This post has been de-listed
It is no longer included in search results and normal feeds (front page, hot posts, subreddit posts, etc). It remains visible only via the author's post history.
āThereās something a bit off about Sam.ā
Those words infest my brain, termites crawling through my thoughts. I know what Grandma meant: Iām a fairy, a fruit, a certain other word beginning with F. And, sure, sheās right, Iām as gay as they come. Iām not ashamed of that. But her voice, dripping with disdain, sears into my memory like acid, making a wound out of something I should celebrate, something that brings me infinite amounts of joy.
Mom and I have this argument all the time. āSheās just set in her ways, sheās old fashioned, it was a different time.ā The same meaningless phrases to excuse Grandmaās lack of growth as a person. If Iām being honest, I donāt care if she has a sudden explosion of self-improvement, marches in parades, bursts into a cathedral to scream at priests for their hateful sermons. All I want is for her to shut up.
And now Pride Month is here. The worst thirty days of the year. Companies hang rainbow banners and tout slogans of acceptance while trying to eliminate the publicās memory of the harm they continually cause in the other eleven months. People I never talk to, social media āfriendsā and distant relatives alike, pop into my inbox to spout aphorisms about being myself and staying true to who I am, what an inspiration Iāve been in their lives, how happy they are to know me. Iām an object, a figurehead, my personhood irrelevant.
Yet even with all the kindness, cloying as it may be, Grandmaās toxic judgments linger in my mind. Weaponized like slurs, they occupy my every thought as I move through my days. Each āIām proud to know youā and āIām so glad youāre living your authentic lifeā message brings me back to that moment, just outside the kitchen doorway, eavesdropping as she says that to some cousin or aunt or family friend, praying that sheād choke on her words.
The more Iām told that Iām loved and that Iām perfect the way I am, the more fury builds up inside me. My hate and her hate make an echo chamber, bouncing around each other, growing into a deafening roar of one thought and one thought alone:
Grandma needs to hurt like I do.
I canāt do it, of course. That would be too obvious. Everyone knows that Iām pissed at her, Iād be suspect number one. But itās hard not to hear the whispers about angry queers just itching to get even with a bigot, any bigot.
So thatās why Iām reaching out. A friend of a friend of somebody I met in passing mentioned that you might be interested in a collaboration of sorts. You exorcize your rage, get it out of your system. Iāll pay you whatever you want, of course. Hell, Iāll even provide the alibi. Whatever it takes for my grandma to finally stop spewing hatred once and for all.
I mean, she doesnāt really need vocal cords, does she?
Subreddit
Post Details
- Posted
- 1 year ago
- Reddit URL
- View post on reddit.com
- External URL
- reddit.com/r/shortscarys...