(The first time I performed this story, a great friend and storyteller expressed concern that Avery reinforces harmful narratives connecting gay men with child molestation. I understood her concern and it prompted this disclaimer - at the time, my friend believed Avery to be a work of fiction, so my "choice" to write the character of Avery as a gay man was concerning to say the least. In fact, while the main character of this story is a composite, the experiences of the character are based directly on the experiences of real people. The emotional core of the main character is a real man who is gay, a child molester, and my friend. According to the American Psychological Association and all reputable experts in the problem of child sexual abuse, gay men are no more likely to sexually abuse children than are straight men. My intention in writing Avery was not to perpetuate harmful narratives, but to tell my friend's story in as neutral and meaningful a manner as possible.)
Avery
His name is Avery.
His name is Avery, and he was six years old
when his pastor told him that his penis
was a tool of sin.
Lying in bed that night,
he held his genitals like a broken-winged bird
and sobbed into his pillow.
His name is Avery, and he was twelve years old
the first time his father fucked him -
pushed his face into the bed frame so hard
it bruised for a week -
and when he started to cry, his father told him to,
"Stop being a faggot and take it like a man."
He was thirteen when his mother told him
that no son of hers was going to talk about her husband that way
because, “Goddammit,
he puts food on the table,”
and when he was sixteen
he broke a wooden chair over his father’s shoulder blades
and slammed the front door for the last time.
His name is Avery, and he was fifty-three years old
the first time he screwed up the courage
to admit to another human being
that what his body and his heart wanted -
what they had always wanted -
was to be with another man,
as a half a century of shame rolled down his face
like a thunderstorm across the plains.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery, and he was
nineteen years old when he got married,
twenty-one when his first child was born,
and thirty-two when he signed his second set of divorce papers.
He still talks to his first wife on the phone sometimes.
She tells him that she doesn’t blame him anymore.
She doesn’t blame him
for the hungry babies,
or the broken dishes,
or the restraining order.
She doesn’t blame him anymore
for the screaming fights that spilled
like overturned whiskey bottles out onto the lawn.
She blames God
for making him wrong.
Sometimes he asks about his kids;
she tells him they’re doing fine.
His daughter lives in Florida,
works in real estate,
and his son is married now,
has kids of his own.
Kids that Avery has never met.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery, and he was forty-three years old
the first time he masturbated to a photograph of a naked child,
forty-five when he paid his neighbor’s fourteen-year-old son
twenty dollars for a blowjob,
and when he was forty-seven,
he snuck into his five-year-old nephew’s bedroom,
slid his hand under the sleeping boy’s pajamas,
and held his genitals like a broken-winged bird.
That night he spent an hour and a half
trying to pull the trigger of his brother’s twelve-gauge shotgun.
Finally, he put the gun away
and drove to the police station.
His name is Avery, and today he’s sixty-two.
He’s out of prison now and he works doing home repairs.
It doesn't bring in a whole lot of money
and the work is hard on his body,
but there aren’t many jobs out there
for a man with his kind of past,
so he counts himself lucky.
He lives with his boyfriend, Jeff,
and their two dogs,
and every once in awhile they get into an argument
about who’s going to do the dishes,
but so far they haven't broken any.
His name is Avery, and twice a week
he serves food to the homeless
down at the shelter.
If you ask him why he does it, he’ll tell you that
sometimes, in their eyes,
he sees his pastor, or his mother, or his dad,
and that every tray he slides across the counter
comes with a side of forgiveness.
Three days a week he meets with
people like him.
He listens to their stories
and tells his own.
They help each other find peace.
They help each other turn thunderstorms
back into teardrops.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery,
and every night before bed
he prays to a god that, on the bad days,
he still thinks might have made him wrong.
He prays for his ex-wives.
He prays for his kids and grandkids.
He prays for his neighbor’s son,
and for a hundred nameless children he has seen
but never met.
And he prays that his nephew
will never remember.
His name is Avery,
and last week he told me
that for the first time in his life,
he feels like maybe
he deserves to pray
for himself.
Avery
His name is Avery.
His name is Avery, and he was six years old
when his pastor told him that his penis
was a tool of sin.
Lying in bed that night,
he held his genitals like a broken-winged bird
and sobbed into his pillow.
His name is Avery, and he was twelve years old
the first time his father fucked him -
pushed his face into the bed frame so hard
it bruised for a week -
and when he started to cry, his father told him to,
"Stop being a faggot and take it like a man."
He was thirteen when his mother told him
that no son of hers was going to talk about her husband that way
because, “Goddammit,
he puts food on the table,”
and when he was sixteen
he broke a wooden chair over his father’s shoulder blades
and slammed the front door for the last time.
His name is Avery, and he was fifty-three years old
the first time he screwed up the courage
to admit to another human being
that what his body and his heart wanted -
what they had always wanted -
was to be with another man,
as a half a century of shame rolled down his face
like a thunderstorm across the plains.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery, and he was
nineteen years old when he got married,
twenty-one when his first child was born,
and thirty-two when he signed his second set of divorce papers.
He still talks to his first wife on the phone sometimes.
She tells him that she doesn’t blame him anymore.
She doesn’t blame him
for the hungry babies,
or the broken dishes,
or the restraining order.
She doesn’t blame him anymore
for the screaming fights that spilled
like overturned whiskey bottles out onto the lawn.
She blames God
for making him wrong.
Sometimes he asks about his kids;
she tells him they’re doing fine.
His daughter lives in Florida,
works in real estate,
and his son is married now,
has kids of his own.
Kids that Avery has never met.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery, and he was forty-three years old
the first time he masturbated to a photograph of a naked child,
forty-five when he paid his neighbor’s fourteen-year-old son
twenty dollars for a blowjob,
and when he was forty-seven,
he snuck into his five-year-old nephew’s bedroom,
slid his hand under the sleeping boy’s pajamas,
and held his genitals like a broken-winged bird.
That night he spent an hour and a half
trying to pull the trigger of his brother’s twelve-gauge shotgun.
Finally, he put the gun away
and drove to the police station.
His name is Avery, and today he’s sixty-two.
He’s out of prison now and he works doing home repairs.
It doesn't bring in a whole lot of money
and the work is hard on his body,
but there aren’t many jobs out there
for a man with his kind of past,
so he counts himself lucky.
He lives with his boyfriend, Jeff,
and their two dogs,
and every once in awhile they get into an argument
about who’s going to do the dishes,
but so far they haven't broken any.
His name is Avery, and twice a week
he serves food to the homeless
down at the shelter.
If you ask him why he does it, he’ll tell you that
sometimes, in their eyes,
he sees his pastor, or his mother, or his dad,
and that every tray he slides across the counter
comes with a side of forgiveness.
Three days a week he meets with
people like him.
He listens to their stories
and tells his own.
They help each other find peace.
They help each other turn thunderstorms
back into teardrops.
------------------------------------------------
His name is Avery,
and every night before bed
he prays to a god that, on the bad days,
he still thinks might have made him wrong.
He prays for his ex-wives.
He prays for his kids and grandkids.
He prays for his neighbor’s son,
and for a hundred nameless children he has seen
but never met.
And he prays that his nephew
will never remember.
His name is Avery,
and last week he told me
that for the first time in his life,
he feels like maybe
he deserves to pray
for himself.
wrubrecht@gmail.com
