Queer Memories

One Saturday morning, while the moon was still out, my mother drove me to high school for a Science Olympiad competition. There were barely any cars on the road. Orange leaves lined the sidewalks. Still silence. As we left the neighborhood, my mother started tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. At the stop sign, still looking ahead, she asked me in her thick morning voice, “Karen, you don’t like girls, right?” I remained silent, staring at my reflection in the window. Sleep filled my eyes. My mouth twitched. I looked past my reflection at the moon. It was a full moon, big enough to swallow the sky. My mother added, “As long as you don’t, everything is fine.” At the competition, I almost wrote: Everything is not fine. Everything is not fine. Everything is not fine. as my answer to the density of the brilliant quartz, we were supposed to measure.

I knew I was queer at the age of five. I had a “best friend,” Jenny, who rode the school bus with me every morning to elementary school. We were both in Ms. Hunt’s class, the one on the very left across from the library. Before morning announcements, each kid walked to the cafeteria to pick up their breakfast and brought it back to class.

On my first day of Kindergarten, I got lost on my way back. Standing in the middle of the large white hallway with a sausage biscuit and orange juice box in hand, I cried. No one was around to help me. I kept walking straight in the direction of the library. But then I saw a large mural in another hallway—green bushes, blue skies, and happy children. My snob and tears mixed quickly, running into my mouth.

Finally, a lady opened her office door across the hallway. In a black suit and pencil skirt, she gently knelt down and asked me who my teacher was. After telling her, she led me back to my classroom. Still sniffing a bit, I clenched my now-cold sausage biscuit and wondered about the cruelty of kindergarten. Jenny sat next to me in class, and she handed me her sausage biscuit. “You can have mine, it’s still warm,” she said cheerily, her pigtails bouncing up and down.

Ms. Hunt brought in little chicks one day, and all of us circled the small, warm box. We watched the chicks hop around, and we each named one after ourselves. The one with the blue dot on the right side of its neck was mine, and the one with the red dot on its butt was hers. We checked on the chicks every day, promising each other that they would grow up to be best friends too.

One day, I started feeling things best friends weren’t supposed to feel about each other. On a bus ride home, she fell asleep next to me, her head lulled to the side, gently resting on my shoulder. I looked at her sleeping face. I don’t know why I was so nervous, my heart pounding. Her eyelashes were so long. I wanted to touch them, feel the gentle scratch on my fingertips. I clenched my hands into a fist instead, diverting my gaze out the window. I did not know, but I knew.

Second grade.

My bus was late. I’m left behind with a few other students waiting for their buses. All of us girls decided to play Tic Tac Toe. Two vs. two. We huddled around on the floor and drew circles and x’s on a piece of lined paper. I was paired with a girl named Brianna. She always drew the circle first in the upper right corner. I kept telling her that was not the best move. She ignored me.

Nonetheless, Brianna and I still won.

Amid pumping my arms up and down, I grabbed Brianna’s cheeks with both hands and planted a kiss on her right cheek. Immediately, my lips dried, and my palms burned. I avoided eye contact with all of them and slumped back down.

The other girls ran up to the teacher and told on me, “Karen kissed a girl!”

Then, a miracle. My bus was called, and I lugged myself out of that classroom as fast as I could. Zipping past all the other bus riders in the hallway, I looked down at my blurring sneakers. Girls kiss each other, right? Friends do that too.

Third grade.

On a Friday night, I waited for my mother to come home from work. Before she walked into her room, I ambushed her from behind.

“Mommy, can I choose my clothes to wear from now on?” I begged.

She thought for a bit and agreed.

That night, I spent an hour rearranging my closet and drawers. I moved all the dresses, skirts, and tank tops to the back. Out of sight, out of mind. Then, I placed t-shirts, pants, and jeans to the front. I picked my outfit for Monday. A grey t-shirt with yellow lining and blue jeans.

Photo Credit: Sopa Images/Lightrocket via Getty Images found on Forbes

Mannequin in the Corner of Abercrombie & Fitch

Abercrombie & Fitch was the deal.
Dim dark lights exude sexy too-
sweet aromas. The cool-kids crowd.
A pre-teen, I follow my mother inside.

A single mannequin in the corner
of the girls’ section wears only booty shorts.
Blue-and-white-striped.
She’s missing a top.
I do not know my hand
as it reaches
for her right boob.

Immediately, hot
hands. Immediately,
I’m not lesbian. Just curious
about the material that makes
the mannequin.

By the time mother circles back to me,
I’m smelling the colognes,
eyeing the flat tummies on the front.
Mother shows me
a blue-and-white-striped
t-shirt stitched with a funny logo
across the chest.

Fifth grade. My mother took me to Pika Pika, a local Korean hair salon. The doors seemed ominous, more like the doors to a billiard pub than a hair salon. Upon entrance, the red couch on the side screamed for attention among the other dark, mahogany-themed furniture. Hair stations lined the middle of the wooden floor, and soft lights hung around each mirror. The ceiling was high, painted entirely in black. We explained to the hairstylist that I wanted a short haircut. She handed us a pamphlet of women’s short hairstyles. Sitting on the red couch, my mother pointed at a curly, red bob and a straight shoulder-length style. I rejected them. Flipping through the styles, I couldn’t find one that I really liked. All these women looked the same. Pale. Happy. Confident. Finally, I settled on one that looked the most like a men’s haircut. Short in the back, showing my neck, with bangs and sideburns.

In sixth grade, I was uncomfortable with the idea that I wanted to hold hands with a friend, Christin. She took over my whole life. I bought friendship necklaces with her, each wearing one-half of a heart. I sat with her at lunch every day. I watched her oval face round into a laugh in class instead of listening to the teacher. I attempted to hug her slim frame. She was not into it, shoving me aside.

I came up with a brilliant idea. I made up a crush for myself. This boy, Edward, lived in my neighborhood and waited at the same bus stop as me. He has great skin, a head of curly black hair, and small eyes. I would tell him about the most recent Girl’s Generation dance I learned while he spewed on about his 49ers football statistics before the bus came. I told all my friends that I had a crush on him for accountability reasons.

I tried. I tried so hard to like him. On the bus, when he handed over a pen, and his hands touched mine, I pretended to be smitten. The day after, I’d gather my friends around the lunch table. Over butter spaghetti and fried chicken, I’d tell them, “Oh my god, yesterday, Edward touched my fingers on the bus!” with as much enthusiasm and excitement I could muster. It didn’t really work. I was not nervous around him at all. I did not want to touch his eyelashes. I couldn’t even see them. A few months later, I told my friends that I didn’t like him anymore.

I came out to my friends in ninth grade. A pompous declaration in a private Facebook group. See below.

hey guys, uh...just wanted to come out and tell you guys somethin, and ik some of you guys dont care and thats great and all, so you can stop reading LOL, so yea...uh...im homo, not sure when i found out, maybe since i was young, but i started facing this truth about 7th grade, like....2-3 years ago, and yea, just wanted to come out to you guys, and ill probably come out to everyone soon. I know some people will leave me cuz of this, but yes, ive already prepared for the people who will be disgusted and leave, just hope i get some support💪biggest thanks to all who have been in my life🙌

Most of my friends already knew because I’m very male-presenting and male-appearing. I wear men’s clothing and have a man’s haircut. They were all very supportive—commenting with “good luck, man,” “you have all my support kurwin,” “btw i fucking called it,” and “we all still love you.” Maybe a part of me knew that they would be this bunch of ridiculously supportive people, and that’s why I came out to them.

In 2015, on a hot Georgia summer day, my mother wanted to treat us, three kids, so she took us to brunch at one of my favorite childhood spots in Chinatown. Over some radish cakes and egg tarts, I asked her if she knew about the recent Supreme Court decision to legalize same-sex marriage. Nervously, I bit into the soft and flaky crust of an egg tart, perfectly round like the moon. Through her mouthful of noodles, she frowns, eyebrows furrowing. 好恶心 hao e xin is what she said. So disgusting. I swallowed the egg tart to keep my mouth shut.

A Treat in Chinatown

It’s Saturday.
Mother takes me
to Chinatown for a treat.
Over small plates of dim sum,
I ask her if she’s heard the news.
I bite into my egg tart nervously,
teeth stained with yellow custard.
A crescent chunk of the tart, gone.

...
What? That’s so disgusting.
How can there be those types of people in the world?

She slurps her last bit of noodles,
chewing loudly.
I invert my mouth,
tucking in my lips.
My fingers crush the rest of the flaky pastry
and ball it down my throat, nearly choking on
why? I’m those types of people.
I wash it down
with chrysanthemum tea,
swallow slowly
and smile weakly.