Being open about who I am may make some aspects of my life harder (namely, community acceptance, because news flash, not everyone who lives in San Francisco is a bleeding-heart liberal), but even typing this, I already feel lighter. I’m hoping for the particular type of freedom that comes only when you shout about who you truly are. I’m hoping it will inspire others, too.
Thank you for being here with me and letting me share my story with you.
I’ve read and reread it a hundred times; it’s ready. And the photo is perfect. I went back to Ocean Beach, my hair lashing around freely and a small surprised smile on my face, like the first blush at being tickled. And on my shirt, a new addition. I went to a tchotchke shop in West Portal and found a rainbow pin. I felt a little fake doing it, like,Oh yeah, now you get a rainbow pin, Nar. But then again, yes, exactly; this is the right time for me. The rainbow pin is peeking out from the corner of my shirt, where it still sits since I haven’t taken it off. But I still haven’t hit “Post.”
Because even if I did come out to Mom, and no matter how confident I might sound in the post, it’s still terrifying.
I’m megaphoning this to tens of thousands of people, some of whom I know. My cousins follow me, some of my mom’s friends, too. It’s their presence that makes me more nervous, not the strangers. Shoot, do I need to text my cousins one by one and come out to them first? No, that’s not necessary. One post and done, spoken to the world.
I know what Dad would think. He would hate it. All those fears about attention seeking, oversharing, those are seeds planted by Dad. He wouldn’t want the world to know that his daughter was into women, that she was not a perfect specimen of straight, white America. Well, screw that. A part of me is guilty for thinking badly about him, and also how I got off “easy,” with him not being here to rage back at me.
A thought strikes me, and it’s kooky, but I go for it anyway. “Dad,” I say aloud. “This is who I am. I hope that you will be able to accept me.”
I feel better then, like the last person I needed to tell has been told. Never thought my great sexuality reveal would include coming out to a ghost, but here we are.
On my wall, there’s the abstract coffee art Erebuni gave me. I wonder if she remembers I have this, this piece of her in my home. The coffee spill looks like dirt at first glance. Then I see there’s a shovel, a hoe. And possibly flowers trembling along the edges, dahlias and windflowers. I’m not sure if that’s what Erebuni intended or if I’m the only person who can see these objects, but I feel they’re a positive sign.
I really am turning into my mom with the superstition.
Well, here goes. I hover my finger over the button and tap it, quick, so that I can’t undo it. “Post.” It’s done and out. I’m out. My heart jumps up to my throat. Oh God, what did I do? There could still be time to undo this. It feels big and terrifying to share, and it can’t be undone once people see it.
Then the notifications begin. Heart. Heart. Heart. Heart. They flutter on-screen one after another like a pulse. Then some general comments come in, emojis of hearts with the flag. “Love you girl” from one of my cousins. Okay, maybe this... maybe it won’t be so bad.
And let’s be real, I did this in part so Erebuni could see my public coming out. It’s for me, but in it, there’s a strong message directly to her. It’s a tad past nine, and while all I want to do is text Erebuni, I decide that one, it’s too late to text someone who is still upset with you, and two, I should play it slightly cool instead of shouting, “Look what I did!” at her.
Instead, I lie in bed and soak up the comments of shocking kindness from strangers. I’m getting more specific ones now. Women saying they’re bi, too, but haven’t told anyone; women who are out and proud and proud of me, too; others who don’t mention their sexuality who still thank me for the post, or say my hair looks cute like that. One guy who says, “Hot.” Not the typeof support I was looking for, but if he had to say something dumb, at least it wasn’t hateful.
For a couple of years now I’ve generally tried not to let any comments get to me, the good and the bad, otherwise I’ll fall into the trap of living my life by them, allowing a crowd to define me. I always imagine they’re talking to a character, not to Nar, the real me. But today I slip off the veil and press my face directly into the comments, feeling their every texture. I am known to the world. I’m more me than I ever have been. That’s the thought I fall asleep to.
•••
The sunlight inmy room wakes me. Judging by the slant of it against the wall, I’d say it’s eight in the morning. It’s... Saturday, yeah. It used to be my day off that I so looked forward to, but now I have a long docket of nothing waiting for me. At least I can read any new comments.
The thought rouses me enough to get my arm out of the covers and grab my phone. And yes, there are more than ninety-nine Instagram notifications, but those can all wait because there’s a text from Erebuni. I prop myself up. Maybe she saw the post. And oh my God, she sent it just after eleven. A late-night text can only be a good thing. I think. I hope.
I swipe my phone open to read it.I read your post.My throat tightens.I’m stunned. That was a vulnerable and well-written post. It must not have been easy. How are you feeling after it?
Then a second one.You look very pretty in it, too.
An invitation to talk. And a physical compliment?! Yes, God, I might have a chance. I drag my face under the comforters and let out a happy groan. Then I pop back out for air and to read her text again.
Damn, it’s still too early to respond. I think in half an hour, around 8:45, I can text back. I brush my teeth and gussy up while planning my reply, as if preparing myself physically is going to bring me some kind of divine inspiration, but it is useful to distract me from texting her back immediately.
Finally, I do.Thanks, it feels great. I’m surprised by all the positive responses.Keeping things cool, even though a more accurate response would be,“You texted meeeeeeee! YESSSSS.”In my politeness, I follow up with,How are you doing?
Shortly after, she responds.I haven’t been doing great but everything feels different this morning.Hopeful? Would I be flattering myself to think I had anything to do with that?
Then, another comes in:I understand if you don’t because of how distant I’ve been, but would you want to meet up? I was going to go to the Conservatory of Flowers today. Would you like to meet me?
I’d rather do that than anything in the goddamn world. Keeping myself somewhat restrained, I tell her yes, I would. She asks if I can be there in a couple of hours. I sure can.
29
From heart to heart there is a path.
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—Armenian Proverb
