(71) The hand of the law facing you.

Being accused of being a pervertIt isn't meant as a compliment to be called a pervert. It can keep people away from you, which can be a good thing, but not forever nor for keeping everybody at bay either. That's why perverts are discreet. A lot of people are afraid of what they can do. If you're called a pervert, suspicions may arise over the soundness and purity of your thoughts and actions.Especially at school in grade six at recess in the yard. The way it first happened to me was like that. I was helping some friends build a snow fort. I was busy piling a tower in the corner of castle-like walls, only partially built. There were only two lumps of snow on each side so far. All of a sudden I hear some kids laughing nearby and it turns out they were telling everyone I made a penis with balls. I couldn't believe it.The resemblance was completely far-fetched. While I was absorbing the shock, the tone was getting more serious. I got violently thrown to the ground. I was called a faggot. A girl from grade four, I recognized her voice, said I was a"Stupid, sick pervert." Someone came from behind and kicked me hard. Someone else kicked a lot of snow in my face; I could barely breathe. I could hear laughter and expressions of disgust all around. When a teacher finally arrived, she pulled me off the ground with all her force by the back of my coat and pushed me like that, by the back of my coat, forward to the principal. Very intense embarrassment and hurt reinhabit me in this memory.The school wanted me out. My parents had to send me to another one. I was only building a snow fort. Consider this fact closely:

It is possible, even today, to be accused of very serious wrongdoings or crimes like sexual assault or murder. In my case, based only on what got reported to the school administration and spread like slander.Even in the absence of proof, the allegations can be accepted as the truth, and you can proceed to your arrest. Even if it comes down to nothing else than my word against yours, I am in the accused seat. No detailed investigation is done. It can be no better than a witch hunt. Four years later, in secondary four, our class was chosen to do odd jobs around the school.We picked up all the junk, mowed the lawn, raked leaves, and trimmed some of the hedges and bushes near the entrance; that's where they had to be... I did a good job on mine; I carefully trimmed all exceeding little branches off the tall one and the two short round ones in front of it. Just as I was observing how nice and round my job was, on all three of them, I saw the teacher run to the entrance and shout out at me, as loud as she could:

-"What do you think you're doing?"

My classmates gathered quickly to see what was happening, and more were staring in my direction. I could hear laughter already.

--"You keep your penises and balls at home! You're publicly embarrassing the whole school!"

she shouted. A teacher standing behind her turned away and walked to the principal, saying:

-"God, what a sick pervert!"

The principal spoke to someone I couldn't see, saying:

-"Get him out of here!" full of angry disgust. A schoolyard warden came in my direction, frowning. Before he could reach me, about to rid the schoolyard of a deviant, abnormal scum by just grabbing me by the neck with one hand, like in the cartoons. He was to escort me out of the school grounds, to the cheers and nasty insults from the crowd. I received a violent blow to the side of my head and collapsed to the ground.Students were laughing. The boys were whistling at me. The warden pulled me off the ground by my arm and shoved me away.

-"Go home, faggot; get out of here."

His looks were full of protective reproach. I couldn't believe it. Some students were making the most obscene comments to me and asking the most hurtful questions. I turned away and left, burning with shame, feeling like I should die for being such a piece of junk.Yet they were the ones delighting in obscene comments tolerated and ignored by the teachers instead of stopping them immediately. Yet, as I started to hold back from crying more, I only trimmed what there was to trim! Nothing else had ever occurred to me. When I got home, my parents already knew. My mother was crying; her eyes were all red. My father shouted badly at me:

-"Why do you have to embarrass us!"

The next day, a school psychologist was sent to my house. They didn't want me at school anymore. He was going to prove I was sick or something. With an air of disapproving graveness, he announced he had some tests I should take. The school was offering it so I could help myself. We were left alone in the kitchen, my mother still crying. First, he showed me some inkblots.

'- "What do you see?"

-"A pair of glasses."

-"What about those round parts? Could they be breasts?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because they don't look like some."

"If I added two little dots here in the middle, would it look like breasts?"

"Maybe..."

"What about the side here?

Could that be a penis?"

"No!"

"Why?"

"It doesn't look like one."

"It doesn't look like the one you're imagining?" After many images and questions like that, he took out some objects. Holding a pen, he asks, "Is that a penis?" A flute

,"Is this a penis?"

"Do you like playing the flute?"

I answered

"no" each time. I didn't like him. He sneered a lot as if I stank, and he knew he was uncovering my morbid stench all the time. He sneered like he was finding evidence of my perversion. After many objects like that, he suddenly shows a big plastic penis. I stared in shock-

-"Is this a penis?"

I didn't answer.

"Here, take it,"

he said, nearly shoving it under my nose. I pulled back and gaped in disbelief. He stood up, putting his arms to his sides, and asked,

-"Am I a penis?"

"No."

"Shake my hand."

I didn't know what to do. I shook it.

"OK, we're finished. I need to speak to your parents."

He went to the kitchen and informed my parents I could never be taken back. The results from the school tests conclude they possess evidence I was an obsessed, deviant pervert. The report goes on to say I was so used to watching pornography that I would substitute any phallic-looking object for the real one as I had seen in the movies.I entertained sexually.scenarios and phantasies in my mind all the time. My mind was filled all the time with obscenities. Since I was in denial and ashamed of my homosexuality, I was likely to abuse and molest children. They should get me treated. He told them I like being near people, shaking hands, and touching others a lot because I imagined them as penises. As soon as my mother cried loudly in her handkerchief and my father pushed me to the floor and began shouting, he left. My dad told me to get out now and never come back, or he was going to call the police. He ordered me to leave everything here.

"Just leave with the clothes you have on your back. This isn't your home and family anymore."

I still remember how I felt... I left, quit school, and moved to another town.

That winter, I got a job at a local park. Among others, I took care of the skating rink. One night I had to leave the hose out with running water for a good while. The next day, several people were already on the rink, gathered around something they were looking at. As I got nearer, somebody looked at me and said,

"He's coming!"

I stepped onto the ice and caught a first glimpse of a bump on the surface.

"What's that?"

an angry voice asks.

-"It's just a bump of uneven ice"--But before I could finish, a sharp

"It looks like a limp penis and scrotum!"-

-cuts me off. In a flash, I relived memories of a similar nature. A strong push in the chest sent me falling on my back with a bang against the hard ice.

-"We bring our kids here, you sick pervert!"

said an angry mother's voice. Seeing nothing but the sky above me, I felt like I was in a circus surrounded by wild animals. I felt sick, and my heart was pounding fast. Someone had called the police. With a good push from a hard boot, the officer asked me to get up amid angry chatter between the onlookers, getting more numerous now.It always is a sight to see a bad villain apprehended. Before I could even move, the second officer pulled me up by my collar. I'm in pain. Someone spit in my face, and I got punched. Each officer is holding me by an arm and dragging me to the car, across the street. People shouted, and a glass bottle smashed near me. One of the officers pushes onto the back seat with his knee.Whatever those people saw, it wasn't voluntary. I couldn't have known and had nothing of the kind on my mind. And yet, even years later now, when I'm around people, I feel like a sick pervert. The worst is the consequences are very real. Jail time is almost certain. With the bad quality of life and violence, some feel suicide is a better option. You will see how unflattering it is to be accused of indecent acts. You will experience your life on death row, a daily countdown before your unwilling execution.You will feel so on your own, like unwanted, undesirable animals waiting for euthanasia at the animal shelter. To feel, you must end your life against your will to avoid deeper trouble following false accusations. You will hope the court doesn't let you slip through the fingers of the law. Like a Roman senate:

"For in their hands you are at their mercy