When I begin a blog post I normally feel like I have a theme or question that can be approached with structured answer. This month is Pride month, and I don’t think its a secret or surpise that I am queer. This month the post may not feel like the typical writing related topic, but this part of my identity does influence the stories I write, as all writers are shaped by their life experiences. Being queer has impacted me both positively and negatively. So, with my wife’s permission I thought it’d be sweet to share the story of how we met.
One day I woke up and realized the love of my life’s eyes no longer gleam emerald green. Instead, they resemble the rocks at the bottom of a riverbed: smooth, and speckled with moss. Her smile is a more frequent visitor than before, and her joy envelopes me in a whirlwind of pink, blue, and white butterflies every time she laughs. My eyes drink her in as she basks in the quiet outside, and my chest begins to feel hunger for her touch. I slowly turned the knob and gently drew the front door open so there was one less barrier between us. She sips her caramel coffee as the rising light pours over her and begins to warm her already sun-bronzed skin. I linger in the door for a moment. Her umber curls frame her high cheek bones and she is so beautiful in the most effortless way. The soft cry of the kettle pulled me back inside for a moment. I prepared my brew of loose leaf mint that we harvested last year at the end of summer together from my urban garden. I sighed as I moved through the kitchen which was drinking in the luster of golden morning light that seeped through the sheer curtains. Immediately, I feel lighter as I pass through the door. I take a seat beside her on our front step of our apartment stoop. The cement is rough on my hand as I drug it across the rigid surface to reach for hers. She playfully bumps me and I’ll act flustered, but the redness that blooms across my burned cheeks is anything but acting. I often think about how much I adore my life. I couldn’t picture it differently. We’ve spent a decade of mornings together just like this. Sometimes I forget how far we have come. It hasn’t always been like this.
Admittedly, I was afraid. The fear was locked in my body at the end of my birthday tattoo appointment. It had become custom every year that we could afford it. I’d get ink. After paying and gushing over the art to the tattooist, I went into the bathroom. There I saw a basket of resources. Planned Parenthood among them. I gingerly picked up the pamphlet. It said they did gender affirming care. I bit back any doubts. While she had not expressly told me a label, I knew. My breath was labored and the paper in my hands weighed heavy with realization. While I trusted that my heart wouldn’t waiver, I was far too aware that our current life couldn’t stay the same. My husband was one of the few men I had ever felt safe with, and I knew I’d have to let him go. There would be a lot of changes to make, and many unknowns that I’d have to try and factor in. That’s when one thought began to scream above the rest over and over again.
Let her live.
Let her live happily.
Let her live.
If I left the tattoo shop with the knowledge of resources there without taking and sharing the information that day It wouldn’t have been an act of love. We are only here for a short time, and no one should spend that time tucked away neatly in the back of a closet. I folded up the paper and stashed it into my pocket, shoving it past the fear. My husband had always known who he was, and I had been waiting patiently for her arrival.
When I got home that day, I handed it to her. A silent gesture giving her the unspoken ‘permission’ she thought she needed to begin living as herself. I don’t think we would have the life we do, because that is what kicked off the cocooning. My biggest fear revolved around her safety, but I also knew that she wasn’t really happy with the way her body was at that time. That anxiety made me react in a way that didn’t reflect my unwavering love for her. I thought I had every little detail taken into account, every possible outcome thought of, and the best course of action mapped out. All I had accomplished was a get-outta-dodge plan for our family, instead of a continued soft place to land for her. Over the course of a few weeks, we had shared on and off talks about what would be best. What we ultimately decided was a timeframe that would allow her to start treatment in the red state we resided in, but by the time physical changes would no longer be concealed by clothing we’d already be on the road.
So a few months went by and within the drawn on walls and thrifted decor of our rural home I watched with bliss as my partner began to experience the joys of girlhood: practicing make up, trying new styles of clothing, developing her true sense of identity and self. Staring at herself in the mirror and feeling pretty not for anyone else but just her. The joys I, myself, didn’t fully get to partake in when I was younger. I was watching her perform alchemy: Taking years of her childhood neglect and abuse and transmuting it into someone beautiful and confident. Selfishly, I thought that maybe this was something else we could experience together—a rather late start into exploring our femininity and channeling that into an empowering bonding experience. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t get that experience until a year later when we ventured across state lines in the dead of night. The seeds we planted for ourselves years before were finally sprouting.
The past still had its teeth sunk into us taking months to feel confident enough to leave the house, hand in hand. As wife and wife without fear tagging along. The year of settling in was spent combating dysphoria, and what I affectionately call ‘growing pains’. It was getting new clothes because the old ones she had picked for herself no longer fit. Choosing what half of our belongings needed to stay in storage and getting accustomed to a different way of life. We leave the apartment now without thinking about if we are wife and wife or if we are safe to do so. We leave knowing that we will be greeted with smiles and pleasantries embroidered into the tapestry of who we are becoming.
Just because my wife had blossomed and found her true self didn’t mean the that bills, domestic life, and working poor struggles suddenly vanished. All together it was hectic to juggle, but while I understand many would have left, I’ve been falling in love with her all over again, and again. Every unknown step is cherished because we are together. The sounds of warbling birds beckon me from memory lane, so that I feel the weight of her hand in mine, the morning warmth of summer kisses the apples of my freckling cheeks. She finishes up her morning coffee and I continue to sip in her presence. Not ever feeling like I am fully getting enough of her. The love of my life. Our love story has been forged through hardship, yet it’s still tender enough to collapse into every night. A love story I eagerly awake to be a part of every morning. Ours is one I will treasure until my last breath, and even then my spirit will remain restless without hers to be tangled with.
Veronica King 