grade, Martin stopped coming to school. A short time later, he died of leukemia. I missed my walking-home companion.

For many years, I did not think about Martin. One day, as an adult, I was remembering those enjoyable walks and talks about my clothes and other things, and it struck me that Martin and I had an unusual relationship. Suddenly, I thought, "Was Martin gay?" It seems likely, but he never grew up, so I never really knew.

One reason that I had such a lively fantasy life was because I grew up in a severely dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father and an immature mother, who was beside herself at how badly wrong her life had gone. My books and my fantasies and my Roman Catholic schooling helped me survive those awful years, along with my walks and talks with Martin. Thank you, Martin. You were present in my need.

Oh, and I mustn't leave out the movies. My sister and I and a gang of kids from the neighborhood went faithfully three times a week, Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoons. Another escape from the miserable life at home. A quarter would get you into the movie theater, plus a coke, and popcorn or a Hershey bar. I think about those days when I take my grandchildren to the mulitplex cinemas and shell out a fortune.

The cheery story of my childhood with my dysfunctional family is a story (or several stories) for another day.