Someone scolds me, saying I should be grateful to have such an accepting mother. I could write a hundred lists about why she is a great parent, none of which include loving me “despite” being gay.
Her teeth shine with secrecy, my angel of small death
with a halo of hair the color of wine,
lady rising out of a champagne lake, and
I am drunk off her.
“With homosexuals, it’s the same. Out of compassion, let’s get rid of them now.”
“The Gay’s Can’t Give Us A Day To Celebrate Ourselves SMH.”
And it usually happens so innocently. Like it’s not like you sign up for this, ya know? You don’t wake up one day and think, “Gee, I really want to complicate my life by catching feelings for someone who has a 0.000% chance of reciprocating!”
If a space that was designed for us to revel in our queerness, our brownness, our language is wrecked, where else can we go? And the answer is nowhere.
The Pulse shooting was not a function of Islam, or fundamentalism, or terrorism.
Although the particulars of the moment were anything but cinematic, “The Adventure” played in my head for good reason. He opened up a whole universe to me that night: a boundless unknown I’d never understood I could explore.
Why are we so terrified of talking to our kids about sexual orientation? Are we scared to shatter their innocence?
In the early morning of Sunday, June 12th, a terrorist by the name of Omar Mateen stormed into Orlando’s Pulse Nightclub and opened fire on dozens of patrons. Running for their lives, guests tried to escape the terror.