εὐφορία (Euphoria)

There is a sadness that lives within the tremendous euphoria of being Queer. A lifetime of at least some shred of disappointment or fear for our differences and what that means for our safety and happiness. But it isn’t because being Queer is bad. Not at all. It is an unbelievably special and beautiful thing that no one can take away from us. But it is a difference, and a very distinct one thanks to culture wars and the wide spread of misinformation. That’s what makes it so hard. That invalidating external - everything and everyone else who does not care to understand. We say Pride is all year round, but that is not yet true. Because, if we are still struggling to claim Pride year round in a safe way, still demanding change by protesting the murder of countless LGBTQ+ people, especially our trans siblings, then, no, we do not have Pride year round.

In the garden, too, such sweet ideations of a lifelong and devoted pride were deeply untrue, out of reach. This garden, which served as a respite for the two lovers, did not stay hidden by strong, green leaves all year, and so, their love was hidden when the green Eden receded each season. Kisses became more scarce as the leaves fell, the more the landscape changed, and soon they were merely good friends, lovers of poetry and peace and the company of their female friends. Nothing more, because anything more was very dangerous.

I wouldn’t trade my queerness for anything, especially since my wife is queer and I much desire to stay with her for the rest of my life and all the others. But I would trade the heartbreak and treachery from numerous straight girls, the fear of not knowing how a person will react to the news that I am queer, the vilification of my character in school and the community when I was so young, the oppressive knowledge that everyone knew and they had very specific, judgy feelings about just what they knew.

She was so afraid, so deeply afraid each time, she had hidden. She had turned her face sooner, rebuffed the sweet advances sooner. Every time it broke her heart, even if she was just being cautious. But the caution drew spiritual blood. It was a rejection of her, a rejection of their repose, and therefore, tinged with an unfavorable and unfortunate reality. The reality that their love was nothing more than sweet whispers, hidden gardens, and the occasional diving between divine legs as one dove into a clear, beautiful sea, over and over.

But there is such joy in being who we are. I guess that’s why it’s so hard when you can’t. When it’s Pride Month, you can do pretty much anything you want and the allies are supposed to support you. You can dress in skimpy outfits, deck yourself out in whatever flag you want, kiss any guy, gal, or non-binary pal, and go to Drag events that don’t center around bottomless mimosas without shame. It means other things too. Other, more important things, like holding hands without worry, kissing in public without checking your six, like wearing whatever makes you feel authentic and lovable. They think it’s all indoctrination and harmful rhetoric, but really, we just want to live. And living is not this fear, this hate, this oppression.

They spoke of her in every square in the major cities and they had since she had turned 18 and began enticing daughters into her wicked ways. She was on the tongues of every man and woman when recalling scandalous gossip. To be around her was to at least accept some sort of scrutiny, to allow there to be questions about herself that she was not comfortable answering. She’d known that. So, why was it so hard now to deal with such attention?

I can only hope that things will improve. I see them improving in some ways, but we have so many things to demand which we are owed, so many things to accomplish which will only happen if we are unified. Because, although our voices are loud and fabulous, we need our loved ones and teachers and pastors and cantors and politicians and lawyers and CEOs and everyone else to truly make the message stick. We need to make sure that everyone sees the value of Queer people like we do. That they have skin in the game as much as anyone else, and it would behoove them to get with us, instead of fighting against our existence.

If they could but know her, they would understand. She knew that much was true. She was a wonderful woman, a passionate poet, and a zealous lover. If they could just stop and see that, then perhaps they wouldn’t have to tip-toe like little girls trying not to awaken some disapproving father figure. They could dive freely and love loudly. She would be at her best if she could only be herself. When Sappho saw her, truly saw her, she felt safe, alive, strong, proud. Euphoria of the highest order, untouchable and indestructible. She wanted for it more than anything in her small world.

For now, I feel comfortable reporting full happiness in my heart. Yes, I feel sad and disheartened when I see hateful comments on the internet, when I see uncomfortably frequent reports of murdered trans women, when I hear that the Supreme Court wants to have another look at our unions. But this cannot be all that our lives are. My life, for example, is also joy. Full of wonderful photos and memories of our beautiful wedding, a tying to the woman I can confidently say I am thrilled to be spending the rest of my lives with. And of course, there’s the future. One of progress and hope and Pride parties and parades and new families and progressive legislation. We can make it there, safely. I will, with mi amor, my Heathers and all of the family who (truly) supports me. We can fight, and we will - in any way we can. Because, “there is no pride for some of us, without liberation for all of us.”