A queer girl who didn’t understand her queerness. Though these paragraphs are not about me, (my parents are still married and they are mostly allies) the character is all sorts of parts of me. Clinging to the last teenage year I would ever know. The excerpt above is fiction I found it in a notebook of mine from 2006. We know the sum of ourselves equals something more substantial than the opinions of others. Instead we are peering into each others’ faces, reveling in the strength and wisdom we have acquired. When Joey, Steph, and I join each other in these places, we are not peering through glass, envious of others with more simplistic joy. We stack ourselves like books inside cafe windows. Members of this home will soon migrate to bigger cities where we can thrive - no longer heathens - to distinct places where our idiocyncracies and “obscure” lifestyles will not be considered the behavior of outcasts, but instead a welcomed part of progressive communities.įor the time being, we cling tightly to each other and try to make ourselves feel okay. It’s a coven of the spirit with non-blood siblings. My hope spawns itself from the place I have learned to call my home. I have not resigned myself to the idea that they will never see me differently. It’s a fresh chapter, except for the stale judgement.Īs much as I’ve come to accept my family’s disapproval of the life I lead - it’s the only sincere livelihood I can imagine for myself any longer. I choose to find some remnants of solace in this place which is not my used-to-be home, a place saturated with memories that now hurt like pinches on my stomach, but instead with this blank, stark, bachelor-padesque townhouse that is home number two. And so, conversations with my father resumed all the while with him talking to someone who was never actually there. Sometimes it’s negative, sometimes it’s idealistic, but it’s always tied up in their expectations for you and whatever image they’ve fixated on when you were about nine years old.
Your parents always choose to see you as they desire. A home splintered just like the psyches of those once part of a whole home, never to be whole again. It’s one home that turns into two and sometimes feel like none. They call it a broken home, but that’s a misnomer. This awkward unspoken weirdness permeates the room as my phantoms of the past gather with the muses of my present. When I visit my father, a couple of months after telling him that I am not only interested in persons of the opposite gender but also those of the same, a palpable difference can be felt in the air. But when we’re together, the triumvirate, I feel like an entire army just us three.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking I am either losing my faith in humanity or I’m losing my faith in myself. When I’m sitting here, with Joey and Steph, I don’t feel like an outsider anymore.
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