Page 26 - Issue 17

the best way for me to say it without turning into a
puddle from fear and stress. “Genderqueer.” 'Threes' is
starting to stick now. They took it as well as they could.

We took a trip to visit my grandparents. Walked into the
same familiar smell of chi-cken-soup and cig-a-rettes
we’ve always known. I realized on that trip that I would
never be able to tell them. Their age brings back
memories that I never had. Memories of violence,
bigotry, and hatred that queer people before me
experienced. The violence that I didn’t want to bring into
my family. They still don’t know.

But I got a text message a few years ago. It was from
Uncle Mitch. There it is again, the rule of threes.
Without any context it said, “We’re very proud of you
and you’ll always have a home here.” My mom said she
told Uncle Mitch, she hoped it was okay. I’ve never felt
the same combination of fear and happiness before in my
whole life. Being outed by my family: my worst fear. But
on the receiving end, someone I could trust. With every
part of my identity.

Uncle Mitch, satisfied, beginning, summer camp,
remember, genderqueer, countless songs, genderqueer,
chicken soup, memories, memories, Uncle Mitch,
happiness.

Genderqueer: my way of saying that your pallette
doesn’t have my color. But it’s not your fault. You were
only given shades.