![]() Flirting in code, ignoring the fear but ever-aware of it. There is a secret language of attraction we speak in public. I want to hold her hand, but I am afraid to ask. They act entitled to our time and our bodies. Am I brave enough?īefore: I go on a date with a woman, and wherever we go, men yell at us. The thought fills me with old fear that tastes like dust and makes my asthmatic lungs clench on it. ![]() I am attracted to boys and girls and both and neither. I fill in the gap of my younger self’s statement. Something in me whispers again, “You are not whole.” I know what I am missing. In that book I look at the queer characters, the queer community, the fear of losing family and fortune. It’s about losing control and never really having it. That book is a thing of subconsciousness and inexplicable magic. This thought is incomplete.Īfter: I write a book about grief after a beloved cousin dies suddenly and tragically on the eve of his baby’s first birthday. I whisper to myself in the quiet of night that because I am attracted to boys, therefore I am straight. I resent the treatment of my family, but I feel helpless staring into the maw of it. I know why it happened I feel it in every muttered “dyke” someone applies to my family and it makes its home in my skin. Wyoming’s face is Montana’s blood-relative. Matthew Shepard is murdered one state away, and I am old enough to feel it. My body is only the vehicle for my brain, and my brain has no gender.īefore: I have two mothers in rural Montana. I can be covered in algae and shining with the light of a million comets all at once. I don’t have to be sugar or spice or anything nice. I’m given space, and in those corners that felt so cramped before, in after I can breathe. I taste the word “agender” and it feels like relief. There are magic words in our languages, words that give form to thought and emotion, identity. I try to make myself fit and fail.Īfter: I have examined this binary and found it wanting. I am handed things I am supposed to like. I want to be an astronaut or a sewer cleaner (shut up the TMNT lived in sewers) or a professional hang glider. There is a binary and I am on it, like a chubby, black-haired, grey-eyed point on a finite line with two defined ends. Emmie had a post about Pride and being a political entity and also being an artist, and I’m glad to host them here.īefore: I am small and squalling. Emmie Mears is the the author of the Ayala Storme series, the first book being Storm in a Teacup.
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