I recently came across this photo from Easter of 1972. In it, I’m holding a tiny purse that my grandma made from an old margarine container combined with her delicate crocheting. When I shared this photo with my mom, she remarked at how cute my little sister was. I pointed out that the photo was not of her daughter, but rather of her proud four-year-old son, and she silently turned the page. Growing up, my sexuality was the proverbial elephant in the room: it was always present, but never discussed.
In my twelve years of Catholic schooling, just about every report card included the comment, “André is a sensitive boy.” That was Catholic-school code for “gay as a daisy.” It was tough growing up sensitive, and the journey was never easy. But it was worth it, for I can now say that I love who I am and I love the life I’ve built for myself. I love that I’ve learned to honor and protect that sensitive little boy with the pink Easter purse and black galoshes.
I have a terrific job as a writer. I have a wonderful partner and a cozy home with three cats. It’s exactly the kind of life I was told would never be an option for me.