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I knew I was queer and attracted to other boys by age 13, but instead of telling my parents or friends, I silenced myself and committed to “praying the gay away.” For 10 years, I wandered in my own desert, devoid of sexual and romantic firsts, as I drank the dregs of religious hope. I was neither a drag queen nor HIV-positive, but her limited dose of “gay culture” on the nightly news was enough to unnerve.īut long before I came out to her on that June morning, I had to wrestle with coming out to myself despite my religious upbringing. Flooded with images of purple sores on AIDS patients, fishnets on drag queens, and whatever else tore into her imagination, she lamented both a past she never knew and a future she couldn’t predict. In her white face and blonde hair, I saw myself as her own eyes welled.
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For days, I had quietly avoided her, anticipating that I would break-and break I did, tears flowing while blurrily recollecting old memories about first loves, trying to patch together this hidden history to explain myself. She choked it out of me, as I joke with her now. I came out to my mother first, unwillingly, in an airport right before we embarked on a mother-son trip to Philadelphia and New York. This religion, obsessed with catastrophe and apocalypse, remained a staunch border that contained my queerness until I was 23. She may have yearned for a big city like Houston, but living in deeply red Texas allowed her firebrand Pentecostal denomination to thrive. My mom, I suppose, was indifferent to the ol’ Dixie fandom that rallied many men in my family, but when she came to Texas, she carried her Kentucky roots with her. While Kentucky teeters on the northern peaks of the South, the legacies of slavery and homophobia tinge our blood just as permanently as my uncle’s all but faded Confederate flag tattoo. And shortly after she turned 19, she burst from the small town sticks and drove to Houston, one of the biggest cities she could find. My mother grew up in and around Laurel County, amid gospel charmers and moonshine makers, amid nocturnal truckers and gaudy quilters. We are the Greenwoods, the Copes, the Johnsons, and the Hamptons.
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My father’s parents immigrated to the United States from Austria and Mexico, but my mother’s family has lived in eastern Kentucky for generations-far back enough that we don’t know where many of them originated before Appalachia. I think I’ll just let the mystery be.-Iris DeMentĪ third of my heart is buried in the Kentucky hills, a land of rich, black soil that nurtured my mother’s childhood.
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But no one knows for certain and so it’s all the same to me. Įverybody’s wonderin’ what and where they all came from, everybody’s worryin’ ‘bout where they’re gonna go when the whole thing’s done. This short essay originally appeared in Spectrum South: The Voice of the Queer South.