I’m having a hard time feeling the same level of pride and euphoria I usually feel during the beloved month of June. This is my first Pride month as a married queer person and the feeling really is bittersweet. I think about my younger self, before I was out of the closet, never dreaming that such a moment would ever come. I think about myself just before my teenaged years–chubby and lonely and not particularly social–being told by my parents (with good intention, of course) that someday there would be a line of boys waiting to date me. When I tried to imagine it, I thought of that scene in the movie Penelope—where the boys arrive at the family’s grand home to meet this mystery girl, only to find that she’s not entirely what they signed up for. I genuinely assumed for many years I would either contract some terminal illness or join a convent by adulthood. When I entered adolescence and the possibility of my queer identity surfaced, I had a hard time picturing what my adulthood would look like—or sometimes, if I would even have one. It was unimaginable that I would ever be able to reconcile these feelings within me, much less bring those feelings to light and allow myself to be perceived as who I was. The very limited representation of queer people in media I consumed was almost always as a joke, my churches conveyed a kind of ominous disgust for people like me, and any person who seemed like they might lie outside the cis-hetero convention were chastised behind their backs–a gender policing that permeated every aspect of social life.
Now, not only am I “gay married” (as straight people refer to it), I’m in the genderless, equitable, ever-evolving partnership I didn’t even realize I wanted. Even that milestone—one so hard-fought, euphoric, magical—was bittersweet. There were so many moments where we became acutely aware of our difference, and the need for our own self-advocacy that is a unique challenge of queer couples. People disappointed us, we felt alone in the planning process, and we kind of had to celebrate ourselves until the others caught up with us. Even as my partner and I have dated over the last five years, I’ve recognized the different ways my family engages with her than with the women my male family members date. Recently, my mom offhandedly said to my wife that part of what she liked about J when she first met her was that she “didn’t try too hard to impress her,” but the truth of that is queer people must try so much harder to be accepted and liked. It’s not that my wife didn’t try hard to impress my parents (she really did), it’s that she wasn’t perceived as impressive. My brother has dated girls who the family seem to know everything about within a month of their relationship; a male cousin recently had a girlfriend who did not treat him particularly well, but everyone loved her and wanted to know when they would get hitched. There’s some cognitive dissonance occurring here.
It was a scary and emotionally charged process to become a government-documented queer couple. Several close family members didn’t respond to our wedding announcement–and worse, we barely expected them to. We had to think about what the least offensive picture would be to send to family (read: least blatantly gay), and we decided not to make a registry so it didn’t seem like we were asking for more than we had a right to. Even with our exceedingly small guest list we had our ceremony out of eye-shot of everyone for fear of catching a grimace when we kissed—probably for the first time in front of most of them because of the way we have conditioned ourselves to limit anything that could be considered PDA. One year on my birthday, my second one with my now-wife, we had a birthday dinner at a nice restaurant with my parents and brother. The two of us got there a little early, so we grabbed a quick coffee next door and met the three of them when they arrived. J and I aren’ t usually publicly affectionate, but it was a special night and we looked so cute that we held hands under the table for part of the dinner–that’s it. From what we experienced, the night had been fun: we’d all had good conversation and were engaged with each other. It wasn’t until sometime the next day that I received a text from my mom saying it had felt like we—J and I—had third-wheeled the three of them. Of course, I realized very quickly this was not true, but I also realized this was not intentional, malicious homophobia. How do you navigate something so hurtful, that makes you question the bare minimum affection you show your partner in front of your family—a family you know loves you, accepts you, and would be distraught to know how formative moments like these are?
My wife and I decided to choose our own married name, a common practice among queer couples it seems. We tried for a long time to find a way to use our given names in a way that felt comfortable, but to no avail. We love our family deeply, and we know they love us—but those names are not where we feel like we belong. The name we chose was an homage to a poet we share a love for; it symbolizes intimate partnerships, peace, longevity, overcoming harsh conditions to flourish. In choosing this name, we have readied ourselves a safe haven where we can relax into the truest versions of ourselves, and the most authentic form of our life partnership. Pride is joyful, absolutely. As Zadie Smith describes in her essay comparing joy and pleasure, joy is a “strange mixture of terror, pain, and delight.” The feeling doesn’t sit comfortably, but it sure is worthwhile.
honey gaze 