Edited by Alloe Mak, Alyssa Zhang, and Sasha Rose Penwarden
The start of the summer of my life is, ironically, brought to a steady intermission by the beginning of summer break. A few weeks ago, I was smoking a cigarette in a tree, dancing away my academic stresses and sobbing from all my self-imposed upsets – almost simultaneously. Now, I spend my time stagnant, yet content. I rampaged myself into a retrospective rest.
On Monday — no, Tuesday? — morning, my eyes remain stuck on the images magnetized to the matte exterior of my fridge, squinting closely at what I’ve decided is the latest installation in an art gallery. A restless three-year-old, a nerdy 3rd grader, a cautious teenager; Past-Selves Stare Back — it’s an unofficial title for the anthology of photos before me.
A sensible, yet senseless uncertainty fills each weary smile, my observant smirk included.
I’m overwhelmed with dangerous levels of nostalgia that I feel all too often. Of days in the park, moments in classrooms, laughs with old friends. Daydreaming again like I always do, this time of all the warmth of being a kid. But I’ve idealized the past without regard for the fears which filled those times, and quickly, I’m snapped back. You never really realize that you might not be straight until you get called a faggot in the middle of the day by a kid you barely know. I was sent into a lifelong spiral soon after I decoded the intention of such a word.
My formative years turned me into a fugitive from attraction. I tried my hardest to avoid interrogation from my peers by forcefully halting any sudden glance or feeling, omitting any spoken or written word that could suggest I was anything but the seemingly “correct” option of the sexual binary. Though I tried to remain a diligent operative to the closeted cause, my camouflage was faulty from the start. I was a sweet and sensitive boy who loved his mom, who liked to read during recess and hated sports, and who wished he had more friends who were boys, but did have many friends who were girls (importantly noted to not be girlfriends!).
Yet, by my mid-teens, I still could not shake the feeling that I did not have to be one or the other. Neither option seemed solely attractive to me, so I retracted even further to avoid unnecessary stress or confusion. Instead, I was going on frequent dates with history and literature, had an on-and-off relationship with art and religion, and was secretly cheating on math and science. Later, I developed a sweaty and passionate affair with running, which, more than anything prior, taught me to love myself. The day of graduation came sooner than expected. Suddenly, I was anxiously awaiting the privilege of distance, hoping that it would allow me to figure out who I was, beyond school subjects and mile times.
I’ll skip forward two years because, well, the time in between then and now would require biblical parables and excerpts from my personal journal. It’s been just about a year since I “came out” to my family — by which I mean I gave my parents the real reason why I was a regular on the Metrolink for frequent rendezvous down south. As much as I try to minimize conversations surrounding my sexuality (specifically with family, because Lord knows how often I overindulge in conversations of recent escapades with close and not-so-close friends, oops), I knew how momentous an occasion it truly was. Less of an uneasy decision to do so, more of a promise to tie up loose ends for the same pictures that haunted me — frigid fears warmed by a bright reality.
I’ve written stories of velvet and gold, bad jazz and good jazz, milk and cigarettes, all of which are subliminal sentiments of love and hope, written testimonies of my conception of pride. A pride which accounts for anything lost and everything yet to be gained; all of my worst fears minimized by my greatest aspirations. Pride is the trusted act of pleasure and pain dancing closely together to make up all of what I am. No longer the little kid that felt bad for chasing butterflies rather than playing basketball, the pre-teen denying every “allegation” despite knowing why Johanna and Finnick were his favorite characters in “The Hunger Games,” and the highschooler who tried oh-so hard to camouflage and conform, but couldn’t quite commit behind closed doors. They are not me, but I would be nothing without them.
Even just a year ago, my sexuality would not have been an inclusion of my identity; more so a topping than a flavor. I was filled to the brim with indifference ; my restless desires to be seen as normal – no, equal – drove me to abandon my core. I replaced integrity with regulation. Anyway, how much can a year really change a person? My bleeding heart pools for every past lover, and my voice professes my burning passion for all of which I call my own. I’m still figuring out how to live this unwavering pride, but I’ve done so with a graceless embrace of authenticity and a heart filled with love and respect.
This is my self-portrait of pride. It’s made up of all the bright hues of my greatest memories and ideas, shadows of guilt and shame, and contoured by each and every person that has been a part of my life, for better and for worse. It is neither beauty nor gore, but an honest depiction of a life lived fully. Presented here is my admission of truth and expression, hoping to be included in the same gallery that holds all other forms of me.