Pride
There is a gentle glow
that comes of
a task well done
or a song well sung
or accomplishing
what you set out to do
or even—
accomplishing what you didn’t.
When they talk about a coming out
as if it’s a singular occurrence,
they usually mean
to those important to you,
such as your parents.
I’ve had an equal number of crushes
on boys and girls
(then men and women)
over the years,
and you would think
my parents would have noticed.
And they probably did,
but if it didn’t fit
their view of me,
then it didn’t happen.
So when I “liked”
my friend,
named for a flower,
and to me—
in my hormone haze—
as beautiful as one,
especially
when she sweat enough
that her glasses slid down her nose
in chemistry class
and she tried and failed
to blow the tendrils
of hair
off her sticky forehead,
and we went on outings
and hung out
and talked about our hopes and dreams,
and then tried
to keep in touch
through college
and the military,
until she got married
and changed her name
(the first one too),
and I hoped she was happy,
and what was left in my chest
for her
was aching
for a different life
where we may
have been together.
And later,
when I brought home a man
and we hung out
and talked about our hopes and dreams
and kept in touch—
but even then,
to me,
he was only ever
a friend.
My mom—
drunk again—
told me she was so glad
I hadn’t “turned out” gay.
And into my stunned disbelief
(which shouldn’t have contained surprise,
but did)
she walked this back
by saying,
“That would make life harder for you,”
as if
my life wasn’t made hardest
by her
and her lack
of ability
to see me.
So when I tell my friends
in passing conversation,
or when I talk with my husband
casually
about the people
I’ve dated,
and he responds
with neutral pronouns,
or when I sing
a love song in public
and leave the words alone,
letting she stay she,
these small moments
are flashes of fireflies
coming together to glow.
And while I never confronted my mom—
which honestly
would never have been received,
since she had already
made up her mind about me—
the smaller moments
of choosing authenticity
with people
who actually matter
feel
like
Pride.
*
Irene Axel is a California based poet whose work explores the complexity of loving those who hurt us. This is her first publication.
