I hate my hometown. I can’t even begin to express how much I hate my hometown. Coming back is like coming back to a house full of amnesiacs who constantly ask why I’m always going on about that gay stuff and when I remind them that I’m bisexual they are properly shocked and ask “But what does that mean for your boyfriend?” Every home visit may or may not be another coming out. I’ve come out to my mother three times and she is shocked every time. I would laugh if I weren’t so bothered by that ambiguous combination of “Oh, darling. You know I’ll always love you right?” and the offense they feel when their celebrities receive backlash for homophobic comments. Simply put, it’s as if I never told them a thing.
Perhaps that’s been the game all along. Consciously or unconsciously I’ve asked them for years to take a definitive stance, to either acknowledge me and accept me for the person I am or acknowledge me and own their disgust. I cut my hair. I cut it shorter and shorter and one day there will be nothing left. Do you see it now? Does it elude you still? Your girl-child is incurably queer. I am so sorry to break it to you.