Anthologies

"Hearing Voices" an essay by David Ortmann

originally published in
"Telling Tales Out of School:  Gays, Lesbians, and Bisexuals Revisit Their School Days" 
Alyson Publications
edited by Kevin Jennings, 1998

In the late 1990s, I was asked by the Gay Lesbian Straight Education Network (GLSEN) and Kevin Jennings to join in their high school letter writing campaign: Successful queer adults writing their high school teachers and administrators to a) come out to them, b) share a bit about what being gay in their schools was like and, c) to ask what they are doing to make schools safer and better learning environments for queer kids today. 

The letter I wrote recounted the incident below. I sent it to over 40 teachers, even the ones who "liked me."  Out of all those letters, I received only one response.

The response came from the school librarian who wrote that she remembered me from hiding in the library during lunch.  I'd almost forgotten about that.  It's probably part of where my love for books came from -- hours spent hiding among them from the various daily torments of being the school fag. By sophomore year I'd learned how to forge many of the teacher's signatures on passes to let me hide out in the library to escape classes like this one...


Seventh period -- Chemistry.  Only eighth period gym class after this and then -- home -- to my precious books.  Reading became my life when other worlds proved unsatisfactory at 15 years old.  A mousy haired, effeminate boy, whose voice had not yet changed and whose body had not yet caught up with the growth spurts of his other limbs, I had already realized that I could survive better in world of my own creation.

I had been called "fag,"  "queer,"  "pansy," and  "cocksucker," and countless other names for as long as I could honestly remember.  I bore them all in silence, knowing that life would be better once I reached the end of adolescence.  Then I would life weights, race cars, date girls, and get my secret revenge on anyone who had ever used names, and boots, and fists to remind me that I was different from other boys.

This did not come to pass; not even a simple attraction to girls, which, for this lonely boy growing up in New Jersey and attending John F. Kennedy Memorial High School, was the most important thing in the world for acceptance by his peers.


For me, Chemistry class was the worst because the teacher Ms. Fisco, was always late.  This allowed for plenty of social time, which led to talking, which led to "fag" jokes, which led, always, to me.

Joe Creighton, who wore jeans so tight that I couldn't help staring transfixed at his gorgeous legs and buttocks, was laughing with Denise Catino, a cheerleader with breast of mammoth proportions, about the purported gay sexual orientation of a classmate.  "So, Denise, do you think he's a fag?"

"I dunno."  Denise sucked away at a Hershey bar she's just bought  from Frank Carbon to support J.F.K.'s Wrestling team.


Joe turned and winked at me.  I hated him for baiting me, and hated myself more more thinking how beautiful his eyes were.  "No, really, Denise, what do you think?"

The door opened and Ms. Fisco entered. Thank God.  No more jokes -- just chemistry, a science where everything had a"yes" or "no" answer and none of the indefinites I was forced to deal with in the outside word.  In this respect, once called to order, class was a safe haven for me.  Unbeknownst to Joe and Denise, Ms. Fisco overheard half of their conversation.  "Yeah, Denise what do you think?"

"I dunno."  Denise threw back her mop of dyed blond hair an laughed , having been caught discussing a topic that was "taboo."

Ms. Fisco looked directly at me, smiled, and said, "Joe, why don't you just ask Mr. Ortmann.  He should know.  He's a fag."

The dead silence of disbelief dominated the next few seconds.  No one said a word. The next moment half the kids in class were laughing, pounding on their desks, even spilling out of their seats and into the aisle.  The rest of the class just continued to stare, disbelief scrawled across their faces.

At that moment I instantly understood the term "a fire in the belly," and this was years before reading Robert Bly.  My gut burned.  My spine tightened and cracked.  I felt an agonizing pain in my back.  My throat went completely dry.  Flushing crimson, beads of sweat broke out on my brow.  I knew everyone could hear my heart beating because it rang in my ears like a gong.  I dared not more, as I felt like I could cry, puke, shit, and piss all at once.  I wanted to run.  Run home.  Run somewhere... anywhere but here.  But I just sat there, unbelieving....

This is not supposed to happen!!! A teacher can't say that!

But she did.  She said it and everyone heard it.  The next 45 minutes of chemistry class loomed ahead of me like a doctor's needle must loom in the eyes of a feverish toddler.  I could not contemplate how terrible, how unspeakably awful, eighth period gym was going to be for me once word hit the hallways that Ms. Frisco called David Ortmann a fag in front of the whole class. 

And he just sat there.

* * * *

It's been ten years since I graduated from JFK High School.  Aside from the incident described above, I had been told many times, directly and indirectly, by students and teachers alike that the world would never accept me.  The singular rationale for this rejection was that I was, and always would be, "the fag."

I was personally physically, verbally, and emotional bashed by both students and teachers countless times throughout my four long years to JFK.  At the time, I had no clear idea of what being gay mean, with the exception of stereotypical comic relief characters on television shows like Soap, in bad Eddie Murphy films, and in the jokes that filled playgrounds, hallways, and living rooms.  I just knew that I was different from other kids and "faggot" was the name attributed to me for as long as I could remember.

In June of my senior year I was handed my high school diploma from my Senior class advisor (who I later learned was a lesbian).  She said sarcastically, "I doubt you'll ever get anywhere, but good luck anyway."  Ten years later I am happy to report that life could not be more wonderful or fulfilling.  After completing my undergraduate degree with honors and working as an educator and conflict specialist in the beautiful and rich Czech Republic, I embarked on a three year commercial and theatrical acting career in Washington. D.C.  Although successful, I felt I was somehow being called to work with disenfranchised youth.  I have recently relocated to California;s Bay Area to begin my graduate degree and work in social intervention with youth and persons with HIV and AIDS.

Since JFK was a place where I could not be who I am without the treat of physical and verbal violence from staff and students alike, it is impossible for me to attribute my eventual success to the school -- although I often wish I could say otherwise.

I still sometimes hear Ms. Fisco's voice in my head, and the voices of the many others who have tried to discourage me, shame me, or stop me throughout the years.  These voices that used to make me cry and pray at night never to wake again have become the voices that propel me forward.  They remind me, with chilling clarity, where I've been, what I endured there, and that I survived it.

I continue to work toward a future where everyone, regardless of sexual orientation, physical ability, race, religion, gender, and socioeconomic condition, is afforded equal opportunity and treated with the respect due all human beings.

This is as it should, and will, be.

In retrospect, I learned some important lessons at JFK -- in spite of, not because of, the school.