Cuz we all know this is about to be some bullshit in some way, shape, form, or fashion.
SHIT IS IT ON?!?!
Yeah homie! Let’s watch together!
It’s gonna be his sick mom playing tricks on him, watch.
Mum, I think I’m gay.
He’ll say while I’m chopping the garlic, or the ginger. Or stirring the gravy.
At least, I think that’s where my son would tell me in the future.
Or maybe at the grocery store;
because I’d have taught him from an early age how to shop for himself –
and so the bi-weekly grocery store run would be our special bonding time.
Where he’d tell me about his day, and his friends and school and where he
pestered me to buy him a car for his 21st birthday.
So perhaps at the grocery store, when I
asked him to hand me five pieces of grapefruit from behind him, he’ll say,
Mum, I think I’m gay.
In the only soft whisper I’d have ever heard from my first born.
Or maybe he’ll be my third child, I don’t really care;
but his brow would be furrowed and he’d have this scared look on his dark mocha skin
(or maybe he’ll be caramel, if his dad is white).
And there’d be guilt mixed with hope and a sprinkle of anger in his eyes.
Like he’s done something wrong.
Like the time he got suspended from school for throwing paint out of the school bus window,
and was guilty for being so stupid, hoped I’d find it funny but still prepared himself for a beat down.
But I’ll hear him,
and ignore him.
Because I would have taught all my kids to speak loud and clear,
especially when they’re talking to me.
None of that mumbling shit.
I can’t stand that mumbling shit.
So I’d try and side step him,
get to the fruit I had learned sped up your metabolism when I was a dieting young adult and
he’d step with me. Like some weird choreographed tango we’d rehearsed the night before.
And he’ll place his hand,
as rough and strong as his father’s, on my shoulders and say it again.
Mum, I think I’m gay.
The same type of whisper as before.
Maybe a little bit louder. Maybe a little bit quieter.
And then I’d get angry.
‘cause he’d have said that word again.
Think.
And I’ll say, Tristan – ‘cause that’ll be the name of my first boy. Or
Alex – ‘cause that’ll be the name of the boy after that;
(wait, what if I have five boys? I don’t have names for all boys).
Okay, I’d say, baby,
I’d bitch slap your professor, if you were sure she gave you an unfair grade.
I’d go with you to get your first tattoo,
if you were positive that you wanted those corny words
or that ugly design etched permanently on your skin.
I took the doors off of all my children’s closets, so they’d have nothing to hide behind.
Aren’t you my child?
I will hold your hand and slide down rainbows with you.
Trail the pot of gold, pot of luck, pot of dreams you’ve been chasing. I’ll go to rallies and meetings and
sign petitions, so we can finally live in a world where bigots are banished.
I’ll plan the biggest and most obnoxiously extravagant wedding when you find the love of your life and
I will support you,
financially (if you kids haven’t bled me dry by then),
physically (if you kids haven’t worn me out by then) and
emotionally (if you kids haven’t turned me crazy by then) for a surrogate,
or for fostering or for adoption – when you decide you want to start a family of your own.
But I won’t do any of this, if you think you want me to go to a rally or a meeting.
If you think you need me to sign a petition or plan your wedding.
If you think you want to start a family.
I won’t slide down that beautiful, techni-coloured vision of light if you can’t see how exquisite it is.
If you think you’re ready for the pot of dreams and
hardships and hope and steps back.
And mean words and discrimination and love and life – if you think you’re ready for that really heavy pot
then I can’t help you carry it home.
But if you’re sure,
baby, if you’re sure,
I will put on the workout shoes that have been sitting in the back of my closet for a couple of months, and prepare myself for this wonderful journey.
And he’ll look me in the eyes, finally, and say, not whisper,
he’ll finally look up and say,
Mum, I’m gay. I’m so gay.
And I’ll say,
I know. I was sure of it when you were still thinking it.
And I don’t care.
You flaming homosexual,
Now give me my five fucking pieces of grapefruit
if this doesn’t increase your love for giraffes, we can’t be friends…
i look at frowns the same way a newborn views
smiles. Familiar and welcoming – never have to do too much to
receive them but they come with every breath I take. I
meet them like I greet the night; allow him to mount me and
remind me what my 3am feels like. smells like. tastes like,
midnight snacks that satisfy me the way the world never could. Yet,
here I am. Standing on the auction box you made in woodshop with my
hands tied with your expectations and my legs bound with your
judgment. Hair brushed with my
pride and tied with the prejudice bow you gave me on my 18th birthday.
Who’ll take this corrupt negro for $20?
She drinks and smokes and dances beyond midnight to the infectious
rhythm all our hearts make when we sin. You can
scold her for her indulgence and poison her with water you deem holy.
Going once, going
twice – sold - to the man wearing his expectations around his neck like an
expensive bowtie or
is that the noose you’ll tie around my throat for being who I am?
But wait,
who are you to judge me for anything less than the
ten nine ten I deserve? We both sing the blues baby- but because mine is
acapella, not ever the right note, always the right lyrics but louder and
prouder than you in the church choir; you’re allowed to condemn me to
hell. Honey,
the two of us hum our lewd hallelujahs and drink nothing but moonshine
in the starlight but the sun only seems to tell on me. Tell
the world the secrets I showed you under my sheets when I acted
like the freak the streets make illicit. I’m explicit with my quick witted
tongue and the swerve of my hips and the glint in my eye lets you hear my
conscious as she calls me daily, asking me when I’ll be
that girl again. Lady, you know I’ll never leave behind the
murmurs that merge with the moonlight. I’m proud of the bones
that build my being. ‘cause once you break the bricks we hide behind, the
skeletons in our closets all look the same. I
plunged into love once,
twice, three times
removed me from the lifestyle I live now
followed men into the Heavenly pits of Hell where
nobody was judged. Had dinner with the devil and cosigned on my lover’s lease;
offered to pay in heart and soul when he missed a payment. Left my
mind out of the
agreement so I would have something to
write this poem with.
Let them lift up my black veil so they could kiss the real me.
Here comes the bride, but,
since then
I never seem to fall in love anymore. I crash into it. Never on
purpose, always
an accident. A suicide attempt of the remainder of my heart as it
tries to heal the scars of love
slashed across my wrists,
gashed across my neck, bitten on my thighs
and punched on my arms – bruises, black in rue.
And I don’t know about you but
that is why,
ex lover of mine,
is why
I sing the blues.
