Who You Come Out To

After “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid

Your mom in the car at a red light; your dad by association; your brother by accident; your hairstylist when she asks why you want to cut off all these lovely locks; your female barber; all the men with ears; the girl you’ve been in love with since seventh grade; the girl you just met on a dating app that wants to know your zodiac sign and the pronouns you use and what time you were born; (you say the girl kind and gemini except it sounds like a question and she leaves you on read because you don’t know what pronouns are yet or what a natal chart is or that you can have more than one zodiac sign but 7:13am seems like the kind of time only a mother should know so you don’t give it away); a twenty three year old skateboarder with a single sunglasses emoji in his bio; a nonbinary person looking for friends with benefits because they think you understand how to kiss a woman; another boy determined to “change that”; the old lesbian couple at an Alannis Morissette concert with a single nod; your spiritual bisexual cousin; your Sephardic Jewish aunt and Moroccan uncle before Shabbat Dinner through a text you didn’t send; the ghost of Elijah on Passover; Abraham; Isaac; Yitzach; your therapist; your psychologist; your disabilities advisor; your doctor; your second therapist; your guidance counselor; your voter registration identification card; the slam poetry dykes you befriended at summer camps back when you still called yourself an ally; your internet friends from Brazil & England & Scotland & Wales & Canada & one Mormon penpal from Utah who tries to convert you through emails about her Lord and Savior Jesus Christ; your peer in a discussion about whether or not homosexuality is an opinion imposed upon students by liberal institutions; a future civil rights lawyer; the drag queens; the fashionable gay men; your straight guy friends; an Appalachian butch you befriend on Instagram over her pet cat named Raymond; a ballerina femme; an atheist; a Tik-Tok homophobe privileged enough to tell you where you will go post mortem; people you spent three weeks with at the University of Oxford; the old Rabbi; the new Rabbi; the late Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson through a letter you put in the pile of wishes over his tomb at the Ohel in Crown Heights which writes, simply, “I want to know what love feels like,” and he rolls over from the heavens because despite your long dress you will never marry a nice Jewish boy; your old nanny who later apologizes to your mother; the waiter; the flight attendant; your boxing coach; the entire synagogue as you walk in wearing men’s clothes and a boys haircut and are offered three kippahs; the woman at The Strand bookstore after you ask where the queer section is; the cashier while you buy a rainbow pin; the cowboy on your twentieth birthday horseback riding trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains during Pride Month; he asks, “Got a man in yer life yet?”; so you take a deep breath and let the words free and he goes, “Ain’t nothing wrong with that, God made you the way ye are” then proceeds to tell you about his tobacco-spitting, barrel-racing, power couple lesbian welder nieces; you’re surprised he means well though you can’t ignore the way he talks about them like they’re an exotic species of horse; those female gays; a famous poet; an unknown poet; an artist; a rocket scientist; an astrologist; a tarot card reader; the fool; the high priestess; the empress; the magician; the hierophant; the chariot; the sun; the moon; the stars; the hanged man; the emperor; the lovers; the hermit; the judge; the temperant; the strong; the weak; the tower; the wheel of fortune; the devil; death himself; your Labrador Retriever; your English bulldog; the crows; the deer; the hawks; the spider outside your window; the maiden; the mother; the crone; a witch; an Aries; a Taurus; a Gemini; a Cancer; a Leo; a Virgo; a Libra; a Scorpio; a Sagittarius; a Capricorn; an Aquarius; a Pisces; all your professors; all your classmates; everyone who asks; everyone who doesn’t ask; then again; and again; and again; and it never really ends like it does in the movies; do you mean that even after all this you’ll still have to explain yourself?