I know this moment; you do, too.
Like the time I told a white man on Halloween in an Osama Bin Laden costume he was being offensive and having him tell me I offend him everyday of the year.
Like the time I was on a bus with my girlfriend one night, felt lingering eyes on our hand holding, and when we were exiting hearing a man to our left say, “Next time I see you I’m going to rape you.”
Like when I signed up to be a member of Big Brothers Big Sisters where they’re legally obligated to reveal your sexual orientation to the parents, and even with this particular chapter’s overflow of kids, never being paired.
Like the time I had another woman shoved at me by a man who just found out I was gay.
Like the time I heard “fucking dyke” while peacefully overlooking the lake, “fucking dyke” at that tailgate party, “fucking dyke” at that bar that was always the last stop, “fucking dyke” from that group of girls who thought I was out of earshot.
Like the time I was at a my favorite queer dance party and got locked downstairs by staff for 30 minutes because of the targeted stabbings that just occurred upstairs.
Like the time we got kicked out of a restaurant mid-meal by the owner because of a kiss.
More often than not, I find myself spreading these moments out on my bed on mornings before Pride. I sit with them, politely flick each one of them off, and gather them neatly in prep for next year’s additions. They are reminders, each one, of how things could be worse but are not, that I am still here, and most importantly: that this shit is not about me anymore.