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I believed my feelings were odd, perhaps even invented or insane. ‘They can’t wait for me to be a pregnant woman?’Įven at that age, I knew that I couldn’t tell them that all my crushes had been on girls and I wanted to be their boyfriend, not anyone’s wife. Instead of saying something, I simply dragged myself out of the room, ashamed and horrified by the image they had of me. I wasn’t better or worse, I was just different and I couldn’t articulate how, but I knew it in my bones. I knew I’d probably fall in love, I knew I would probably like someone a lot, (I already had), but I wasn’t like them. I knew it wasn’t the same, I wasn’t a tomboy who was waiting for a man to sweep me away to a castle and make babies. I wanted to say, ‘Yeah, but I’m not like you.’ I felt very small, very angry and helpless as I denied it. “Oh, come on, we ALL said that…” was the chorus. It was complete and total repulsion as the others descended. I won’t.” I was calm on the outside, but I still remember my guts churning. I wanted to tell her, ‘I’ll be like a man when I grow up and I won’t ever have kids and I won’t hate my life like you do and harass children a quarter of my age about having sex.’ But what came out of my mouth at the time was, “No. But I knew that this wasn’t just a case of bad timing, this was an impossibility because it would be impossible to have kids if I hated my whole body and it would be impossible to marry someone of the same sex. I was a very serious child, inquisitive, thoughtful and suspicious.
#Thanksgiving gay memes full
I thought about marrying a man and having children of my own for a full half-a-second before I shook my head. You’re GOING to want to and you WILL have kids.” It felt more like an order than a possibility. “But let’s face it, you’re gonna get married. “Ahhh, you say that now,” my most obnoxious aunt would cackle, giving me an elbow in my little ribs. How many of us young queers had to suffer through those cold-sweat inducing talks? Inevitably, conversations about normalcy would lead to mating habits, because it’s totally appropriate to talk to children under ten about making a life-commitment to a parter and popping out kids. I had to play games with my hormonal and sometimes sadistic older cousins when all I wanted to do was eat my face off, steal a glass of wine (Jewish, we start early, that’s my excuse) and enjoy the warmth of the house. This would be a pattern at every Thanksgiving: I would take shelter in the kitchen or in a corner and the adults would bully me out of my den with instruction on normalcy. Of course, the adults took it upon themselves to explain to me that it was ‘normal’ that a child should want to play with their peers. To my tender soul, hide and seek was a profoundly anxiety-inducing experience in which I identified more with the fox in a hunt than a child at play. It meant being eight years old with my nose in a book while my other cousins tried to play hide and seek. What does it mean to be The Gay Cousin? Well, let me tell you what it meant to me. But let’s focus on the gay, because whether you like it or not, if you’re a part of this beautiful rainbow at a family Thanksgiving table: you are the gay cousin. It had a lot to do with the fact that there’s one in every family that one was me. I mean, if that doesn’t cause a bit of resentment in you as well, perhaps Thanksgiving can be a day of reflection for you.īut that isn’t where my resentment began or ended. Sure, I could say this resentment stems from the fact that this holiday commemorates a bunch of white immigrants taking advantage of the Native Americans’ hospitality…which preluded genocide and colonizing them as a historical ‘thank you’ that we’re meant to re-enact annually (with pie included). I know, it sounds callous, it sounds hard-hearted, I sound like the Grinch that Stole Thanksgiving… and that might be the worst Grinch of all because Thanksgiving isn’t exactly about resentment.
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Thursday is a holiday and that means I have to see my family. A glimpse into the art of surviving being queer at your friendly family Thanksgiving. There’s one in every family… and it might be you.