personal essay

If you are struggling with “joy and,” it’s alright. It will be a long time before we no longer have to view joy alongside heavier feelings.

Now was a moment to breathe; I was trying to remember that. But I wasn’t so sure I was ready to dance yet. 

Friends say, “I love you,” but really, do they? If they support the policies that treat me like I’m less than them, do they love me?

As the elections continue to speed in our direction like a runaway train, it is becoming more and more clear how much we need a complete overhaul.

I have felt, even with my privilege accounted for, victimized by the Trump administration.

You know how sometimes you try a new haircut and it’s freaking great and then…maybe weeks, months, or even years later, you realize it’s not really fitting your style anymore?

Though some people totally missed the point of my coming out, I realized that I didn’t care.

It’s just a quiet little thing, like a kitten wrapped up in a blanket. I expected fireworks, either the violent kind or the celebratory kind, but there is nothing but the quiet of the evening, heavy around our ears.

There’s explosive diversity in each of us.

I cherish every part of me, even when it’s hard.

“Maybe a fire will come, maybe a war, maybe death or loss of mind, but today was good.”

Love as a young Black lesbian has not been patient. Nor kind.

I felt like I was grabbing at slime-covered strings for so long; it finally felt like the effort I had been putting in was amounting to something. 

Not only did I have a marijuana-seeking dog, he chose to eat roaches. Did he not deem himself worthy of the plump buds next to the sad, sorry, limp joint remnants? Did he need counseling?

I don’t really have a thesis here.

I want to be both things.

The suburban confessions of a native New Yorker.

None of this is okay. None of this is normal.

Becoming a queer Black witch has freed me from the chains of organized religion, encouraged my activism, as well as opened my mind to the many ways we’re allowed to just be.

The ones who were accepted the least chose to accept me the most.

On the one hand, the flowers in LA were in full bloom; everything was so green and abundant. On the other hand, we were in a pandemic. On one hand, I was in love. On the other hand, it was with the wrong person.

We still have our people.

Have you ever been so heartbroken, you don’t recognize yourself or where you are or who you’re with?

I don’t feel any more or less close to my dad because neither of us are straight. The same was true with my mom. Maybe that’s because sex is at the crux of sexuality, and sex just isn’t something you connect with your parents about.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: Never have I ever.

I’m a desert Jew with eyebrows like caterpillars and arms so hairy you can’t make out the complexion of my skin beneath the thick brush.

The rebound is a natural part of the love food-chain.

A New York nightmare.

She’s your cool straight girl best friend who is *so* cool, she’s actually gay.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: I’ve googled her name countless times, but to no avail.

Under my punk-standard-issue Carhartt pants (the same sorts of pants my best friends’ boyfriends unironically wore all through high school), was a tattoo with lyrics from my favorite Garth Brooks song.

“Your mom’s a dyke, and you’re going to be just like her.” 

To my knowledge, my mother has never read Emily Dickinson, but back then, when it came to crafting a response, she taught me to “tell the truth but tell it slant.”

I kiss my friends. And I’m so glad I do.

I’ve spent a lot of time chasing straight chicks. I spent the longest time on H.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: Maybe the best friends are the ones you’re in love with, just a little bit.