Coming Out
By Villefranche, 12 .ii.
Originally Published in March 2021
I used to have the metaphor of shards of broken stained glass
Part of my life
Putting the shards back together and whatnot
And I wonder what the word for shard is in French
Because that, I do not know
Y’know, thinking about it now in terms of the current situation
Thinking of when I came out
How I knew that I would have to put certain dreams to rest
And now, seven years down wind—well, almost seven years
March of 2015—
I wonder, I should probably look into the vulnerability of that
I’m trying to even remember
...my memory
My wants and dreams can’t die,
Even as I’ve sought to kill some of them
Or run from them
Whatever the case may be
And— what was I saying?
I don’t even really remember what it was like
Coming out to my ma (as trans)
I really don’t
And that’s
A little startling
That there really seems to be no strong recollection of that
8
And, hell, call me Gogo, y’know?
Call me Estragon
(Or Kerouac)
No memory of that
And that—that does bug me
I don’t know whether I wrote a note(?)
I mean, that would probably be the thing, right?
And it kinda freaks me out
My memory loss around these things is very difficult for me
Cause that was, you know, something that would’ve been an important thing
And yet, why can’t I remember any of that?
And I think maybe it’s because I tried to block things out
I don’t know, I don’t know
It was a lot of hurt
I don’t remember what the first reactions were after I came out
What I do remember, at one point, was
Having come up with a name idea thing
And I remember my mother not being happy about that
That’s one thing that I remember
And I remember that that hurt
Very deeply
And of course, though, I don’t think I knew really
What to say
I mean, what do you say, you know?
And now seven years down wind
The scariest thing is to find myself at the same crossroads
As seven years ago
I don’t know whether to call my position
One of defeat
Or of fluidity
Or of ...
... of being washed away by the current
9
Am I just some detritus?
Or maybe that was part of myself?
Compartmentalization can be a blessing and a curse
Maybe that’s what I need to come out as: compartmentalized
After all, that’s maybe the most vulnerable thing to say about myself
I’ve known all these years
That I coexist with boxes
And I’ve been simultaneously quick and loathe to admit it to myself
Because I know that my compartments
Are always contradictory
As they ever have been, and ever shall be, world without end
And even with end
Seven years
I’ve had in my pocket
That little card:
« Qui suis-je? Qui suis-je, donc ? »
Et après cette année
Je peux pas dire la réponse
Now I’m starting to wonder
If knowing ever mattered
The one thing I do remember
Is that it did
Very dearly
Am I ready to accept
Unknowing?
