Ten Years: Notes on Coming Out, Love, and Queer Joy
Journals from the Road
It’s our summer holiday! Since I am on vacation this week, I am reposting my favorite six-part essay series from my 24-hour road trip last summer!
My nana’s analog clock ticked past 10 PM as we crept through the living room. Caitlin trailed behind me, her fingers brushing mine as I fumbled with the side door locks.
The noise assailed us the moment we left the garage’s refuge. A thwapping noise carried across the driveway where a tree limb slammed against the house; the wind yowled like a cat in heat. The roar of rain made it impossible to hear, so Caitlin buried her lips in my hair.
“Should we smoke under the awning first?”
Even with the pressing heat, her whisper made me shiver. I nodded, pulling the bowl from my rain jacket.
“Ladies first,” I said, lighting it for her.
Her eyelashes brushed against her skin, warm in the firelight. Darkness engulfed the scene and Caitlin’s cough added to the cacophony of the storm. Before I could exhale my hit, she grabbed my hand and ran towards the pier. The skin on my feet tore away; I laughed. She grinned at me, nodding before picking up speed.
The storm was violent and vivid along the shoreline. The rain pelted my skin, harsher than bullets from a BB gun. I lost Caitlin’s grip halfway to the dock. She sped down the hillside, glancing back as she hit the wooden planks. Splinters embedded into the balls of my feet, forcing me to slow down, but Caitlin’s speed never faltered. She waited at the end of the pier, her legs dangling over the churning Bogue Sound.
“Come back,” I called, and she did.
Caitlin folded into my arms. Just days prior, on a commuter ferry to Arapahoe, her hair turned coral in the sunlight and I noticed. Despite being lost in a ghost town, a boat ride away from home, and hungry, I wanted to pull over and make her laugh until the moonlight could guide us home. That morning, she complained while filling out a crossword in bed and I noticed. The entire trip, I noticed her. Even with Hurricane Andrew raging against the coastline, against us, the smell of vanilla from her collarbone was all I noticed. I wanted to notice everything.
She shook against me. I almost suggested we venture inside when I heard her laughter. I shook against her. My tears added to the salt of the sea storm, and she wrapped a hand around my head. I swear she paused, listening to my heartbeat competing with the thunder, but then she pulled back, dragging me towards the shore.
When I tell my coming out story, I usually tell the story of that disastrous ferry ride to Arapahoe. I describe how hard it was to realize I was gay and in love with my best friend, while lost on vacation with a stoned navigator.
Ten years later, I am driving through Hurricane Beryl with my windows down, soaking in the memory of Caitlin. Ten years ago, amid a hurricane, I stood with a beautiful girl, in love. The world didn’t end.
The raindrops slam against my skin, the speedometer reading 72 miles per hour.
Even soaked, my skin is balmy; the ghost of her palm is still against mine. That night, we held hands while walking home, our feet sinking into the mud as we crossed the lawn. The garage momentarily blocked the shrill wind. In the stillness, we gazed at one another. I had never seen her eyes so blue.
We didn’t kiss - yearning is a required part of the queer experience. We went inside, shared a pint of Rocky Road, and fell asleep with our limbs tangled.
And that was enough.
Hurricane Beryl is ripping through the south at the same time as 10,000 McKay’s bookstore customers. The barrage bounces off this crip body. The pain is nothing compared to the joy. This storm traveled 6,000 miles to join us, and I breathe in the reprieve from record-breaking heat. I laugh. For the next 600 exits, I sing, send voice memos to my best friend, and reminisce. I tell them about Caitlin, my mother, my husband, who is home, asleep, keeping our cats company. They hear about rainy days and the importance of finding a dry refuge. If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone to change your soggy socks because your arms are tired and they love you.
At this moment, I am alone, but thousands of fellow book lovers are making this trek with me. Thousands of us are sharing our storm stories, scattering queer memories across the mountains. I am sending voice memos to and having an asynchronous conversation with my best friend, who lives in another country. Daylight and I will arrive home together. My husband and my cats are keeping the bed toasty for me, and I will crawl under the covers to steal a few moments of peace with them.
I can stand in the middle of the storm - and be secure.