Brownie Points by Jennifer Coburn

I can see where he’s coming from. Girl Scouts is the only place he really fits here.” Jason’s body deflated as he sat on the edge of the bed. Quickly he began pulling the weights as if he were starting a manual lawn mower. “He’s accepted, the girls love him, Michelle loves him. He’s very popular there.”
    Jason stopped pulling the weights and whispered, “They are going to kick his ass. Do you understand me?”
    Whispering back at him I explained, “I think it’s an awful idea, Jason. But I want him to know that we’re not going to freak out every time he tells us something, you know, difficult .”
    “Please tell me we’re not going there tonight, baby,” he said.
    “We’re there.”
    “Look, a thirteen-year-old has no idea if he’s gay. He’s not having sex with anyone, much less guys.”
    “Of course he’s not having sex, but, but — Jason, are we really having this conversation? Come on, we lived in San Francisco for years. How many gay men did we know?”
    “Plenty,” he said. “And they were all having sex with other guys. That’s what gay means, baby. If he wants be so gay so bad, let him do it when he’s older.”
    “Let him do it when he’s older?” I repeated, slowly, hoping that hearing his own words would help him realize how absurd he sounded. It didn’t. Instead he exhaled and sunk his face into his hands.
    “What? Say what’s on your mind,” I urged. “I need to know where you stand on this.”
    “If that boy joins Girl Scouts and keeps leaping all over the place, he’s putting himself in the line of fire, and I can’t understand why someone would want to do that. I’m his father. I can’t sit back and watch him do things that are an invitation for an ass kicking.”
    “Jason,” I began, crushed.
    “I know, I know, there’s no such thing as an invitation. You think I don’t know that?” Jason stopped and remained silent for a few moments as he contemplated whether or not he was going to share the memory he was reliving. “You know that scar over Bea’s eyebrow?” he asked. I shook my head, unable to recall his sister’s mark. “She got that from some white kid who threw a bottle out of his truck window one day when we were walking home from school. They shouted at us and before I could tell her not to turn around, she was facing a Pepsi bottle flying toward her.”
    “Oh my God. Why haven’t you ever told me this?” I asked.
    “Because I don’t let this kind of shit affect me, Lisa.” I knew better than to state the obvious. “I don’t understand why the boy can’t tone it down a bit and save himself a lot of hassle.”
    “I don’t see how you can say that, Jason. You know what it’s like to be targeted like that,” I began, but was quickly interrupted by my husband’s wrath.
    “Being black and being gay are not the same thing, and I am damn well sick of every group in the world trying to piggyback on the black experience. There were no 400 years of gay slaves in this country. No one ever tried to keep gay folks from voting, riding in the front of the bus or earning a decent living. My father’s a surgeon and he can’t buy a Slurpee at the 7-Eleven without being followed around by some dumb ass security guard. Lisa, you ever heard of someone being pulled over by a police officer for driving while gay ?!”
    “No, but I have heard of idiots like that boy in the truck beating up gay people,” I retorted.
    “Exactly, Lisa!” he shouted before quieting himself so the kids wouldn’t overhear. “That is exactly what I’m saying! Logan can make a choice to tone it down and blend in, and save himself some of the bullshit I went through every day. I wore my difference on my skin every day. He doesn’t have to.” The air left the room. We looked at each other and seemed to have made the same realization: We had each married a fool.
    “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being black, Lisa?” Before I could open my mouth and try to