I never go to parties looking for boyfriends. I never go anywhere looking for boyfriends. But there he was, a really cute boy, and I wanted to wife him. He was brooding and dark, lanky, and had bad posture, aka exactly my type.
As I got older, I began to hide my humping. Not that I was ashamed of what I had been doing, but I understood that my mother was trying hard to steer me away from this activity. I was proud to be sexual at school, but at home, I had to hide my identity.
We had a long courtship, the Semicolon and I. We flirted with each other, batted eyes, but it wasn’t until the end of high school that we fell in love. And, oh, we fell hard.
Like the letters of our literature, we too as a society see things in black and white, and to ignore that fact is to ignore a long, profoundly ingrained struggle in our country’s history.
Refusing to be crippled, I decided to face my fears head on with a method that analysts like Freud would call, “conditioning.” I listened to old mix-tapes, read old love letters, even saw Blue Valentine in theaters. And you know what? I survived.
“The passing of time and all of its sickening crimes is making me sad again.”