Free War Dances by Sherman Alexie

fag.”
    “Are you homosexual?” my father asked.
    I laughed.
    “This is not funny,” he said.
    “No, it’s just that word, homosexual; it’s a goofy word.”
    “You haven’t answered the question.”
    “What question?”
    “Are you homosexual?”
    I knew that my father still loved me, that he was still my defender. But I wondered how strong he would defend me if I were indeed gay.
    “Dad, I’m not a fag. I promise.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay.”
    We sat there in silence. A masculine silence. Thick and strong. Oh, I’m full of shit. We were terrified and clueless.
    “Okay, Dad, what happens next?”
    “I was hoping to tell you this at a better time, but I’m going to run for the State House.”
    “Oh, wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”
    “I’m happy you’re happy. I hated to make the decision without your input, but it had to be that way.”
    “I understand.”
    “Yes, I knew you would. And I hope you understand a few other things.”
    And so my father, who’d never been comfortable with my private school privilege, transferred me from Madison Park to Garfield High, a racially mixed public school in a racially mixed neighborhood.
    Let my father tell you why: “The Republican Party has, for decades, silently ignored the pernicious effects of racial segregation, while simultaneously resisting any public or private efforts at integration. That time has come to an end. I am a Republican, and I love my fellow Americans, regardless of race, color, or creed. But, of course, you’ve heard that before. Many Republicans have issued that same kind of lofty statement while living lives entirely separate from people of other races, other classes, and other religions. Many Republicans have lied to you. And many Democrats have told you those same lies. But I will not lie, in word or deed. I have just purchased a house in the historically black Central District neighborhood of Seattle, and my son will attend Garfield High School. I am moving because I believe in action. And I am issuing a challenge to my fellow Republicans and to all Democrats, as well: Put your money, and your house, where your mouth is.”
    And so my father, who won the state seat with 62 percent of the vote, moved me away from Jeremy, who also left Madison Park and was homeschooled by his mother. Over the next year or so, I must have called his house twenty times. But I always hung up when he or his parents answered. And he called my private line more than twenty times, but would stay on the line and silently wait for me to speak. And then it stopped. We became rumors to each other.
    Five hours after I punched Jeremy in the face, I sat alone in the living room of my childhood home in Seattle. Bernard, Spence, and Eddie were gone. I felt terrible. I prayed that I would be forgiven. No, I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I prayed that I would be fairly judged. So I called the fairest man I know—my father—and told him what I had done.
    The sun was rising when my father strode alone into the room and slapped me: once, twice, three times.
    “Shit,” he said, and stepped away.
    I wiped the blood from my mouth.
    “Shit,” my father said once more, stepped up close to me, and slapped me again.
    I was five inches taller, thirty years younger, and forty pounds heavier than my father and could have easily stopped him from hitting me. I could have hurt him. But I knew that I deserved his anger. A good son, I might have let him kill me. And, of course, I know that you doubt me. But I believe in justice. And I was a criminal who deserved punishment.
    “What did you do?” my father asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I was drunk and stupid and—I don’t know what happened.”
    “This is going to ruin everything. You’ve ruined me with this, this thing, do you understand that?”
    “No, it’s okay. I’ll confess to it. It’s all my fault. Nobody will blame you.”
    “Of course they’ll blame me. And they should blame me. I’m your