LGBTQIAP+ Milestones: Book 3

Pride

By Modo

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First Grade

We were walking to class, my book bag on my back with a cheery but casual face on. I was with my two best friends in the whole wide world. We were inseparable. Well, until the first one left. She gave me her number to call on a small slip of paper. I lost it the next week, and I never saw her again. Now let me tell you something about her, about me. This girl was not only my best friend, but a super duper top secret crush that even I kept hidden from myself. We were best friends. I contemplated the hints seeping into me like sunlight into my skin. Hints that said,"She's cute," or "I think I like her". Well, when I look back at it now, they weren't even secrets! They were full fledged reports dredged up from my brain thats news reporters were screaming , shouting at the top of their lungs, yelling the name of their Adonis. They were saying. They were saying! They were saying ______.

What were they saying?

I didn't know. And I wouldn't know for a long, long time.

Third Grade

When I was younger I went to a Christian private school from third to sixth grade, and according to my lovely cousin that shit messed me up. I'm black. I have always been black. And I forever will be. For all my life until the tender age eleven, I had never met a single non-black person.

It's a bit ironic though. My friend claims I'm anything but black. That's just due to my rich heritage of Caribbean and European ancestors that I constantly bragged about. That's probably why I hadn't met a person of different race as everyone in my school was black including me. At this point in my life it honestly didn't bother me because all ten of my classmates were doing it also, so I fit social norms.

The situation of me meeting the first non-black person- I don't know what other word to use- was quite funny.

My class and I were walking outside back from or to lunch, where we saw this guy, around eighteen or twenty, leaning on a red car wearing a pink skirt, a bow on his head, and a bikini shirt. He looked cool and relaxed as he leaned against the convertible, but I was horrified.

He was showing so much skin!

How could someone dress up like that, especially a boy? My cheeks flushed and I was conflicted with the emotions of turning away or keep staring as we passed by.

I believe this was the first white person I had ever laid eyes on. When we got to where we were going, there were whispers of the guy outside. If I had paid attention I probably would've heard the word. The insult that would hurt a friend of mine. This was also the beginning of people calling others gay as an insult. 'Cause when a guy starts wearing girls clothing he must be gay.

Well, in the 2000's anyway.

There was this one incident where we were going to lunch, all the exciting stuff happened on the way to lunch, and as we were walking down the stairs and the boys were calling each-other gay. One got severely butt-hurt about this and began yelling at the other. The teacher was hearing this and came and calmed the situation down asking him what happened.

"He called me gay" one boy said. The other boy huffed in annoyance, sucking his teeth.

This had been a problem for the past few months, so the teacher came up with a brilliant solution. With a very gentle but stern voice she told us,

"Gay means happy."

That line messed me up more than anything. And in a semi-near future I would begin to wonder, if gay means happy why are they so sad?