the waiter set my plate down
"thank you" as i'm contemplating
what the fuck i ordered
i rotate the plate to see if this
creature
is more manageable from another angle
mom is smiling secretly
she reveals that
she knows
she is okay with everything
like i knew she would be
but over lunch because of one
silly mistake my sister made?
while she's sipping brown ale and
i'm trying to figure out
how to bite into my sandwich
funny because nothing has happened
we are just doing what we have been doing
plus talking
it's just a proposal
i am insistent.
mom says
"my january baby's growing up
my little girl's in love"
but she's always been
such a silly woman
and hopelessly romantic
so i don't know how to act around my family
they have never known something so big about me
i am so good at keeping hidden
and when this was right in front of them
did they see?
No.
it took a little nudge from a poem
that accidentally got left in their line of vision
not even my mistake
because i know how to wipe my tracks
as i'm running away backwards
so i'm on stage melting under bright lights
EXPOSED
performing a facsimile of my life
i have forgotten how i used to be
i have forgotten my act
i'm trying to seem normal as usual
i have forgotten how to be around her
and i know they can see it now
when i lay against her shoulder
i hope at least they have a memory of who they think i am
that they can reteach to me
so "hi mom!" here's a shoutout to my family
the nosy noisemakers discovering me in here
back again? who let you in?
we'll get a bouncer for this haven
-- my former self, March 2003
I have always given myself a hard time for writing about writing, even though sometimes it’s the only thing I have to say, and probably writing about writing is better than not writing at all. Maybe.
In middle school, I read constantly, and in high school, I wrote constantly. In 2001, my best friend and I started a poetry blog together, which evolved into a writing and art blog with 36 members before fizzling out in 2008, long after Brittany and I were officially BFFs no more.
In general, my focus is terrible. I know a little about a lot, and I’ve quit nearly everything I’ve started. But for a few years, my blog -- writing, reading, web-master-ing -- gave me purpose. Confidence, even. And community! Something I’d been craving, and still crave. This group knew all my truths (even if they were told slant) thanks to my feral free verse. I had no training; I was a runaway train.
These things come back to haunt you, don’t they, the train loops back around the track. My younger sister, also a writer, artist, and steadfast member of the blog, accidentally left the website open one day over spring break in 2003. Of all the damn poems she could have read (we had hundreds of posts by now) my mom found a love poem I had penned just a few days before: “i am wearing your jacket / because it smells like you” etc etc you get the jist.
Mama invited me out to lunch at Boscos, the only local brewpub at that time. I should’ve known something was up, since it was just the two of us, but the thought didn’t cross my mind. I wore the aforementioned jacket, as I had done every single day of spring break, feeling cozy and brave all at once. After the monstrosity that was my sandwich arrived, Mama let loose that she had read the poem.
"My little girl's in love!" Her eyes sparkled over the beer glass.
"We're just talking, we haven't decided if we want to do anything or just be friends. Nothing happened."
"Okay, okay... I just can't believe it, my little January Baby is all grown up."
"Nothing happened!" I picked at my sandwich.
"Well... I just want you to know that I love you and support you, whatever you do. And it’s okay to be gay.”
"I'm not gay, I'm bi."
"But are you more attracted to men or women?"
"Neither! I’m… I'm right.. in the middle." I tried to show her with my hands. 50/50.
“But I want you to know that being gay is not easy, it can make life harder. There's a whole different set of problems..."
This was the extent of her speech. Whether or not she said it out loud, she implied that, if I were really “in the middle” I could choose to only date men, and that would make my life a lot simpler, safer, and happier.
Of course, as soon as we got home, I scratched out yet another poem about the discovery of the first poem, the subsequent conversation, and the acknowledgement that my safe space was no longer private. But even that poem is not the whole story. It doesn’t mention those difficult parts of the conversation, or that even as she verbalized that she was okay with my choices, she implied that they were somehow wrong or would end up hurting me. It doesn’t even mention that I was wearing the jacket and how embarrassing that felt, in the too-big booth at Boscos. It was not a vessel of pride now, but shame.
What the poem does say is that Elise and I were not actually romantic or dating.
~~~~~~~~~~
"It's a perfect day! A perfect day, Elise!"
I liked her as soon as I saw her. Comic book cover printed t-shirt and close cropped blond hair. I thought she would never see me but somehow she did, and my shuttered world blew open wide.
Theatre friends, gay BFF, cool-dork boyfriend (1 year older), and in the fall, a CAR. Decent-ish music tastes, but malleable enough for me to work with. Cruising immediately improved, which was good because that was pretty much all we did. Drove around town and stood around in various parking lots. What else is there, then? Suddenly somehow we had become a true GROUP, the first one we belonged to that we had chosen by ourselves. (At least that's how it was for me.)
It would go like this: Elise would already be with Kevin, so they would pick up Brock and Laylee in East Memphis, then head to midtown to get me, blast Violent Femmes on the way to the Media co-op for indie movie night, then stand around in the parking lot for 3 hours afterwards. They'd drop me off first, which made me sad but gave me time to start blogging before everyone else got home, at which point we would often continue hanging out virtually, via AIM. And we kept on going and growing.
Somehow Elise saw me and now: belonging, mobility, support, identity, self-seen-ness.
It wasn't long before I was smitten. Our group had developed a language of physical affection, dancing, and inside jokes that continued to grow our intimacy with each other. Our vulnerability allowed us to share mental health struggles and tap into half-conscious ideas about sexuality and gender and identity. Oh all the typical teenage things, really! But in this case, practically no one was straight, and if they were, they inhabited omega spaces in some other sense. (We later learned that our classmates called us "the emo kids" even though not one of us ever went through that black eyeliner stage. I decided they were just jealous that we were so full of love and having so much fun.)
Kevin and Elise broke up eventually, and I was there to support her, as I had through her previous break up. I was sleeping over nearly every weekend. Morgan Fox, our friend and mentor, gave us a copy of his first feature film, Three Minutes (Based Upon the Revolution of the Sun), after he found out we had been renting it from Black Lodge Video every single week. The movie is very DIY, very autobiographical, and very gay, and it gave us an opening and a language to start talking about our sexualities. Turns out, pretty much all of us were identifying as “bi” at the time. Elise and I watched Three Minutes while cuddling on the couch at her parents’ house. At play rehearsal, she'd lean into me and I'd stroke her hair. We had been talking about bisexuality for months and eventually started considering whether to let our relationship flow in a more romantic direction.
It was probably my idea, looking back. I was elated, walking on air. She went out of town for spring break but left her jacket at my house, and I didn't take it off for a week. And being what I was back then, I wrote a love poem and I posted it on my poetry blog, of which Elise was also a member. It was a missive, an arrow, supposed to make her swoon. It was an error.
After spring break, after the Boscos incident, I stopped wearing the jacket. Elise and I kept cuddling, but I felt different around my family now. Estranged, even though Mama said I wasn't doing anything wrong. (I wasn't, was I?)
One day Elise called me, so excited, she had just come from from Music Fest where she ran into her ex (GAG) and they ended up hanging out and having so much fun and they MADE OUT and isn't that the best?? I was floored. Had she not received any of my love arrows, in all those months? My sweets and songs. My hugs and hums. I probably pretended to be happy for her, though. I guess I had it wrong all along. I hid the hurt, but the damage was done. Six months later we had stopped speaking. A pitiful fizzle. And it would be years before I felt I had earned the right to call myself queer.
