KarMel
Scholarship 2008
|
Personal
Story “Fontzta-gusta-me” By Patrick
Mulryan |
Desciption of Submission: “An autobiographical
play about my relationships to my father and my childhood best friend as
relates to my sexuality” - Patrick
|
Fontzta-gusta-men. That’s how
my dad would begin and end the prayer before we ate dinner. Fontzta-gusta-men. So what the hell does that mean, right? Well, “Fontzta-gusta-men” is just an
impressively condensed version of “In the name of the father, the son, and
the holy ghost. Amen.” You see, my father was always in a hurry to
eat. Dinner hour was a sacred time in
our house, growing up. 6 o’clock on
the dot Sunday through Thursday. 530pm
on Fridays for pizza night. And 615 on
Saturdays, to allow my dad travel time after 5 o’clock mass. If you were late, you were definitely on
the shit list. No one could answer the
telephone during that time. If one of
our friends (mine or that of one of my 5 siblings) called during the sacred
dinner hour, they would henceforth be known as “the one that called during
dinner hour.” Fontzta-gusta-men. The prayer would start right at the beginning of dinner hour,
regardless of whether we were all at the table yet or not. At the sound of “Fontzta-gusta-men,” we all
rushed to our places on either side of the picnic table we used for a kitchen
table because it had benches that could fit 3 on either side. Fontzta-gusta-men. Bless-us-oh-Lord-and-these-our-gifts-which-we-are-about-to-receive-through-the-bounty-of-Christ-our-Lord-Amen. Fontzta-gusta-man. And he’s off!
Pushing food into his mouth.
Slurping his fingers. Talking
through it. Various foodstuffs
dripping down his chin. It’s amazing
how quickly slices of pizza, entire hamburgers, bottles
of wine disappear. He’s a disaster,
but whatever you do, don’t put your elbows on the table, or his fork will
take a break from its busy schedule to poke you in the arm. Danny
Gattuso was my best friend growing up.
We were fat together. No
really. We were the kids who were
anti-athletic. In gym class during
dodgeball, we would hide in the back and just try to stay out of harm’s way. Every once in a while we’d get showy and do
a little can-can against the back wall, as we tried not to get hit. During swimming, we would cross our arms
over our burgeoning man-boobs together.
When we would play shirts vs. skins in touch football, we both dreaded
being chosen for skins. We’d always
have to wrestle each other in Phys. Ed. because we were the only ones in the
same weight class. Since
we were fat together, I guess I always assumed we’d be gay together. Not gay together like boyfriends, but gay
together like best friends. We had
braved the waters of fat-dom together.
Why not the waters of gay-dom? “I
think gay sex should be illegal.” “I’m
sorry. What?” “I
think it should be illegal.” I
had spent the night at Dan’s house. We
were in middle school. I was looking
forward to the Swedish pancakes his mother always made when I slept over, because she knew I loved them. Dan was really raining on my parade. Now I wasn’t exactly out at this point. But I was definitely already into defending
the rights of the underdog. And sure,
I was already pretty sure of my gayness.
But I remember this as the first moment when Dan and I stopped
speaking the same language. We didn’t
understand each other anymore. “You’re
going to have a heart attack, son.” “Um,
what do you mean, Dad?” “I
mean that if you keep eating the way you do and stay as fat as you are,
you’re going to have a heart attack by the time you’re 45.” I
was 10 at the time. Now,
I was an emotional child. An
overweight, gay, emotional child. Now
bless my mother. “Mom,
I don’t understand why Dad talks to me like that. I don’t like being fat. I want to be different. And what really makes me angry is that Dad
is fat too. Why isn’t he nicer to me
about it? Why?” At
this point I was already on the verge of tears and really wanting a hershey
bar that had been dipped in a jar of Jif peanut butter. “Honey,
what you have to understand is that your father loves you and cares about
you. But really, he’s talking to
himself. He’s always struggled with
his weight. And he’s middle-aged
now. And he’s scared. And he doesn’t want to have a heart
attack.” “But
I hate that he’s taking it out on me!” “Try
to understand, Patty-cake. Please” “OK, Mom.
I’ll try.” Dan
and I drifted apart. We used to have a
common enemy, Gregg Snyder. He was the
one EV-eryone knew was gay from time immemorial. Dan and I may have been obviously fat, but
Gregg was obviously gay. But when high
school came around, Gregg and I began to be involved in more activities
together. We started having the same
friends. We owned our weirdness
together. We did everything
together. We came out together. We had our graduation parties together. My first sexual experience was with Gregg’s
first boyfriend. The closer Gregg and
I got, the further apart Dan and I got. Gregg
and I are still best friends. Dan and
I are not. But I did run into Dan a
couple of years ago. It was at a bar
in our “I’m
so happy for you. I am so happy that
you found someone. That you’re
settling down.” “Thanks,
Dan, thanks. How about you? How are things going for you? Anyone special?” “No,
there isn’t. I’ve moved around a
lot. Every time I’ve been in one place
long enough to get to know people, I seem to move on. Pick up and go somewhere else. But it sounds like you really have
something great. I’m happy for you.” “I
hope you get it someday soon too, Dan” “Thanks, Pat.” My
mom has always been the translator between me and my dad. But that changed when I came out to
them. I told my mom first. I didn’t want to tell my dad. But she said he had to be told and that I
had to be the one to do it. It
sucked. His response was “Jesus
Christ,” followed by a dial tone. He
wrote me a letter after that. I still
have it. In it, he told me, for the
first time, that he loved me. He
opened up to me; he gave me advice; he treated me with love and concern; in
short, he acted like a father. “Sorry
to hear that you and Nicholas broke up, Pat.” “Thanks,
Dad.” “You
Ok?” “Yeah,
I’m surviving.” “Good
to hear, son. Let’s eat dinner.” Fontzta-gusta-men. |