Unhappy Pride

I’m not really sure where to start… but I never am. I am Clay. This in itself feels like a coming out. I’ve only disclosed my name and identity to those who aren’t closest to me through not so subtly changing my username or adding pronouns to an Instagram page.  The little details aren’t the focus of this but they are. The subtleties of life have compiled into a whirlwind of ever changing identity.

I’m a little guy. I always have been. Tiny, quiet, hopefully invisible. Invisibility was the way to achieve star status in my home. Move about as though you never stepped into the spaces. Speak but only when spoken to, cry but only when it is a small tear rolling down your cheek as you exclaim the fullness of god and predators on the pulpit. I, like many, was brought up in a religious place. I wasn’t a holiday attender or Sunday religious or even for an hour a day connection to “god” it was never ending never ceasing devotion to the lord. Grammatically this bugs me: god and lord are tall letter capitalized holy highnesses but they no longer sit there for me. God has evolved for me. They sit next to me, they are me, they are my lover and enemy, they are all, so no need to capitalize mormon god. I find myself delving into my upbringing trying to inspect every moment down to the second of when I was gay or when I was trans but with full honesty there is no moment just as there is no mormon god the queerness was always me and somehow never was me. 

I used to be Her. She is a saver, an on time, never failing child. She loved boys and makeup and highest of all She loved fitting in so much what was inside her could never be seen. She was guilt ridden with hiding the sins of inside. Every miss step, every accidental eye open during prayer, every thought (for to think a sin is to sin), every thing was embarrassment, guilt, shame for Her. She was a small, submissive easily controlled girl whom god groomed to be the perfect hetero, cis child rearing wife. She was a well trained dog, a branded cattle, a beautiful piece of art to be admired but never looked at too deeply.  She had to protect Clay. Clay is a crazy, Clay loves to look like no one out there. Clay loves to be gay. Clay is creative, sensitive and ever changing and defiant and so fucking cool. She has to keep Clay at bay. Clay slips out once in a while and it makes Her feel like a parent with a fit throwing toddler in the store. Clay accidentally lets their love for girls slip thru Her lips. Clay never wants to have children especially with a man, Clay pushes. Unfortunately She is not a parent with a fit throwing toddler but a child as well trying to pretend she is an adult as to not cause alarm to the store managers(mormon god and mormon leaders).  Overtime She got tired like a little grandma slowly withering away. The bones of protection She built became brittle. And Clay hated the pokey bones. Her lips got softer making it easier for Clay to escape and say catty things then retreat. The great war of the two caused internal turmoil resulting in catastrophic outside of body events. 

Now Clay holds Her. Clay combs Her beautiful waves of hair. Clay is no longer a prisoner inside but an owner of a beautifully decorated home. Clay allows Her to stay in a room. She is safe and free and able to feel all the things the small child should feel. Maybe She is eternally old and eternally young. Clay care takes Her. I am Clay. I am growing am I both and neither and all. To be queer is to explore and feel and fight. All this to say Happy Pride. Happy pride to all who have parented yourselves, and grown in the rougher and softer spaces. Happy Pride to those who’ve had to fight tooth and nail to see themselves. Happy pride to us all regardless of identity. I am proud of you.