Remembering Winchester…

I’d rather not.

Several weeks back I found myself part of a FaceBook group in remembrance of my hometown. Without even as much as pressing “Like,” on the group’s button, my inbox was immediately overflowing with unfamiliar nostalgia and names I only vaguely recollect.

My most prevalent memories of this place and time seem to differ greatly from those of my peers. I don’t recall the small-town camaraderie’s that others do. I just remember being called ‘Queer’ and ‘Faggot’ more often than by my own name.

I’ll save myself from processing any further unpleasant memories, and I’ll save you from reading them. Because I’d rather not remember.

I may still live within the social constraints of certain stereotypes held for soft-spoken men such as myself. But any pain or consequences of those are left behind.

In Winchester.
Where you will not be seeing me for a very long time.

*My parents’ farm is the exception to this. I’d be there sitting around a campfire with Mommacita and Pop in a heartbeat!