All About My Mother: A black man not on the DL tries to come out to his mother, by Victor Yeats
Coming out is an intimate confession. I've come out to myself, my friends, and to complete strangers the first time meeting them, but not to my mother. I keep conversations with my mother about work and food. The last time my mother asked if I was dating was seven years ago. I was in college. I had a canned spiel ready. I'm waiting till I finish school I said. I don't know if she believed me or not. Read Psalm 23 before you go to bed she said. I finished college, went on to grad school and got a job. In between finishing college and getting a job, I had one boyfriend, five pseudo-boyfriends, three Web romances and a number of unremarkable dates. My mother knows nothing about any of them. Our relationship is more like co-workers than mother and son. Four of my friends have come out to their mothers. They talk openly about their dating drama with their mothers. Imagining my mother and I talking about how difficult it is to find a guy I want to date, I cringe. That sounds too personal. I visited my mother recently. We live in the same city but I rarely go see her. She asked if I was gay without directly asking. She proceeded to read Bible scriptures to me and ended with 'but I still love no matter what.' I looked her, looked at the ground, and across the room at the blank TV screen. I saw the picture of me as a baby on top of the TV. I played dumb. She changed the topic. Now when I get the courage to call my mother, my heartbeat will speed up when she pauses abruptly or starts a question with 'Tell me. Tell me, 'Are you gay?,'' I think she's going to say. I can't imagine telling my mother I'm gay. Even though I know she knows. Mother, I'm gay. It sounds so simple written. Mother I'm gay. I could write 'I'm gay, Mom,' in a Hallmark card and mail it to her. Most likely, it'll come out through an argument, on a holiday or a birthday—the way my true feelings come out with my mother.
Victor Yates is a freelance writer and author of The Taste of Scars, his first novel.
May Queen, By Matt Zakosek
The first time I saw him, I was running late for class. I was walking funny because I had just traded in my backpack for an over-the-shoulder bag, and I was having a hard time finding my center of gravity. Those bags were all over the place that spring, the same spring everyone started using the word metrosexual, and the fact that you were carrying one implied that you were either a homosexual or didn't mind being mistaken for one.
So I bumped into him on my way across the Quads because—let's face it—I was staring. My over-the-shoulder bag slid down my body until it cinched around my waist like a belt. I blushed as I rearranged it because I had to fumble with my pants, and fumbling with my pants reminds me of sex. Frank watched as I readjusted myself.
'You all right?' he asked.
'Sure,' I responded, flashing him my sexiest, most flirtatious grin.
Frank was a Greek god with long sideburns and a Roman nose. Despite the rising temperature, he was wearing a hoodie with a blazer over it. Normally I loathed that combination, but somehow, it looked original on him—even though they were selling blazers with the hoodie sewn into them at Urban Outfitters for $49.95 a pop.
I thought he was the sexiest boy I had ever seen. OK, so maybe not as sexy as Eric Bana or Owen Wilson or Luke Wilson or Jake Gyllenhaal or Ethan Hawke or Russell Crowe or Michael Pitt or Adam Rapp or Matt Damon or Rufus Wainwright or Brandon Flowers or Ben Affleck or Matthew McConaughey. But as sexy as anyone I had ever seen in real life. You know—a college guy.
Years of gender-studies programs and gay/straight alliances at progressive urban high schools had taught us the perils of heteronormativity (that is, assuming everyone is straight until proven otherwise). But Frank fit into a particular category—the Indie-Rock Aficionado—that, for all its posturing, didn't leave much room for sexual deviation. A guy tells you he listens to the latest hipster bands—and I'm not even going to give examples because whoever I name will be hopelessly uncool by the time anyone reads this—and it's a sure bet all he wants is a skinny girl with cat's-eye glasses and a copy of The Communist Manifesto to rest his beer on.
'So you're gay. Right, dude?' he asked me.
I hadn't expected to discuss this so soon. 'Um, yeah,' I muttered, not because I was ashamed, but because I don't want to be reduced to my sexuality, you know?
Frank just nodded. 'My younger brother's gay,' he said. 'Took a guy to his high school prom.'
I didn't know anything about Frank's younger brother, or even about Frank, really. But at that moment, all I wanted to do was go back in time, find a high school, and take a guy to the prom—if that's what it took to impress him.
Matt Zakosek's work has appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, the Chicago Reader and the Windy City Times.
The Coffee Cake, By Colleen McKee
I would say that I covet
my neighbor's wife, if only it seemed
she belonged to him, if only
they matched, like salt and pepper shakers,
like something so obviously … domestic.
But look at them—she's short, he's tall,
she's fair, he's dark …
OK. So they match.
I watch them cross the threshold
of their door, everyday,
shivering close and holding hands,
cold breath balloons
of bright conversation
rising from their chapped and rosy lips …
and then there is the key—
that key I covet also—twisting
in the lock.
I know what they talk about, because
they are my friends. We all have wine
on Friday nights. We grouse
about our jobs. We talk about
the things we've read, what's in the news; it's nice.
And then I cross the alley, and then they go
to bed. But she is
my best friend. And there are spots of time,
spots of tea, with her alone—
kitchen time, I call it—
scattered throughout the week. It's just enough
to string me through, to stitch me through
those seven days.
We tear off buttery crumbs
of streusel cake, we roll them into spheres,
sugary worlds
of conversation.
Her green eyes wander up the walls
as she recalls
just what it was
that her husband said,
as my eyes fix upon her mouth
to some forgotten crumb.
One day is different. She is sad.
She wants to talk, she says,
but never mentions why.
She picks at coffee streusel,
she pinches at her cuffs, and then
she's kissing me, an awkward, funny kiss,
just barely licks my lips.
Then she jumps back, like a rabbit,
stands against the sink,
and stares at me. My heart
is clattering in its cage of ribs
like a grasshopper, caught
in a glass.
Colleen McKee is the author of a collection of poetry, My Hot Little Tomato, and co-editor of an anthology about women and health care, Are We Feeling Better Yet? She may be reached at lilyofthegutter@yahoo.com .
Literary Supplement continues at www.windycitymediagroup.com/lgbt/Our-Fifth-Annual-Pride-Literary-Supplement-Page-Three/18757.html .
