18 Years of God Damn Bullshit: A Memoir

Getting Kicked Out at 16

((TW:// Slur mention))

Early November 2019. I was living with my step-abuelos for a little over a year at that point. I was failing school, which I’d thankfully hidden from them thus far. I went to the library, I played violin, and did little else besides drink alone in my bathtub and smoke grass wrapped in bible pages on the roof. It was, what I thought at that time, my last option. I had used my final get out of jail card and ended up at the last place I thought I’d ever be: my step-abuelos' house that I seldom visited besides Christmas. My breathing room however, my favorite finger to my overly strict and religious guardians was the bisexual pride flag that hung over my bed which, ironically, my Abuelo had helped me hang up (obviously not knowing what it meant). I never fully understood why they didn’t like me. Maybe it was because I ruined their retirement, maybe I reminded them of my mother in some way, or maybe, they just hated me for me, I’ll never know. But I hope they’re doing alright today anyhow. It’s like Tupac says, “I still wanna see you eat, just not at my table.”

Besides my abuelos, I was allowed to talk to my Aunt and Uncle on my mom’s side, who were the only people they trusted me to be around. My Aunt lived in _______ (with me in _______ at the time), so I didn’t see her often, but my Uncle lived close to 15 minutes away. Every now and then, he’d take me to buy clothes, to eat, or to get anything I needed for school. This particular time, he took me to get a haircut.

I don’t remember much that transpired before the haircut. My old journal says it was a “normal day.” Coffee with my abuela's papas con juevos, and phone calls with my friend who lived in Georgia. Going into the situation, I knew I wanted short hair based off of the Pinterest board I made to show the hairdresser. I also knew that my abuelos would never in a million years consent to me cutting off the majority of my mid-chest length hair, but I think for a long time leading up to then I’d stopped caring what not only them, but the rest of my family expected of me.

I remember sitting in the chair, talking to the genial blonde lady who had a son that went to my school. She asked about my plans for college, and I of course spit out the now memorized monologue about how I wanted to finish my Associates degree and move on to a four-year college for a degree in Clinical Psychology. Impressed, she asked what I had in mind for my hair, and upon showing her, she asked if my parents were okay with it, to which I replied, “no, but they’ll get over it.” Sated enough with this, she began sectioning my hair and snipping away. I’ll never forget the memory of the first time I felt buzz cutters on my scalp, seeming to be buzzing inside of my head like a swarm of bees trying to fly through my ears into my brain. This was the poison my abuelos warned me about, and I embraced it, I wanted it. This excitement was partially tainted by the sideways glances from other patrons in the shop. A hispanic couple with their son. The father seemed to look at me with curiosity, and something that said, “Thank god you’re not my child.” The mother seemed to ignore me like how most people ignore the homeless at a red light. To her, I didn’t even exist. I couldn’t help but see my abuelos in them. I couldn’t help but feel the familiar foreboding in my stomach despite my insistent need to shed myself of the years worth of locks everyone in my family adored. Fear ran my life. I was afraid of the future, and afraid of the past. I was afraid of people at school, afraid of my family, afraid of my reflection.

Yet, for the first time looking at myself that day, I saw who I wanted to be. I remember recording myself silently screaming and jumping in the salon bathroom. It was perfect. It wasn’t long, and swept to one side like the hairdresser tried to convince me to settle with. It was shaved on the sides, talcum powder dusting my neck, with curls toppling over each other like a bunch of grapes. I touched the buzzed parts on the back and sides of my head, somehow soft, and not prickly like unshaved legs as I had expected. The air was cold against my scalp. It was a freedom of emotion. It wasn’t just hair to me. It was my way of saying that I wasn’t my mother’s mistakes, or my father’s past. It was my way of saying that I could dress how I want, sit how I want, kiss who I want, and be who I want.