Would I do the same thing all over again? Of course I would. I love my blood family as much as I do my chosen one. But I also must be brutally honest: I sacrificed my own happiness for theirs. I felt I was not worthy of loving a man because it was wrong. I felt—and still do—overwhelmingguilt.
The trysts, the one-night stands, the things I did when I was married, I still feel guilt about because I did not have the strength to be honest with myself, my wife, my family, my friends, my religion, my community, this world.
But I learned I am not a one-night stand type of guy either. I am a romantic. I want what I never had, what I see in books and movies, the flutter of the heart, the dizziness of a first kiss, being held so tightly at night that the world and all its ugliness disappear.
I wantthat.
But I do not believe Ideservethat.
And so I fill my days with distractions.
I begin to read:
“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf.”
When I finish, I ask the children what they think the story of the hungry caterpillar is all about. Their answers are as beautiful as the story.
When they finish, I say, “I once took my own children tohear from the man who wrote and drew this beautiful book. He explained what it was about. Do you know what he said?”
“No!” the kids yell.
“He said that this is a book of hope. That children like you need hope. That weallneed hope. The author said, ‘You, little insignificant caterpillar, can grow up into a beautiful butterfly and fly into the world with your talent. You’ll think, “Will I ever be able to do that?” Yes, you will.’”
Parents and grandparents lead the children in applause.
I say this little message every time because kids need to hear it.
Ineed to hear it.
I pick up my next book off the floor and read it before I give hugs and candy and pose for pictures with all the kids who have gathered.
Esther and her grandkids escort me out after the Reading Hour. She takes a photo of us with my phone and then hands it back to me. I say goodbye in the parking lot, watching them drive away. I drop my cell into my pocketbook and then fish my keys out of it.
The temperature has soared since I entered the library, and I open my door, pull off my wig and toss it on the passenger seat.
“Groomer!”
In the reflection of my car window, I see a woman charging toward me. I turn. The woman spits. I lift my pocketbook in front of my face just in time, and her saliva slides off my patent leather clutch and onto my shoe.
I recognize her face. She was just inside listening to me. She looks to be in her sixties, plump, dyed black hair, her arms out to the sides protecting her two grandchildren as if I were the one who just prompted this attack.
“Ma’am?” I ask in a sweet voice, trying to de-escalate the situation. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, you disgusting pedophile!”
Her words ricochet off my body. I take a step back, mind and heart racing.
This is Palm Springs. Roughly half of the residents are part of the LGBTQ+ community.Weare the majority here.
She edges closer.
I take another step back until I’m pressed up against my car. The hot steel burns my legs.
“You show up here and try to make children believe that all of this is okay?” She waves her hands at my body. “What is wrong with you? What is wrong with our society?”
The woman is red-faced, simultaneously weeping and laughing. The little ones behind her are whimpering in terror.
“I’m scared, Grandma,” a little girl with curly red hair says.
