The End of EddyBook - 2017
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I saw a news story on a weight-loss clinic for the obese. The young obese people had a support team that held them to a drastic program: diet, exercise, and a regular sleep cycle. For a long time after having seen this, I would dream of a similar kind of place for someone like me. Haunted by the specter of those two boys, I imagined teachers who would beat me each time I let my body do something feminine. I dreamed of getting coaching for my voice, for my way of walking, the way I would meet people’s gazes. I searched and searched for such a program on the school computers.)
My mother and I were close when I was very young: in the way they say little boys can be close to their mothers—that is, until shame came to drive a wedge between us.
No one looked over, but everyone heard. I’m sure everyone heard it, because I remember the satisfied smiles that would appear on other kids’ faces in the schoolyard or the hallway, from the pleasure of hearing the tall redhead or the short hunchback deliver a sentence, saying out loud what everyone else thought in secret, and would whisper as I walked by, and that I would hear Look, it’s Bellegueule, the homo.
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