A Love Letter to My Fellow Queers
By Theo Tran
A tradition that my school has at every commencement ceremony is handing each graduate a carnation after they receive their diploma. Admittedly, I don’t know how unique of a tradition this is, but I digress. Then, before the turning of the tassel, the speaker tells the graduating class that the carnation is a common symbol of gratitude. Upon the end of the ceremony, graduates are told to give the flower to someone — a relative, teacher, friend or otherwise — who has been a monumental part of their high school career and development.
For lack of better wording, the presence of queer mentorship, and queer family, has defined such a large swath of my life. Thus, as it is graduation season, where thank you’s and congratulations are strewn about, I’m paying tribute to every queer person that has led me to where I am now.
I saved my carnation from the ceremony for one of my closest friends, my pseudo-sister, Keira. In their case, they’ve all but been the embodiment of familial affection for me. It’s the comforting hugs and the most basic verbal affirmations that they give that have saved me from handfuls of bad days. The mentorship comes in the form of good old queer resistance. Keira’s arguably one of the most talented, and thereby resilient people I know. Three years older than me, they’ve taught me how to stand up for myself, as insignificant as I may think I am, that my boundaries matter. Three years wiser than me, they’ve been the pinnacle of humility. I can see them on the most famous stages in the world, and I can see them still enthusiastically coming back to the high school to see all the newest generation of students learn the most basic lines of Shakespeare. Her love is palpable.
Taken down by the means of strep throat and various other confounding factors at the moment, yet another best-friend-sibling is Dionysus: someone who does not appreciate my sense of humor and someone who loves to call me out on my shit. If Keira taught me to stand up for myself, then Dio taught me to toughen up all-around. They took our shared experiences of a rocky home life and have pushed me to stand up tall (as tall as someone who is 5’3” can). Of clear Greek heritage, they take no shit from me — they correct me when I’m wrong, tell me no when I need to hear it, tell me that I’m capable of something when I simply don’t have the motivation for it. I have to wonder if being Greek inherently makes you all the more wiser — it’s a blunt kind of care they offer me. Blunt in that they correct me because they want me to be better, but just as caring because they know what it feels like to be queer, to be an anxious person, to have a family unlike anyone else’s. Their love is apparent.
Skipping all the networking complexities, we can call Andrew my brother-in-law. Just as academically-driven as I am, they are possibly the most elegant speaker that I know personally. A person with a newly-earned master’s degree in gender and women’s studies, I’ve always joked that I simply want to be him when I’m older. A fellow first-generation Asian-American, a queer one at that, and a fucking nerd to top it off. Though we’ve met each other so few times, Andrew’s always naturally answered every question I present them with with a completely unmatched sophistication. They are the role model of role models for academics, or simply learners — elaborate, complex answers that are all broken down in a way that a kindergartener could understand. The kind of grace they bring toward the humanity and existence as a queer person makes everything seem a whole lot more simple. There was a time in the middle of my semester where I’d sent him a passage from my anthropology textbook, desperately asking him for help unpacking some of the most historian-like run-on sentences. Much like their passion and their understanding of the most complex parts of queer nature, Andrew’s love carries a certain clarity.
Of course, an article of mine is never complete without a reference to my big brother, Logan. If Keira has taught me to stand up for myself, and Dionysus has taught me to be ever better, and Andrew has taught me to embrace an intersectional identity, then Logan has taught me what it means to be brave. In some gross alignment of events, they have gone through the most turbulent life that I could never come up with in fiction. Rocky family life, religious trauma, chronic illness, mental strife, this that and the other thing, I like to think sometimes that my big brother is immortal. They’re a reckless person, my brother. They love impulse — getting a new tattoo, the most intense amusement park rides, climbing on furniture and surfaces they most definitely should not be on — and this is the tame side of the spectrum. In so many ways, they’ve taught me to go out of my way. To experiment, to be uncomfortable (but safe), to take a baseball bat at what others might think of me. Much like Dio, they correct me when I’m wrong. They show me how boundaries are set, how communication works (and how it certainly does not), how to take a calculated risk. They have taught me, if nothing else, that I will be okay. Their love is one of reassurance.
I could go on about the love and kindness of a dozen other queer people in my life — but these short vignettes are all to say that my family is really all that I am. I have the creativity of one, the sporadicness of another, the bravery, and the love of everyone I could imagine. If I know you and you’re not one of the four above, you’ve still made such a difference in my life. In these times, I think queer people living is an act of resistance, isn’t it? Because for every queer person I speak to, that I see, every pride flag that is hung on a wall, every “safe space” stuck on an office door, means that I know there is room to be queer. If you are queer, I am thanking you, and if you are not, but you’re reading, I still am.
About the Author
Theo Tran is a high school senior from Denver, Colorado. He is a first-generation Vietnamese American, and identifies as both transgender and gay. Theo is deeply passionate about history and the social sciences, which has fueled his participation in grassroots organizing at the local level. Theo joined Matthew’s Place after designing stage lights for his school’s production of The Laramie Project, where like so many, he resonated profoundly with Matthew’s story and the foundation’s mission: to erase hate. He plans to become a teacher in the future, and has experience in political organizing. You can reach out to Theo at tkpr.tran@gmail.com for any questions, comments, or just to have a chat!
