I’m one of the lucky ones-the only physical harm I faced at the hands of my (assumed) sexuality came when I was pelted in the stomach with a dodgeball at 14 and threatened by a group of high schoolers with lacrosse sticks when I was 15. There’s no bigger thrill as a member of the alphabet mafia than to see someone vocalizing and externalizing their queerness in bright, bold strokes. Twelve years would pass before I could call myself by their names. Instead, I retreated even further into the closet. I started correcting my behavior and amending my taste, hoping it’d stop the onslaught. The word and its synonyms-“homo,” “fruity,” and “faggy” choice among them-became my waking nightmare. It was only months after Provincetown that they started calling me gay, pointing out the way I talked (“gay”), walked (“gay”), sat (“gay”), and more or less just existed (“ gay !!!!”). I didn’t have the words at the time, but that didn’t matter because my male middle school classmates did. I felt, for the first time, not alone and not insane. Suddenly, it felt like the hurricane in my head that’d been picking up speed for months had quieted everything clicked into place. My family had driven to Provincetown, Massachusetts, for a day trip, and as we walked down the street, I watched shirtless men holding hands and kissing. I was in fourth grade when I found out about gay people.
