Sarah (9:25:32 PM): any idea what Kit would say?
me (9:25:38 PM): Not a clue
me (9:25:54 PM): It could be anything from “Oh, thank god, I love you too” to “You're joking”
me (9:27:38 PM): Or, worse, “No you don't”
Sarah (9:27:46 PM): eeep … ∗HUG∗
me (9:29:23 PM): ∗sigh, hug∗ If it's not me, she'd let me down gently, I know, but why the hell would I tell her when she's a day's flight away? It has to wait until we're closer together physically, because I have no desire to have an online relationship of that variety.
Sarah (9:30:49 PM): maybe you should ask who it is
me (9:31:10 PM): Why?
me (9:31:17 PM): What purpose would that serve?
Sarah (9:32:04 PM): to find out how she feels. if it is you
me (9:32:17 PM): It'll either not be me—leaving me disappointed, and very likely having to tell her that I'm in love with her (no way would she tell without a “I'll tell if you do” sort of clause)—or it would be me and then we're still 27 hours by plane and $2000 apart
Sarah (9:34:17 PM): but wouldn't you rather know than spend your time wondering and having to keep your side hidden?
me (9:34:59 PM): It's not worth the embarrassment. Better in person, when I won't go into paranoid fits that she's not online because she's angry at me.
Sarah (9:35:21 PM): heh. that is very true
me (9:35:37 PM): god knows I'm paranoid like that, too
Sarah (9:36:15 PM): oh trust me, I am too. if I said something to somebody that could possibly make them angry, and then they're not online or I don't talk to them at all, I feel absolutely horrible
me (9:36:25 PM): exactly
me (9:38:58 PM): and if it is me, what can I do on it? Nothing! Nothing more than we already do—talk online. Long-distance phone time would be more than I can afford, and I don't just want a computer with her on the other end. I need to be able to hold her hand, to hug her, to touch her. Spending a week with you was so totally different than online—though, sorry to disappoint, I'm not in love with you—and it's changed our online conversations for the better. But without that face-to-face? I don't know it could work.
Sarah (9:42:17 PM): aye, meeting in person does change the entire perspective. so that makes very much sense, and I suppose it would be much better to wait.
me (9:42:38 PM): So stop pushing me, mooooom
Sarah (9:42:44 PM): ∗giggles∗
Sarah (9:42:45 PM): Sorry.
Sarah (9:42:46 PM): I'll stop.
me (9:42:53 PM): heehee
me (9:43:08 PM): can we be done with this serious crap now?
Sarah (9:43:19 PM): absolutely
Being a masochist, though, I can't stop writing, can't stop hoping and dreaming and needing. In a moment of complete and utter foolishness, I decide to post the drivel I've been working on at FictionPress.
me (10:56:36 PM): ∗swallows∗ New story
me (10:56:42 PM): http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php? storyid=1599445
Sarah (10:57:48 PM): uh oh, a swallow
Sarah (10:57:49 PM): ?
me (10:58:00 PM): just read it, dork
Sarah (10:59:49 PM): oh, Ali ∗hugs!∗ It's beautiful
me (11:00:24 PM): That will be the only hint she gets from me. If she figures it out, then I'll admit it. If not, I'll suffer quietly
Sarah (11:00:44 PM): She'd have to be pretty dense not to figure it out, and Kitty is not in the least bit dense
me (11:01:07 PM): ∗winces∗ Is it that obvious? I'll change it, I don't want it obvious.
Sarah (11:01:16 PM): Yes, it is rather obvious …
I don't know where I got that courage from, but I wish it hadn't deserted me the moment I clicked add story, leaving me vaguely nauseous with nervousness. My head hurts. I lay down after a little longer talking to Sarah, and curl around my pillow.
I wish my pillow was her, and cry myself to sleep.
Dylan can consistently be counted on to know when there is something wrong with me, and today is no exception. I sit down at lunch and he looks at me for a moment contemplatively. I'm busy pushing salad greens around my plate, trying to eat, but the nerves are keeping my stomach upset, still. I didn't check my e-mail when I got up, for fear that she would have left a review, and now I'm torn between wanting to know and wanting to be Hermione Granger so I can have a time turner and reverse it all so it never happened. Foolish overconfidence, even if it was just for a moment, will be my downfall, I'm sure.
“What happened?”
I sigh. When did I become this overdramatic soap opera character? When did my life become eerily fictional—just a normal girl, in love with her best friend, and agonizing over it—and why doesn't the fact that it is so cliché bother me? “I wrote a story last night,” I start. Another sigh. “About how I feel about Kitty. And I posted it online where she'll see it. Except now she'll see it and hate me.”
There is a serious advantage to having a tranny boy as a close friend: he thinks like a guy. “I seriously doubt Kitty will hate you. You've said it yourself—you're best friends. She loves you.” His logic is calm and rational and linear. “Besides,” he drawls, “you're just so sexy.”
I hit him in the arm, hard, giggling, but the knot in my stomach does not loosen.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god, she's online. And she doesn't seem upset. Either she is so angry and upset she has repressed it, or she's trying to figure out how to let me down. Or she hasn't read it. I'm desperately praying for the last. Maybe I'll have time to take it down before she gets to it.
Sarah (9:07:23 PM): gotten any more reviews, Ali?
me (9:07:43 PM): Nope, just you. ∗glares all around∗
Sarah (9:07:49 PM): hehe
Heather (9:07:54 PM): Oh.!
Heather (9:08:01 PM): ∗dutifully goes back and reviews∗
Damn you, Sarah, for ruining that plan. We are in a conference, Sarah, Kitty, myself, and another friend, Heather. Heather knows, too. I feel like burying myself in a hole and dying now.
Kitty (9:08:17 PM): What's this?
me (9:08:52 PM): I have a few new stories on fictionpress. No big deal. But Hez and Sar were on last night when I posted them, so they should have reviewed, those bums
She's going to go look. She'll look at my FictionPress account— there's no secret there, for her—and see the new piece and read it and know. I'm cold and shaking now, all the blood in my body working to keep my heart at a steady, normal pace instead of rushing. I am frozen, unable to type or think or move, waiting for her to do something. Say something. Please yell at me, hate me, but this silence is deafening and deadly.
Kitty (9:18:05 PM): ∗is not dead, silly. Is simply … er … blushing∗ ∗a lot∗ ∗is not dense, indeed. Though I wouldn't be scared to tell you I loved you in person∗
me (9:19:07 PM): ∗dies. Tragically∗ It's not exactly something I wanted you to know—god, you're my best friend of five years. But I had to at least write it down.
Kitty (9:20:11 PM): You wrote it beautifully. I don't deserve it.
me (9:20:18 PM): Yes you do.
me (9:21:03 PM): I won't bring it up or anything. I don't want you to be mad at me.
Her Internet connection fails, and I scream in frustration. I need to know, because that wasn't enough to reassure the compulsive worrier in me. I need to hear her voice, but it's not possible at the moment.
me (10:00:30 PM): ∗is doing her best not to cry∗
me (10:02:17 PM): ∗best is obviously a relative term, because I'm crying∗
me (10:05:12 PM): I love you. I love you. I can't say it enough.
Kitty (10:05:28 PM): Good ∗hug∗
me (10:06:04 PM): ∗curls up in lap∗ I assume this means you're not angry with me.
Kitty (10:07:35 PM): I'm amazed you think I would be
me (10:08:38 PM): I'm paranoid, you know that. I can come up with the worst possible result to any given situation and firmly believe that is what will happen
. I've been on pins and needles, worrying you would tell me never to speak to you again.
Kitty (10:11:47 PM): The only thing I'm worried about is us eventually meeting and you deciding that I really am a horrible, awkward, nervy less than amazingly gorgeous person.
me (10:13:17 PM): No. Never. You are amazingly gorgeous. ∗hiccup-y laugh∗ I had printed one of the pictures to show Stina and Dylan as explanation—“Can't you see why I love her?”—and the consensus is that you're far too pretty for me.
me (10:13:55 PM): And the rest … I know already (though I don't believe you're horrible). And they're just parts of you, and I love them too.
Kitty (10:16:03 PM): ∗sheepish look∗ You know, for about three seconds after reading “Her” I thought “this can't be me she's talking about!” and got incredibly jealous of the non-existent other person that you must have been referring to. I hope that sums up how very “not angry” I am
me (10:16:49 PM): I think that might be the best reaction I could have gotten. Ever.
me (10:17:37 PM): You know, I've been crabby and jealous all week, thinking your dreams probably had nothing to do with me?
Kitty (10:20:00 PM): Who else could they have been about? I thought I made myself entirely clear on that score
me (10:20:54 PM): No … because I was looking for the worst, not best, case scenario. And I didn't want to ask, because then I'd have to admit it, and then you'd be angry … I'm sorry I was scared.
Kitty (10:22:05 PM): Don't be
Kitty (10:28:29 PM): Now, I'm sorry, but I really have to go lie down for a bit. I'll try and be online later
me (10:28:42 PM): Okay. Feel better.
Kitty (10:29:54 PM): ∗grin∗ I do, in every way that isn't physical. I love you, and tell Things one and Two that all is well
me (10:30:11 PM): I will. I love you.
I swallow, and lay down, too. I scream again, this time with joy. I have the presence of mind and courtesy for my neighbors to muffle it with a pillow.
Her smile is radiant, and I am crying. My head is pressed against the hollow of her throat, my ear to her shoulder. Our hair is tangling together, red from me, brown and blonde from her, mixing in a cascade of color down our backs.
She is whispering to me, soft, her voice mellow and calm. Song lyrics, beautiful and sad. She's singing now. “For you my sweet babe … I wish …”
I pull back to look at her, and swallow harshly. “I love you, Kitty.”
Her smile makes my heart skip. “I know. I love you, too.”
As I haul myself out of my warm bed the next morning and onto the cool tile, I am relatively confident that this is all just a wonderful dream. I am relatively confident that I don't care what it is, as long as it never ends.
Shirt, pants, sandals, book bag. As an afterthought, I grab my sketchbook. This is the sort of day I can feel the inspiration bubbling up before I've even had my coffee. No, wait, that's not inspiration, it's a giggle.
“I love you, Kitty Ryan!” I yell to the empty room. I can feel the answering laughter, like a sound I know is there but too far off to hear. I smile widely, and set off to class.
It's evening again. We have been honest for twenty-four hours, and I have never felt better in my life. My hands are shaking, not from cold or fear this time, but from anticipation as I dial her phone number. Cost be damned, I have to call.
Her voice is soft, our connection crappy. “Hello?”
I sigh and laugh and mumble “hi,” all at once. She laughs, too.
There is a pause, neither of us sure what to say. We have never spoken on the phone before. Would she like a few minutes of pleasantries, or does she prefer to get straight to the point? How does she stand, or sit, when she's on the phone? I'm curled up under my covers in my bed, wishing I were wrapped around her. The silence drags on, edging into uncomfortable.
I smile, though she cannot see it, and murmur into the mouthpiece, “I love you, Kitty.”
She does not say anything for a long moment, and then, “I know. I love you, too.”
Moment: This Could've Been Me
by Evin Hunter
The name Matthew Shepard is now very familiar to me, but it used to evoke barely any emotion from me. Just a name, just a symbol, just another story from another time. After all, at the time of his murder, I was a third grader in a different part of the country— 1,748 miles away, to be exact. I don't even remember hearing about it on the news. Certainly it didn't affect my family in any way. I grew up with two conservative parents in the suburbs of Philadelphia, and I didn't learn what the word “gay” meant until a fellow fifth grader clued me in on the playground. It was not an issue I ever had to deal with in my childhood. To me, Matthew Shepard means the hate-crime agenda, the fight over the “lifestyle” of gay people, a reminder of the constant threat that I'd better watch my back if I'm going to live as an openly gay person. He never really struck me as just another human being.
Once in a while I get the chance to step back and reread The Laramie Project, and on a couple occasions I have seen it performed on-screen and onstage. The first time I read through the story my throat clenched up and my hands started to shake. I may have been a straight female ten-year-old when this happened, but now I am a gay transgender male. This could happen to me. I remember hanging out with my friends one night, and a drunk teenager shoved me and said, “What the hell are you faggots doing around here?” I turned and walked back inside the nearby coffee shop and sat in the bathroom, on the verge of tears. Another time, someone once told me I was “fucked” when they found out I was a guy without a dick. I was on the phone with my best friend the night she was stabbed with a knife by a group of gay bashers. She lives in Akron, Ohio, and has been in five or six gay beatings, ending up in the hospital more than once. You know what that fear and hate does to you? It makes you suicidal. She didn't want to live because everywhere people were telling her she didn't deserve to live. It is incredible to see the power with which some people can hate. For example, a Web site titled “God Hates Fags”—a campaign by Fred Phelps, the Baptist minister, to show every faggot that they are condemned to hell. Phelps's group even showed up at Matthew Shephard's funeral and shouted to whoever would listen that he wished Matthew had a chance to repent his homosexual sins as he lay dying, tied to the fence. Both the Web site and Fred Phelps are part of a Baptist church, located in Topeka, Kansas, right in the center of our country. “Welcome to the Westboro Baptist Church homepage. This page is dedicated to preaching the Gospel truth about the soul-damning, nation-destroying notion that ‘It is OK to be gay.’ ” Politicians are going out of their way to create things like the Federal Marriage Amendment proposal, so that millions of gays and lesbians may never walk down the aisle in holy matrimony or even get any of the 1,100 rights given to any normal heterosexual couple and their children. I mean, even just the passing glare of disgust, or the shifting in a seat when I grab a boy's hand in a romantic way, or somebody saying for the millionth time “That's so gay”—it's the same kind of hate as the hate that killed Matthew Shepard. It hurts to see my identity being used as a clichéd insult to mean something along the lines of “stupid.” I mean, this murder victim could've been me. This could've been one of my gay or trans friends.
After experiencing this story, this account, to hear him called “Matt” lovingly by his close friends, and to see his dad break down in tears … it just puts this damper on my spirit, and the pain of the murder really sinks in. If I had lived in Laramie, Wyoming, no doubt Matthew Shepard would have been one of my close friends. He was a short guy like me, 5′2″, 110 pounds, and he had this head of beautiful blond hair. I wish I had the chance to know him before he was killed—as the person he was, not the controversy he stood for. I give his family and friends so much credit for having their child and friend turned into this national symbol, and still staying strong for the purpose of preventing other hate crimes, through the spirit and memory of Matt. I mean, he was just like you or me—a kid with a big heart
and a big future.
A Quietly Queer Revolution
by Laci Lee Adams
I do not know how to be Christian apart from being queer, nor do I know how to be queer apart from being Christian. For me, these two realities are fused together. Two images from my childhood are similarly fused together. First, I had a girlfriend in kindergarten. She had porcelain-white skin and these absolutely gorgeous jetblack Shirley Temple curls. During nap time, we would lay our mats next to each other. I can remember falling asleep with my little finger twisted in her curls. Just as striking as her hair was the light blue–tinted paste she brought to school. My mission was to eat as much of that light blue paste as I could. In retrospect, however, I remember the look and feel of her hair far more vividly than the taste of the paste.
Second, I have wanted to give my life to God ever since I was a little girl. At six or seven, my class went on a field trip to Avery Island. One of the stops on the trip was a Buddhist shrine, which housed a very large statue of the Buddha overlooking a mossy pond. My classmates and I would play church near the statue. (I realize now the inappropriateness of this action.) I always wanted to be the head priest. By nine, I was ready to enter the convent. And by fifteen, I had forgotten how much that little girl wanted to give to God.
Sweet sixteen, however, brought major changes that seemed anything but sweet. I made the transition from being a young Catholic to being a young Methodist. During that time, I reveled in the prominence of the Bible. I thirsted for the ability to seek God on my own terms. Participation in worship left me wanting more. I became involved in worship planning and liturgical reading. My call started to form.
This time also brought with it drastic physical and sexual changes. I was a late bloomer, but once I bloomed I made up for the delay. My hips grew wider and wider and wider. The only thing that grew faster than my hips were my breasts. It seemed like one night I was a little girl and the next morning I was a fertility goddess. The external changes were accompanied by profound internal changes. I started to realize that I was not straight. I started to admit to myself that I dreamed about women. Not innocuous dreams, but dreams that were charged with sexual yearning. I imagined sexual acts that I had no intention of acting out! Looking back, the whole experience seems hazy. I remember experiencing a tremendous amount of self-loathing. But mostly I was afraid of who I was becoming, and what all these desires meant. I felt like a stranger in my own life and in my own body. Mostly, I think I was afraid that God could not love a young woman who loved other women just as much as she loved men.
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