I was editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper. I was neither a great editor nor was I horrible. I had fun with it, but the editor-in-chief rôle at that school was not supposed to work like that. We were like Mike Wallace in training, or so we thought. We won some state-level award at a fête in Orlando, considered a big deal at the time.

Most of my editorials sucked ass and made no sense. But for the last one in May, 1986, I wrote a farewell poem to the class, a stream-of-consciousness ramble reflecting on my first real trip through New York City months earlier, in January, when my mother and I came here for me to audition at Juilliard. It was written in the spirit of “See you there, some day…”

I have been looking for this poem for 10 years, maybe longer. I have it now because my sister and her husband shipped it to me in a 47-pound footlocker full of papyral detritus from my youth. Best Christmas gift ever, maybe, with evidence of this life piling up from as far back as Kindergarten.

I was especially keen to find two pieces of paper. One was the above-mentioned poem, the other a letter from a Connecticut District Attorney writing to inform me that he intended to prosecute me and some others under Article 18, Section 2701 of the U.S. Penal Code. That was heavy shit at the time, and remained so for years. One sentence from that letter, as best I can remember it, still resonates: “This is to inform you that we intend to prosecute this matter.” It is the only piece of paperwork I know of from that affair that I cannot seem to find, save for all the stuff taken into evidence.

That letter has not turned up but the poem sure did, in all its late-adolescent glory. Why have I been looking for this poem for I-don’t-know-how-many years? Because I wanted to prove to myself that I got away with what I got away with. I later learned that a couple of kids at another school in town got expelled this same year for doing something similar.

If you read down the side, the first letters of each line, starting at the second verse (“For they’re all…”) , you’ll see that I got away with sending a message to my fellow classmates. That message was “FUCK YOU TO HELL”. Originally I wanted the message to go further down the line, with a full-bore “FUCK YOU ALL TO HELL YOU GODDAMN ASSHOLES”, but I settled for this more succinct expression. Deadline, I guess.

I was mad mad mad for not being voted “Most Talented” member of the graduating class. That award went to my high-school friend. We remain friends today. He is the first person I sent a copy of this to after I found it on Sunday. In 1986 he helped me wordsmith this poem so it would show the hidden message.

That hidden message “FUCK YOU TO HELL” later came to be known as “THOU FUCK YOU TO HELL”. The “THOU” word from the first 4 lines came about organically, but if you look through lines 5-15, skipping the indented stuff, you might detect a somewhat constipated attempt to get the letters FUCK YOU TO HELL in place. In particular, “Yo, Pariah…” That was deliberately and conspicuously planted as a signal to anyone who might think about these things that something was off about this otherwise lofty-sounding poem.

The moderator of the school paper, totally the kind of guy who would look out for this kind of thing, does not seem to have caught it, or if he did he never said anything. It’s all about spreading it over the indentation.

I laugh about it now the same as I laughed about it in 1986. I knew this was childish and puerile but at the time that was how I felt about the awarding of that stupid suite of “Most Likely To Succeed” type awards. I genuinely bear no animosity toward the school or the Class of 1986, I just wanted to get this last dig in as a joke.

The poem is pretentious, pompous, high-and-holy, yet not-altogether-awful for a mentally ejaculating 18-year old who thought he had a podium. After finding it on Sunday I did not actually read it until that friend from school, the one who did win “Most Talented”, said it was a damn fine piece. He also laughed out loud at the “Yo, Pariah” thing.

I don’t know what poet I was reading at the time who made me think apostrophes were tools of conciseness, when they only saved one letter, meaning they saved nothing at all. Then again if it saved a syllable then I guess it served some purpose.

…dedicated to the class of 1986, with some endnotes below.

ON DRIVING THROUGH QUEENS NEW YORK MAY 1986

ENDNOTES

The “Homecoming Queens” reference became poignant. It was meant to be self-referentially poignant at the time but later on it became especially so. The girl who won Homecoming Queen that year had been hitting on me for months, but I rebuffed her advances. She was just too beautiful and perfect. Then, as now, I instinctively push women like that away.

Then… she died. A couple of years into college my mother sent a news clipping reporting how her father was piloting a small aircraft with her and two other passengers in shitty weather. The plane slowly fell apart and spiraled into a swamp somewhere in north Florida. Everyone drowned. The pall bearers and funeral processionaries were kids and priests I knew from school, including the guy she ended up going to the Homecoming Queen event with. Aside from some elderly relatives I think that is the first person I ever knew who died.

The “wrestling crowns” thing was a reference to a kid in another class who won either a state or maybe even national wrestling title. I don’t remember the detail but he got an extended standing ovation at one of the morning convocations and the award was considered a huge deal for the reputation of the school’s athletic program. I think the story crossed AP or UPI or one of those. If I could remember his name I’d look it up. I hated wrestling but couldn’t disrespect that.

After the paper published someone called me out in the school parking lot, saying “Yo, Pariah…” I thought maybe that person got the signal, and found the secret message. If so he never let on.

A funny thing: This issue of the school paper includes an article about payphones. I do not remember assigning that story but there it is, and it makes sense. The mid-1980s saw the appearance of “smart” payphones, with LED displays and other features, and a couple of those newfangled devices appeared at the school. Newsworthy indeed.

Somewhat melancholically the footlocker contains way more papers from my father’s affairs than I had reason to expect. I thought I had accounted for everything of his but I was wrong, and I don’t know how this much stuff slipped under my radar. Any time I see pictures of him as a young man I have to ask: When did he know he was gay? Did he always know? Did it settle in over months and years? We will never know, it doesn’t matter anymore, and I don’t expect to find clues in his paper trail.