For me, the label of girl was almost threatening—something forced on me that I could never escape. I know every woman could, to some degree, feel threatened by their status as a woman, with sexual assault, harassment, and overall danger and misogyny following them everywhere they turn—those things followed me, too. But the threat I felt went beyond that: I wasn’t the girl my birth certificate said I was.
Amid her coldest, bleakest point, she discovered a strength she did not know existed.
The age of forty-three haunted me like it was a deadline, an expiration date, an obstacle I just had to push through. If I could just make it to forty-four, I told myself, then everything would be okay. I wouldn’t have to keep checking my pulse at night or wonder if my body would betray me. It sounds silly, but the number carried weight.
It’s been about two years since the launch of The Ultimatum: Queer Love. As someone who indulges in the Netflix reality TV shows universe, where fresh seasons seem to drop once or twice a year, waiting that long for a new Queer Love season felt like some sort of cruel, diabolical experiment on its viewers. Like the rest of the viewers, I slurped down that hot tea, burned my tongue, and now I’m complaining about it.
Reality TV has become one of my favorite pastimes with my fiancée. We listen to recap
I am my family’s designated eulogy writer. In other families, someone might find themselves the planner, the hoster of gatherings and special events, or the comic relief, the one who lightens the mood for those around them—a job which, at a time when the world feels increasingly dire, surely cannot be discounted. Somehow, eulogist is the role I hold in mine. What started as composing birthday cards on behalf of the group as a child slowly evolved into writing my little cousins’ college application essays, and, before I knew it, the responsibilities of my post had expanded once again.
It would be cliché to describe my dad as complicated. What cis man isn’t being raised in a culture that denies them emotions and softness and compassion? But I’ll say it anyway—my dad was complicated. He was one of the most emotional people I ever knew, and he wasn’t good at hiding it. Like most cis men, his emotions came out as rage. And he regretted things, like most people, but they weren’t things I wish he had regretted.
I grew up poor.
Mama made it clear that our circumstances were a product of her decisions. Not our caste. Not a lack of intelligence. Not a generational defect. She told me, “I make enough mistakes for the both of us. Watch and learn.”
A strangled moan escapes my lips, twice, maybe three times. Instantly, I am in a tight feedback loop of visual stimulation and swirling emotions. Later that night, I write words that will become this:
fear horror grief grief grief horror mercy for
husband for driver horror horror horror don’t
think don’t think don’t think shut down shut
down don’t shut down hold on feel feel feel
horror fear grief & fear & grief & horror &
As writers, we always talk about creating living, breathing characters, not in some Victor Frankenstein sense—we’re not actually bringing anyone to life even if the voices in our heads disagree (and disagree loudly)—but we’re making them feel real. One of the absolutely necessary, though not sufficient, conditions…
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