Junior
year. Fourth quarter. Third floor couches. I remember him walking by, and
pausing. Always. He always saw me. Sometimes just a wave, a smile. But, more
often, a longer interaction. When he asked a question, he actually wanted to
know the answer.
“How
are you?” my teacher asked.
“Fine.”
“In
the movie, The Italian Job, ‘fine’
stands for freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional.”
I
came from silence. I came from a place where things were left unsaid. Silence
became my closest friend, my safety.
Last
year, I responded to crisis like a hermit. I stood up at the LGBTQ school
assembly with a “bisexual” pin. I never confronted my best friend about not
supporting me. I let her talk me out of asking a girl to prom. I watched my
crush get asked by someone else. I invited no one to my house while my parents
fought. Rather than reaching out, I allowed my college-age brothers to distance
themselves with work.
I
could not speak. But I could write: so, the next day after much reflection, I
gave the teacher my journal.
Although
I may always have trouble disclosing my thoughts, I can always write them down.
Now, my struggle to share does not prevent me from sitting in the crowded forum
amongst a group of friends – sometimes, I’m the one telling the joke. Sometimes,
I’m the center of attention.
