Excerpted from the before & the after by Dominique E. Carrieri
I stand in the center of a circle, in full view of my
peers. I pull snakes and tiny lizards from my
exposed abdomen. The sensation sparks
fluttering anxiety that morphs into confusion and
honest curiosity. I wake from the dream and cry.
The internet tells me I’m missing someone inside
me that makes me feel whole.
At this point, my partner and I have been together
for over two years. We’ve shared two homes, one
dog, and own a printer, so I’d call that a pretty
serious relationship.
He is a large, bearded, cis man with teddy bear
eyes that make you wanna say, “hi.” Standing
beside him presents me with a privilege I’ve never
felt, to be catapulted to a world that perceives me
as an insanely helpless heterosexual being.
I’ve always kept my identity safe in sacred places
and sometimes it speaks so loud I imagine its
voice could blow a train across the country.
Sometimes, it puts lizards in my stomach.
Other times, it is quiet and hides in the tiny
wooden drawers of my grandmother’s jewelry
box, waiting for dark filled silence to gently lower
the rowboat, sailing tirelessly back to the queer
world I call home.
I’ve always been a bit of a wild card. I love to lick
the spoon in front of people who have opinions on
loud chewing or messy eating.
I love assembling hurdles in front of those who
challenge things they cannot change almost for
sport, but this world is exhausting.
In this world, I cannot be many, only one.
My ravenous queerness challenging norms and
social paradigms can be seen as threatening and
sometimes even dangerous.
My lack of feminine nature results in the
misconception that we aren’t a couple at all and
we take front row seats to each other’s
discomfort, while we dodge the advances of
unknown, interested strangers.
I bring to the table some of my darkest memories
in my partner’s most comfortable environments.
The more my queerness bleeds onto my clothing,
my speech, my car, my hair, the more this new
world tells me:
“This isn’t what a heterosexual couple looks like.
This isn’t even what a queer couple looks like.”
But what if it is?
If my love is to exist, he loves me because I am
queer. His response to my identity informs his.
We stand beside each other and our identities
remain tragically different, but isn’t that true for all
people?
In order to be together, we must also know how to
be apart. To operate on the most opposite of
hemispheres, to live even if it means accepting
each table isn’t a party of two.
You won’t notice my partner in attendance at most
queer gatherings. This is not because he doesn’t
want to be there.
To be honest, I just don’t invite him.