originally published in Brave Voices Magazine
I’ve always been queer
but it never felt like it
was a door to my
identity that needed to
be left wide open.
I don’t know if that
is really the truth,
or if it’s just what
I tell myself in hindsight
all these years later.
When I was a teenager
I had thick long hair.
I painted my nails
and I wore long,
flowing skirts.
He’s just a hippy
after all, no need to
worry. It’s just a phase
that he’ll grow out of
when he’s older.
When I was about fifteen
years old, I became
friends with a kid in my
typing class. He told me
he was gay, that he liked me.
I told him I wasn’t,
but that it was okay,
that I wasn’t a jerk
and we’d still be friends.
I never talked to him again.
I learned in church that I
should be ashamed and
repentant. Not for being
an asshole, for not feeling
revolted that he liked me.
That was the beginning of
my turmoil with religion.
Why did I treat him that way?
Was I afraid of Hell or was I
just a coward?
I had my first gay
experience in college.
So cliché. We were drunk
and we made out. I don’t
think we had sex.
When I told my father I was a fag,
I said it in defense of my then-daughter,
who is non-binary themself.
Was that my coming out moment?
Hi, it’s me, I’m queer.
I still paint my nails, wear
dresses and skirts. I think guys
are cute. I’m in love with a woman
who is attracted to other women.
I don’t feel masculine or feminine.
I’m bigender but I’ve always passed
as cis and straight. I still do generally.
It’s one of my privileges along
with my white skin, and
I recognize that.
