H
e’ll be born in March. March is undoubtedly
the best month for him to be born, because he
can still be included in the elementary school
calendar of class birthdays, he’ll share an astrological
sign with Kurt Cobain and he’ll be mentioned in the
same breath as both a lion and a lamb.
His ears will be of equal size, rather than uneven
and with a single, pointed side. This will help with
his insecurity, but mostly avoid the cognitive disso-
nance of, as a Jew, being asked incessantly if he knows
Santa Claus. Because, yes, a pointed ear must mean
he is an elf. And OK, sure, he’ll tell Santa you want a
Nintendo DS.
His voice will drop early, so he won’t
sound like Timmy Turner while the
rest of his friends sound somewhere
between Thom Yorke and Ghost-
face Killah. He won’t be asked
tirelessly where his Fairly Odd-
parents are, or his pink hat,
or his pink shirt. He doesn’t
even like pink.
He’ll decide that if he
really isn’t into this girl
in his math class, he
really shouldn’t date
this girl in his math
class.
Screw
the
homecoming
dance
and its 1950s need
for fertile couplets.
This will allow him
to avoid the uncom-
fortable
hand-hold-
ing
and
awkward
teeth kissing in the
basement of her par-
ents’ home. And then
he won’t have to break
up with her in the hall-
way before math class.
Because then she will cry
over integral functions and
her friends will, rightly, hate
him.
He’ll turn off the volume
on his computer the first time
he visits the silent library. Or else
Future’s “Freak Hoe” will play with
full vigor thanks to an accidental slip
of the hand, to his personal horror and
the room’s collective confusion as to why this
slight white kid is listening to Future.
He’ll always manage his time and he’ll never be
late. He’ll know that if class starts at 9 a.m., he should
not exit the shower at 9:15 a.m. Or 9:30. Or 9:45.
He won’t forget to text his friends for two, three
months; OK, maybe it was longer. Because he does
actually care about them — and how in the hell is he
going to explain the reasons he couldn’t remember?
Because he really should have remembered, instead
of being too preoccupied by the way he just said “Hey,
what’s up?” on the street, or whether this or that per-
son actually likes him or is just pretending, or if he
shouldn’t have said that thing that he said last Friday,
or how he ended up in the middle of an intersection
with his face against a Ford Taurus while thinking
about it all. And so he will never forget to text his
friends. And they won’t get upset at him for failing to
do so, thinking he has better things to do, like run into
a Ford Taurus.
He’ll decide that any message sent after 2:30 a.m.
will inevitably lead to regret, in one of its billion jaded
forms. He will refrain from them altogether.
He’ll be direct. He won’t drag his I-Mean-I-Guess-
We’re-Dating along for a month without contact
because he’s too afraid to tell her that he wants to end
it and simply hopes that she will come to the under-
standing on her own, without confrontation. He
won’t have a tequila-driven argument with her on her
birthday, denying said strategy, saying “Oh, I was just
busy.” Because that’s shitty. And he knows it.
He’ll be outgoing at parties. He won’t feel so awk-
ward that he resorts to rereading the most useless
corners and memes on his small screen until the
words and the pictures no longer make sense. He
won’t stand around, assuming it’s the world’s job to
make him friends, not his own. He won’t then walk
out unannounced, so everyone thinks he died or,
worse, threw up in someone’s bathroom.
He won’t like boys. Like boys in the way he thought
— he was told — he should only like girls. It will be
clearer, simple, easy: perfect. He can avoid having to,
when the subject is reached, laugh nervously and say
something inconsequential about last Saturday or the
weather. He can just smile when an ex tells him her
greatest fear is dating a boy who “turns.” He won’t sit
on the floor of the shower for hours, holding his head
because he thinks this is a sentence for solitude for
the rest of his life — that wastes water. He won’t
be afraid everyone would think, for God knows
why, him more Chér than Cuban Linx.
***
He’ll be born in June. June is
undoubtedly the best month for him
to be born, for summer is his favor-
ite season anyway, he’ll share an
astrological sign with Tupac and
he’ll be mentioned in the same
breath as Jeeps and the sand.
He won’t wish his ears were
smaller and rounded because
they’re different, which is
good. He’ll know his voice will
eventually drop and he won’t
be Timmy Turner forever.
He’ll see the first girl he royally
screwed over is with someone
better. And she’s happy. And so
is the second. And the others,
he guesses. And he’ll figure out
how to turn off the sound on his
computer and he’ll try his best
to be punctual and he’ll try even
harder to remember the people
who care about him and he prob-
ably won’t stop sending texts after
2:30 a.m. but damn will he try, and he’ll
work on introducing himself and asking
people’s names and remembering people’s
names and remembering the things they tell
him, and he won’t fucking wish he wasn’t bent
because there’s so much other shit that he could
be worried about and he might be alone forever and
live with a husky in the mountains of Colorado, but
he also might not and it might not be what he always
thought it would be or what he always wanted it to be,
but he’s getting used to it and he just needs some time
and damn he can even marry and maybe not even be
hated and maybe just fucking maybe even be happy.
And so he won’t care if everyone thinks him more
Chér than Cuban Linx.
And he wouldn’t change a thing.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016 // The Statement
7B
by Matt Gallatin, Daily Arts Writer
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA
A World Rosier Than Mine