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.