Rainbow Belts

I remember what she felt like.

Her hair was long and blonde, she had a crooked nose and perfect teeth. Her accent was strong, although you’d never know she was anything other than an American girl raised in south Florida if you looked at her.

She was Argentinian.

But where was Argentina, and were all the girls like her?

At 14, she was older than the rest of the girls in our behavioral school, and she was nonchalant, unfriendly, and ridiculously captivating.

I just wanted to be her friend, okay?

I just wanted to sit next to her, ask her about her family, and why her nose looked like that, and if she had a brother, and what her favorite color was. Being a preteen with frizzy hair, and a really weird feeling between my legs, I couldn’t quite understand why I wanted to be her friend so badly.

But I did, and we became friends.

Sort of.

I started packing this rainbow belt in my luggage, the ones that were shamefully popular in the early 2000s, and when Monday morning check ins came around, the counselors had to search our bags openly in front of the other girls. When they pulled my belt out, she looked at me, and I looked at her, and it was as if we knew each other before.

As if we were friends.

I had no idea the weight that this rainbow belt held on my identity, but I knew that it symbolized this intense friendship I yearned to have with her, and I wanted to signal the message in a way so that she knew it was safe, that I knew what she was, and I was okay with it.

Her name started with an L, and she was my first girlfriend.

I was 12 and we both had “behavioral issues” in school, which is how we met, and why it all felt so fun. The behavioral school had a firm rule that students couldn’t meet up during the weekend–it would tamper with our progress, it would ruin the work we’ve done to fix our attitudes,

it would distract us.

“L” and I met up anyway. I dressed in baggy clothes, because I didn’t know how to say, “I LIKE YOU AND I MIGHT BE GAY; DOES THIS MAKE ME LOOK GAY ENOUGH?”

I remember that she made me feel valid; I felt good and normal, but I was 12, and she was 14, and the undying love we felt for the mere week we were messaging on AIM would soon fizzle out, leaving me heartbroken and denouncing women forever.

It lasted the remainder of the three weeks we had in that “school for troubled teens,” I left the program fixed and bisexual, she grew up to have children, and ended up with a man.

I didn’t know what this meant.

Then came eighth grade year.

I changed middle schools three times before landing at this one, where the majority of the population was Latinx, there was a Spanish Honor Society, and no one thought I was any different.

There were so many girls to choose from, but after leaving the behavioral school, I experienced my first encounter with homophobia, so I knew I’d have to look at the girls from across the hall,

quickly and undetected.

And then I saw that rainbow belt again.

She was a Latina, she had hard, crunchy hair, and surrounded herself with two other girls who had hard, crunchy hair. They moved through the hallways as if they owned them, and the two others owned the air around her. I was new that year, and I wanted to be their friend. I wanted to know what their family was like, were they from Argentina, Central America, Mexico?

Did they eat too much bread?

Did they have café con leche at six years old?

Where were their dads?

We became friends. I started writing them notes back and forth, I started sitting with them at lunch, and told them about my rainbow belt. They explained that they were bisexual, and it was the first time I felt pride, community, and that there were other girls that looked like me who had that weird feeling between their legs, too.

It didn’t take long before the school found out that the new girl was a dyke,

a gay,

a lezbo.

My guidance counselor must’ve gotten news about this, too, because the next day in each of my classes, she made it a point to express to the other kids why it wasn’t okay to make someone feel bad about their identity. She summoned me into her office two weeks later, she asked me if I was okay, did I need to talk to someone. I denied needing anything. I didn’t allow the shame and embarrassment to seep through, but she knew what she was doing.

She was saving me.

Throughout this, there was a girl who had tight curls. She was the most athletic, the most popular, and student body president. I ran for student body treasurer just so I could be stuck in after school activities with her,

and we both won.

I don’t think she knew my name yet, but I knew hers. She was dating an equally popular boy, and I’d just admire her from across the hall,

quickly and undetected.

I liked her so much that I didn’t know what to do with my hands when she walked into the room. I would hear her name in the hallway, and then walk the other direction; I’d skip government meetings.

She didn’t acknowledge me until about six2 years later.

There was a transitional period in 2015.

His name started with an S, and I was the gayest in that relationship.

How he didn’t know still surprises me.

I spoke to the girl with the tight curls throughout that entire transitional period, she knew my name by then, and she’d also come out as queer. We would send each other pictures, talk about the distance between Florida and New York. I liked her more than she liked me, but that was alright.

“S” would make comments about women who like women, he was “old school,” Southern, everyone loved him. He was the good guy.

I have never hated myself more than I did then.

We broke up, both “S” and I, and the girl with the tight curls went in a different direction. I dabbled with the idea of coming out fully, publicly, loudly.

I did.

I joined lesbian dating sites, approached women in public, tried to appear “less straight” (whatever that is). I started reinventing who I was, and introducing myself as gay when I met someone new, so that way I didn’t have to pretend that I thought their boyfriends’ jokes were funny.

I met a girl.

I remember how far Hawaii felt.

We had a six-hour difference–I was loose and free, she was rigid and military.

She said things like, “1100 hours,” and planned her trips around whether or not she’d get leave, and I spent a lot of time defending the relationship. She had curly hair, too, I didn’t know exactly what her racial background was, and spoke with her whole mouth.

Her words came out clearly, she loved Utah, and I’d never been.

I listened to Alina Baraz for the first time in Baltimore, downstairs in a basement-turned-apartment, where she planned our nights, and cooked our meals.

We were there four days, I was out and free, and dating someone in the military. I wanted to be close to her, ask her about her childhood, and why she chose the Navy. I wanted to know what her little sister was like, why her best friend hated me, was I too rebellious to be dating a military official?

The Supreme Court hadn’t legalized same-sex marriage yet, we never discussed the fate of our future, it was all about the now.

The cobblestone of the Baltimore streets beat against the background of our trip, and the boats on the harbor teased us with the possibility of getting away.

We didn’t, though.

I went back home, she went back to Hawaii, we tried to make it work, but trying became exhausting. I would close my eyes and remember the smell of the veggies being cooked. I remember how the apple pie felt between my fingers. The smell of the house stained my clothes for weeks, and I never stepped foot in a basement-turned-apartment again.

I dreamt about rainbow belts, about 12-year-old me, and my unapologetic baggy clothes. I dreamt about soft skin and vanilla perfume, soft hair or crunchy hair or long blonde hair. I dreamt about saying the words, “I’m gay” out loud to everyone on the street, screaming it until my mouth bled, running so fast into the future that my feet had blisters.

I’d keep running until I reached the end of the rainbow, my freedom the pot of gold, my shackles left at the good guy’s doorstep.

And then, I met the one.

But I won’t share our intimacy here.

Not yet.

This is for me.