Being around me was like charity to them. A trial run one may say, to see if I would make any moves on them. If you were on the other side of their borderline-idiotic ways of thinking, then you had to be an ally right? Wrong. After coming out as queer, everything changed. I was no longer the kid who could spell any word given to him. The one with a baking obsession. The one who always knew how to lighten the mood. I was predatorial, a danger to the other boys. If I wanted to have made a move wouldn’t I have done it earlier, under the umbrella-like protection heterosexuality provided?

Where was everyone all the other 364 days of the year? Suddenly, I was the center of attention. I was so brave, no one else could’ve done it or lived in my shoes for a day? I’m not a hero. This wasn’t my coming-of-the-age story cliche. This wasn’t your chance to prove that you’re not a horrible person because you no longer let “that word”, escape your mouth. You all are the same. Nothing more and nothing less. The day I came out is now so distant, but plays on a constant loop, like a broken record player. So many beautiful things have happened since then, but at what cost? Sometimes I wonder if the plethora of Instagram followers was worth it. The PR packages. The friends. All superficial, sometimes even meaningless. It’s all for show. His name speaks for itself.

When I was nine my mother would take my sister and I to church every Sunday. I always dreaded having to wake up early to make it to early mass but my mother loved going to mass at 9am. My sister and I would fuss and make pretend we couldn’t wake up to avoid going. Eventually we started going to mass at 11am, and we would go for lunch as a family afterwards. That I enjoyed a lot, and it became less difficult to get us both out of bed to get to mass. We made friends with another family and we often all sat together. I did my best not to talk to anyone while the pastor was talking so that others could listen. But as we got older we chatted a bit more. One day, my friend David had said something really idiotic during mass and I couldn’t help but giggle. Someone behind me tapped my shoulder, so I turned around slowly. I hadn’t paid any attention to who had sat behind me so I was surprised when I turned and saw someone I didn’t know. The person that sat behind me was a man, skinny with gray hair and a lot of wrinkles on his face. The wrinkles on his forehead turned into a U and he had his eyebrows furrowed. He looked annoyed, and angry that he was sitting behind a group of teenagers. He said to me and only me in a hushed angered voice “You are the oldest out of all of them! Why are you talking during mass, that is rude and disrespectful and the devils work!” I couldn’t say anything back, I was blown away by him referring to the devil while we were in the house of God. I felt that should be illegal and that he was wrong for saying that. I wanted to cry because he had basically called me out for being the devil, and I was not the oldest one. I was the tallest one but David was the oldest one, in fact he was the one that had said the joke to make me laugh. I was so angry for getting in trouble and felt that I had been blamed when it wasn’t even my fault! He should’ve disciplined David.

After mass was over, I ran down the stairs outside of the church to where my mom was so I could tell her what the old man had said to me. As I spoke my mom’s faced looked humored, I wasn’t sure what was so funny about my story. She bent down and her toasty warm hands held my face. In the sweetest voice she said “Jennyfer, he might’ve been wrong for saying you’re the devils work, but sweetie, you shouldn’t have been chatting in the first place. I hope that this sticks with you and you stop talking while mass is going on”. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, I was flabbergasted by her choice in words. I half expected her to take my side, but here she was saying I was at fault. I swore at thirteen that I would never go back to church, not because I got lectured but because I felt humiliated that my own mother wouldn’t take my side

Growing up, my parents weren’t around a lot, they were always working. My mom worked in Connecticut and my dad deep in Brooklyn. Both would leave before my brother and I woke up. At the time, our grandparents lived in the same building as us. My dad would drop us off at their apartment when he left or work. My grandpa was the super of the building and had to work early too, but was always in and out of the apartment. Every morning he would make us hash browns, eggs and strawberry milk, he’d always remind us to not tell our mom. Of course, the first thing I’d do when I see my mom next is tell her that I had strawberry milk. We took the bus to and from school too. My grandma gave us walkie talkies to contact her whenever we were sick or needed something when she was in the other room. The bus stop was down the block so whenever we were approaching we’d get out our walkie talkies and tell her to meet us downstairs. We would often fall asleep before our parents got home, but we liked spending time with our grandparents a lot. And, of course, we liked the strawberry milk too.