Free Impulse by Ellen Hopkins Page A

necessities-- philosophy, religion, psychology.
    I could have learned from him forever. But we didn't have forever, only two almost-perfect years, years that might have been perfectly perfect except he got so sick. I'm not sure how I've managed to avoid that whole vicious viral thing. Then again, maybe I haven't. I can only wait and see. 228
    233
    Anyway, I Don't Worry
    About it, not on a daily basis. The weird thing is, I don't really worry about much anymore, not with Phillip gone. That was my biggest worry for the last couple of years. I had no idea what I'd do when he died. He had put me in his will, but his son contested and won, claiming his house and every possession.
    Yes, Phillip was married once, back when most gay men remained in the closet, at least to family and friends, taking their need to be with other men to the darker parts 229
    234
    of town--bath houses, bars, back alleys, and cars. No wonder AIDS spread like it did. Everyone was afraid to talk about it. What if the wife found out?
    Phillip was one of the brave ones who couldn't stand sneaking around. So he told his wife, who promptly ran off to tell her priest and get a divorce, in that order.
    Poor Phillip lost his wife, his son, his friends, and his church, all within a few days. Luckily, the university where he taught was in San Francisco. At least he kept his job. 230
    235
    Mr. Hidalgo Clears is Throat
    Brings me back to my essay: "The Patriot Act, Who Cares?" I write: I think it ' s totally messed up that cops can arrest anyone they want, just because they don ' t like how a person looks. But what, exactly, is so new about that? The only difference I can see under the Patriot Act is the authorities
    don ' t have to tell anyone they ' ve busted the guy. They can keep him for days, even weeks, and no one who cares about him will know where he ' s gone. 231
    236
    They call that patriotism? And wiretaps? Or investigating what a person reads? Who, then, gets to decide what reading materials constitute terrorist training guides?
    When will America quit living in the shadow of 9/11? When will her people decide to stop living in daily fear? When will they think
    twice about who they should be afraid of-- some would-be terrorist a thousand miles away, or some U.S. politician, hell-- bent on peeking behind closed doors? 232
    237
    Writing Essays
    Is usually easy for me. But I'm having a hard time with this one, for a couple of reasons. The first is Daddy, who's been fighting terrorists on their own turf ever since 9/11 went down. Ask him, the Patriot Act doesn't do nearly enough to keep America safe. Ask him, he'd send every "damn towel head" back to where they came from, with a stop at Guantanamo for a little debriefing.
    The second is Grandma, who is quite vocal about patient confidentiality and the need to keep medical records inviolable. I know I wouldn't want just anybody to be able to take a look at mine. 233
    238
    Nope, no job for Vanessa.
    She ' s crazy, you know.
    I may very well be crazy, but the manager at McDonald's doesn't need that information to decide if I'm safe to flip burgers. Not like I'd freak out and off someone because he complained the fries were greasy. At least, I don't think so. 234
    239
    The Third Reason Is Mama
    Everything always comes back to her, doesn't it? Plenty of times, tripping around town, no meds to stabilize her schizophrenic mood shifts, she looked like a regular lunatic--the kind that sleeps in the park, digging through trash cans for dinner and talking to pigeons like they can talk back. In fact, she did all those things.
    Sometimes cops will look the other way. Other times, bad day or whatever, they decide to roust "the wackos," rough them up, haul them in, whatever their mood dictates. Once in a while, if the wacko takes offense and puts up some sort of a defense, the cop goes overboard. More than once, Mama came home with bruises. 235
    240
    But what if one of those times, she never came home at all, and no one knew