I feel the need to do something to the outside of my body to mark the tremendous shift I’ve experienced inside — to somehow match my inner self to my outer self. But I’m not sure who my inner self is anymore.
“I knew that somewhere along the way, I stopped being sober for her and had started doing it for me — and that realization hit me harder than my own fist.”
Sometimes being queer and black, bisexual and biracial, feels like contradiction, like too many things, and sometimes I’m not sure that I’d recognize myself if I walked by.
“We rarely left the bedroom and when we did, we quickly returned. We called in to work and on one occasion we both no showed. It was heavenly, but as the old adage says all good things must come to an end.”
“Loving women and loving the land are the two things I told myself I would never do, and somehow, they got all tangled up in each other.”
I stopped hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in 2017 because of toxic masculinity and bro culture in the hiking community. It exists, it’s shitty, and it fucked me up.
“People are usually surprised to hear things about my past, like how I was a cheerleader, and in a sorority, and a dancer, and in musical theatre.”
“Here was a community where race apparently didn’t matter, because we were all humans, made in the image of God. Where a pacifist, sensitive, caring Jesus was the primary male role model. I finally felt at home. I was promised complete acceptance and understanding, and all I had to give was… well, everything.”
In which a debate over body hair pushes a white mother and her brown daughter to the limits of mutual understanding.
Do you pick up pennies for good luck? Does part of you still think stepping on a crack will break your mother’s back? Did you know that apparently “to kill an albatross is to cause bad luck to the ship and all upon it”? Bummer!
“Who was this country-music-loving New Englander? I both hated and loved that she seemed to be playing this garbage as if to impress me.”
Before Angela Lansbury told women they were partly to blame for sexual assault, she helped me with my imposter syndrome.
“By the end of the 1994 Winter Olympics, I was 12 years old and quite certain I’d picked the right side.”
About eight months sober at that point, I had two thoughts scream through my mind at nearly the same time – first, “Oh hell yeah, all the whiskey at my fingertips” quickly followed by, “Oh hell no, this is cruel.”
LGBTQ representation in literature is important. Also, chicken picatta is delicious.
I was a newly minted queer and everything I knew about queerness was rooted in coming out. I’d heard about the relief that came with coming out from everybody. If TV was to be believed, I would feel free even as my parents stopped looking me in the eye.
I can and will figure out a way to do everything by myself to keep from having to be nice to someone I don’t want to be nice to. I don’t want to be nice to a lot of people.
“There aren’t as many hairy, feminist lesbians as I was led to believe.”
As the daughter of lesbian mothers, I always knew I had a sperm donor, and that I could meet him when I was 18. I loved my moms; I loved my queer family. Still, I had always wondered what part of me was cut from a different cloth.
I changed. But it was a gradual process, in the way a forest becomes stone. Petrified forest of a body.