The long silence before anyone says anything makes me sure they’ve seen the news. They must have.
“Tara. Saadi. Why don’t you guys go pick up some food for us?” Abbas suggests.
“And miss this?” Saadi says.
Abbas immediately shuts Saadi down with a hard stare. Saadi gets up, glaring at me as he passes me by.
Then Tara gets up and follows Saadi out. But before she leaves, she hugs me and whispers, “I’m proud of you, Zabber.”
“I . . . ,” I whisper. I want to whisper that I’m thankful for her. That I’m proud of her too. But I say nothing.
And then they’re gone. And I’m alone in the room with my mother and Abbas, who holds her hand tight. She won’t look at me. I wish she would. I want her to hug me and say she’s proud of me like Tara just did.
“Reza, do you want to sit down?” Abbas asks calmly.
“Not really,” I say, nervous.
“Do you want to take your coat off at least?” Abbas suggests. “You look warm.”
I put a hand on my forehead, wiping the sweat away. I pull my coat off and place it on an armchair. Then I take my hat and scarf off. I still don’t sit. I want to make running away from here as easy as possible.
“Reza jan, is there something you’d like to tell us?” Abbas asks, his tone so mild you would think he was asking me what kind of tea I would like.
“Mommy,” I say. “I . . .”
I have every intention of finishing the sentence. But then my mom finally looks up at me, and her misty eyes make me break down in tears. And I can’t speak. Words won’t come to me. All I can do is cry.
My mom wipes away her own tears, takes a breath, and speaks. “Reza, I know you,” she says, pleadingly.
How can she know me when I don’t know myself?
“I know who you are deep down,” she continues. “You’re not like these other men. Maybe you think you are. Maybe it’s a phase.”
“But I’ve felt this way for so long,” I say, words suddenly tumbling out of me. “I’ve always liked boys. Even before I knew what it meant.”
“No,” she says. “You’re confused. You didn’t have a consistent father. Now you do. You’ll see. You’ll change.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I say. What I don’t say is that I don’t know if I want to. Because changing would mean never touching Art again.
“Of course you can,” she says supportively. She believes I can do anything, even change this part of myself. “There were men in Iran who went through phases. We all knew they did. But they were married. They had children. It was just something they did on the side.”
“We’re not in Iran,” I say. I don’t want Art to be something I do on the side. And I don’t want to marry someone like Judy and lie to her, or have children who don’t know who I am and how I love.
“Could we . . . could we not tell anyone else?” she asks.
“I think everyone else knows,” I say, trying not to snap at her. “I think it’s obvious to everyone but you because you don’t want to believe it.”
She lets out a loud sob when I say that, and Abbas puts an arm around her. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just holds her.
“How could I not see it?” she asks quietly, like she’s talking to herself. “How could I not know my own son is like this?”
Like this. I’m like this. It suddenly hits me that there is no word for gay in our language. No word for coming out. In the language my mother speaks, I literally don’t exist.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I hate hurting you.” I sit next to her, and she instinctively grabs ahold of me and clutches me tight. “I’m sorry,” I keep whispering as I rest a head on her shoulder.
I hate that I’m the one apologizing. I’m the child, she’s the parent. Her responsibility is to me, not the other way around.
We hug for what seems like an eternity. Then she pulls away and composes herself. “What happens now?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
She looks to Abbas, like he’s going to have all the answers.
“We’ll take it a day at a time,” he says, nodding slowly. “The most important thing is that you stay safe. Reza, do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do,” I say, embarrassed to be discussing this in front of my mother. If only they knew how safe I was.
“You and Bartholomew Grant’s boy . . . are you . . .” Abbas trails off, concerned about my mother’s ability to hear any more.
I nod.
My mom lets out a breath and shakes her head. “How could I not see it?” she whispers. Then, through tears, “My God, have you . . . are you . . .”
She doesn’t say any more. She breaks down crying, and Abbas holds her in his arms, guides her head to his shoulder. He whispers to her that it’s okay and strokes her hair.
I feel like a ghost. Like I’m not in the room anymore. They don’t look at me or talk to me. I don’t get it. I’m the one who just came out to them. I’m the one who is broken up inside. Why am I not the one being comforted? Why is no one telling me it’s okay? Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to vomit. I rush away.
“Reza,” my mother barely croaks out as I’m almost out of her view.
I turn around, the whole room spinning from my nausea.
“Reza, give me time,” she says. “Please don’t tell anyone else.”
“I . . .” I want to tell her that the whole point of my coming out to her is that I can’t hide anymore. The hiding is what was destroying me. And she’s asking me to hide again. I do not say a word of that, though, because I need a toilet. I run to my bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet. I try to vomit, but nothing comes out. The room spins. I want my insides to be emptied of everything. No more family, no more shame, no more past.
I lay my head down on the toilet seat and close my eyes, thinking maybe my mother will have a change of heart and come to comfort me. But the next thing I feel is a hand on my shoulder, and my sister’s voice is gently whispering, “Zabber. Are you okay?” I open my eyes. “I doubt you’re hungry right now, but I saved some sesame chicken for you.”
“I can’t eat,” I say, my voice sad and distant. “I feel sick.”
“I’ll just leave it here then,” she says, placing the container near the sink. Then she sits next to me and rests her head on the other side of the toilet seat, an act of solidarity that almost makes me cry again.
“Did you talk to Mommy?” I ask, afraid of the response.
“No,” she says, like this answer should have been obvious. “I came right to you. Anyway, you know she’ll pretend nothing happened unless you push her again. That’s what she does. Deny, deny, deny. It’s the Persian way, little brother.”
I manage to laugh. I didn’t think that was possible anymore.
“Why do you think I’m always acting out?” she asks. Then, answering her own question, “Because I just want her to see me. To acknowledge me. You know?”
I raise my head up now. “I see you,” I say. “And since I don’t think I’ve ever said it, you’re . . . amazing.”
“Thank you, little brother,” she says, a sad smile on her face. “But it’s not about me right now. I mean, it’s always a little about me, but we don’t have to focus on that right this moment.”
“Did you always know?” I ask, truly curious. “That I was, you know . . .”
“Gay?” she says defiantly. “It’s okay to use the word, you know.” She takes a deep breath, then adds, “Yeah, I always knew.”
And yet she never made fun of me. Never threw it in my face. Never forced my hand before I was ready to come out on my own. All this time, I’ve resented my sister and protected my mother, taking my mom’s side. How could I not see that my true ally was Tara?
I feel sick again, and this time I vomit. The smell of it fills the room. Tara immediately springs into action. She flushes the toilet, wipes my mouth, pours me a glass of water from the sink,
and gently places it to my lips.
“Tara,” I whisper, my lips trembling, “do you think I’m sick?”
She flips her hair, gives me a wry smile. “You just barfed, so yeah, I think maybe you’re a little sick.”
“You know what I meant,” I say, taking her hand in mine.
“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “Of course I don’t think you’re sick. I think you’re smart. Anyone on this earth who doesn’t love hot men is an idiot, as far as I’m concerned.”
She manages to make me laugh again. “But if everyone loved hot men,” I say, “then no one would love you.”
“A valid point,” she says, laughing too now.
“So, um, did you tell them about, you know, Massimo and school and . . .” I trail off.
She shakes her head. “I was going to,” she says. “And then we saw you on the news, and I knew it wasn’t the right time. I’ll get there, but thanks for making it a little harder for me.”
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. I seem to be making life harder for everyone I love these days.
“Guess I know what it feels like now,” she says. “Thinking you need to keep the peace ’cause your sibling is rocking the boat so hard.”
I look at her and nod.
Then she stands up and gives me her hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You tell me where Art lives,” she says with a radiant smile, “and I’ll tell you where we’re going.”
I let her guide me up and then out of the bathroom. As we make our way to the front door, we see my mom, Abbas, and Saadi eating Chinese food in the dining room. “Are you joining us?” Abbas says.
“We’re going out for a walk,” Tara tells them. She’s holding the container of sesame chicken and places it on the table in front of them.
“We’ll keep some food for you both,” my mom says with a sad smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
There it is. Denial. We’re all denying everything that just happened. Only Saadi’s hateful glare reminds me of what I just did.
My sister leads me out into the cold, and I lead her toward Art’s building. She asks the doorman to tell Art we’re here to see him, and the doorman tells us Art left recently. So we sit on the stoop and wait. And then I see him. I would recognize that walk from miles away. The swinging hands. The frenetic legs, like they’re always in a rush to get to the next destination.
“Oh my God, Reza,” he says, when he sees me. “How did it go? Did you . . . Did they . . .”
“Can we not talk about it?” I ask desperately.
Tara stands up. She gives Art a quick hug, then says, “Okay, I think I’m gonna go see my own secret man now.”
“Have fun,” Art says. His voice is shaky. I can tell he hasn’t had an easy time of it either. I wonder if he was with Judy. I am almost sure he was.
Before leaving, Tara takes my hands, pulls me up, and hugs me tight. “Don’t let them stop you from enjoying this fine-ass guy,” she whispers.
And then she leaves. And Art and I are alone.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Can we not talk about it?” he responds.
We stand in front of each other. I won’t talk about what happened with my mom. He won’t talk about what happened with Judy. I glance to my side, aware of the doorman watching us. “Can we go somewhere?” I ask. “Somewhere happy.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks. “I’ll take you anywhere.”
“San Francisco,” I say, joking. “The gayest place on earth.”
He laughs. “A slightly impractical choice,” he says. “Though it can be arranged after graduation.” Then his eyes light up. “Wait, I know exactly where we’re going,” he says.
He takes my gloved hand in his, which feels awkward. Almost instinctively, we both take our gloves off and hold each other’s hands. Who needs gloves when you’ve got the heat of passion anyway? The doorman’s eyebrows rise when he sees our hands clutch each other, but at the moment, I don’t care. Let him stare. Let Art’s parents reject him. Let my mom deny me. Right now, all that matters is my skin against his.
He leads me south, then west, until I hear the hum of crowds and the twinkling sound of Christmas music. And then we turn a corner, and I see it. The Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It’s so tall, so bright. “A happy place,” he says. “Obviously, ignore Christianity’s intense homophobia and focus on the real spirit of Christmas.”
“Come on,” I say, smiling. “Let’s go ice-skating.”
We rush toward the line and wait our turn to get skates. We lace each other’s skates up. Second to second, the mood changes. Becomes lighter. Our parents and Judy and the world feel farther away, until we’re on the ice and it’s like we’re part of a mass of happy people floating on a frozen cloud. We skate side by side, laughing, racing, twirling. And then her voice booms over the loudspeakers. Madonna. She’s singing “Santa Baby.” Just for us.
I must be excited by hearing Madonna’s voice, because I make a false step and fall. But he catches me. I’m in his arms now. He guides me up, toward him, my face hovering so close to his.
I want to believe we’re the only two people in the world, and on the ice, but my eyes can’t help but dart around. I see families, children, straight couples, people who could hurt us. “Art,” I say, shaky. “There are so many people here.”
“They don’t matter,” he says, so sure of himself.
“But they could . . .” I trail off. Hurt us. Judge us.
“Reza, we live in New York City,” Art says with sudden delight. “If we can’t kiss each other in this city, then where can we kiss each other?”
Are we going to kiss each other? The thought of it makes me soar.
“San Francisco,” I joke.
“Shut up,” he says, as he swats me playfully.
“I just wish we were somewhere private,” I say, an ache in my voice. I want to be somewhere that is just ours. I want to pretend we’re the last two people on the planet.
“Privacy is overrated,” he says. “I want to scream from rooftops right now. I want the world to see how beautiful you are, how right we are together.”
He moves his head closer to me. I close my eyes, and I’m in darkness. Private. I can feel him inching closer to me. His warmth, his breath, his scent, all slowly making their way to me. Until our lips are almost touching.
“Is this really happening?” I whisper quietly.
Then he kisses me. Our lips meet and our tongues start to explore each other. I feel like there is electricity inside me and I’m all lit up. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
And yes, this is really happening.
May and June 1990
“A lot of people are afraid to say what they want. That’s why they don’t get what they want.”
—Madonna
Reza
I think about sex almost all the time now. It’s like something inside my brain that was locked has been unlocked by Art, by his closeness. I used to think about sex sometimes, but now it’s an unstoppable force. I think about Art’s hands on my body, my cheeks against his, his lips pressed against mine, his body on top of me, crushing me with its weight, at once making me feel weighted down under its mass and freely soaring above the world, like a cloud with wings. I can’t even sleep anymore, because my thoughts about Art are racing around my brain.
Maybe the reason I think about sex in a continuous loop is that, despite being with Art for months, we have still not had sex. Yes, my hands have touched his body. His lips have touched my lips. But that’s all. I haven’t let anything else happen. The moment I come close to doing more—I feel the fear and instantly think about disease, death, blindness, and lesions. It paralyzes me.
So I just think about it, and then I make him stop when he wants to put his mouth where I know it should not go, and his fingers where I want them to go.
“Clinical trials are like
motherfuckin’ golf clubs,” Jimmy says. “Only rich white men allowed.”
We’re at an ACT UP meeting. The community center is packed with people. Men in tight leather pants. Women in blazers. Men with suspenders and no shirts. Drag queens. Men who look like they will die soon. People who seem to come from a different planet than the one I have known all my life.
“Apologies to the rich white men in the room,” Jimmy continues. “But y’all know it’s true, and it’s got to change.”
“No apology needed,” Stephen says.
Hearing Stephen use the word apology is hard. We had to apologize to him multiple times before he forgave us for what we did to Judy. But eventually he confessed that he saw our side of it, and he said his life was too short to punish himself by not seeing Art.
“Girl,” Jimmy says, “I wasn’t talking to you. You may be white, but you’re not rich. You burned through whatever you had in gay Paree.”
This is what we do on Monday nights. Art refuses to miss a meeting. He considers this romantic. I would rather be kissing under a Christmas tree.
“Focus,” a woman with a shaved head says. “This protest must feel focused. The government wants nothing more than for us to be off-message. But we will be clear. The NIH must include women and people of color in medical trials. How the hell are they supposed to heal our bodies when our bodies are not a part of their research?”
It’s so hot in this room that our palms are sweating profusely. We clutch each other’s hands here, in this room surrounded by other people like us. In the outside world, the straight world, I sometimes pull away from him when he touches me. At school, I fear the bullies. On the streets, I am terrified of being beat up. I wish for Art’s courage as his sweat merges with mine. I look down at our hands, his fingernails painted in different colors of the rainbow, glittery and bright. Optimistic.
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