I know it may come as a shock to many, so I suppose it's best to just rip the band-aid right off and get on with it: I'm gay. See, I've always known I was gay, and most folks have always known I was gay on some level, but I think I reached new levels of gayness over the past few weeks. We're talking unicorn levels of gayness.
It all started with my purple shorts. You see, I've alluded to these purple shorts before. As I was leading one of my meetings with my little GLBT youth at work, we got onto the subject of my purple shorts. I've worn these shorts before. I wear them whenever it's hot outside and whenever I'm feeling especially fabulous. I really don't think twice about it. But on this day, in our "safe space," a youth asked me "did you change into that when you got to work?"
I had to pause a minute. Now, we have some gender non-conforming folks who don't leave their house expressing the way they feel most comfortable, because they're either scared or uncomfortable to present publicly that way. But, I wasn't wearing a dress. Nor was I even really gender non-conforming. I was wearing purple fucking shorts for fuck's sake. And for the record, I looked cute. How do I know? I always look cute, that's how I know.
"Um...yes." And she quickly backtracked and said it's because I didn't match. "If I matched, I would look like Barney." We continued on the subject for a few more minutes, and it was all fine and fun because, as I told them, "it's a good thing I'm more confident than I used to be, because the shit you're saying to me could really hurt if I gave a rat's ass." On the really, really real - I wouldn't wear purple shorts if I didn't think I a) could pull them off; and b) gave a hoot what other people thought about what I wore, unless he was gorgeous and clearly my future husband in which case I would care for 2.5 seconds and then tell him to love me for the person I am.
This weekend, I got to experience my first ever New York City Pride. The parade was long - way too long, and only mildly fabulous - but the rest of the weekend's festivities left me super proud, happy, and feeling like I needed to check in to the hospital on Monday with a case of celeb-style "exhaustion," which is the fancy Hollywood way of saying "hungthefuckover."
A strange and familiar feeling hit me at several points throughout the weekend. Here I was, surrounded by my adoptive "family": my fellow queers, so many people who share similar life themes - of both nuanced and outright discrimination, words of hatred, and experiences involving lube - and at times, I still felt out of place. I still, at times, allowed myself to be preoccupied by others' perceptions of me.
Now, lez be real: it wasn't the lesbians I was worried about. As I spent my time hanging out at several parties, bars, and social scenes, I found myself wavering between I-Don't-Givea-Fuuuckkk and "OMG-What-Is-There-Something-On-My-Face-Do-I-Look-Fat-OMG!?" I hate that I've been conditioned to live in this push-and-pull world. Sometimes, I see others who just clearly rock the shit out of a look - a look far beyond the gayness of purple shorts - and they just own it and I just own jealousy.
It's hard not to let it all get to you... To be in the debatable center of the gay universe and to find a way to be yourself without letting others affect the way you do so. I could go on a rant about the gay male community and the pressure to be beautiful, but that's just tired. The real problem, if we can call it that, is me. I should be able to love me, flaunt me, and be proud of me, regardless of who's looking. When I think back to my favorite moments, the moments when I've felt most free - those are the times when I just let go of any inhibition or reservation I may have had and just said "fuck it."
I am really proud to be part of a community that isn't afraid to say "fuck it," and "fuck you," even, to a society that doesn't always approve. This weekend, I let my freak flag fly, and I don't mean I just got freaky in some clubs (don't get me wrong - I did). I saw so many queers just being themselves that it just hit me: why should I ever even remotely care about someone's silent thoughts? I know I'm great, purple shorts, tendency to break into Gaga choreography, stress acne, sasquatch-level hairy arms, hot messiness, and all.
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