It sounded like a wave breaking. When you’re watching Hamilton and a gun goes off, you expect a bit of audience commotion. You anticipate some sort of reaction to an emotional climax of a two-and-a-half-hour story—a murmur; a shifting in seats; the rustling of fabric on theater upholstery, a breeze through leaves. What sparked the red flag is when it didn’t stop.…
The first time I “came out,” it was more of being pulled out. My parents had just discovered I was gay and the world turned upside down. My father was angry with me, but I couldn’t understand why because he has a lesbian sister and a gay brother. My mother simply ignored me. I spent the next few years silencing the things about myself that I knew my parents would never understand. …
I turn off the rumbling window air conditioning unit at my apartment. It hasn’t worked in weeks, and I’m finally ready to come to terms with it. I open up the windows to my apartment, a building I tell people is 100 years old, but if I’m being honest, I don’t know if that’s true or not. I feel a breeze—warm, of course. It sweeps through the middle of my studio apartment, making my unopened mail join my dirty laundry…
My first idea of womanhood came from my mother. I remember being a child in Colombia, physically looking up at her, and seeing her ooze femininity—although I did not have this word yet. It’s the nineties, and my mother wears lots of dresses and skirts and crop tops and shorts. I remember her in flowing skirts made of sheer fabrics and tank tops with thin straps that she wore without a bra. She always wore lots of jewelry—necklaces, earrings, and…
