HAPPY PRIDE MONTH
It Will Take a Lot of Rain Before You See the Rainbow
Your coming out is only the beginning
Mom knew I was gay. Everyone knew. I must have known it since I was five, but I denied who I was, instead, I lived through many years of sadness.
I was bullied, ridiculed for being soft.
It was how I saw myself — just soft.
Being called gay was a slur, it cut through me. It was one of the early words I learned at school, not from books or the teacher.
I learned it from my classmates who were slightly older than me, who probably didn't know any better.
Kids are kids. They say things they don’t understand.
But it didn’t stop with the kids.
I heard it from adults too.
My parents separated when I was twelve years old. But even when they were together, my father was absent in my life.
He never laid a hand on me or any of my siblings. But I hardly had any memory of him talking to me.
He was just there.
Being the only boy in the family, I thought I would have a special relationship with my father — I never did.
