I turned sixteen the day after I watched my country elect a president that set back my community by what felt like 100 years. At the time, I was deep in the closet, so in denial that I could not comprehend the crippling fear I was experiencing knowing that people who I loved had voted for Trump. Four years later, in the wake of yet another dehumanizing presidential election, the holiday season and the daunting notion of going home to our families weighs on queer kids more than usual. 

I always preface by saying that I am extremely privileged all things considered: I am white and cisgender and my immediate family has been nothing but supportive of me. Even then, however, seeing extended family during the holiday season can stir up so many complex crises of identity. For me, it often means feeling like I have to tone down my performance of queerness so as not to make anyone around me uncomfortable.

In 2020, it’s hard to believe that existing as an LGBTQ+ person is still a cause for debate. Being queer shouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s a big deal for enough of our family members that we know to prepare for it. It was a big deal to my grandfather years ago when he pulled me aside before I even knew I was a lesbian. 

“Ven aqui, mi niña,” he said. “Come here, my child.” My abuelo was my favorite person at that time, the person who made me feel like being me was always the very best thing I could do. “You’re not a homosexual right? We already have enough of that in our family.” I laughed, because he had to be joking. 

“Don’t worry Abuelo,” I told him. Because I wasn’t. He hugged me tight, as if to thank me for not being queer. My grandfather is no longer living, and while none of my other family members would ever be so forward with their discomfort, the ghost of his words still lingers each time I do anything that could possibly be incriminating. 

I think the thing that weighs on me the most is knowing that a person can be gay in a million ways. A person can be gay in a quiet way, though this form of queerness is hardly a choice. It’s the kind that stems from inter-generational trauma, from witnessing a world where homosexuality is punishable by law and life sentences of shame. This is the kind of gayness that feels necessary when the people who love you talk around your sexuality rather than about it. The kind that feels necessary when acceptance means a family that looks the other way instead of one that says I see you. I see who you are, and it’s okay. It’s wonderful. 

I decided I would not be quiet before I even decided I was queer. When I was 14 I joined my school’s Gay-Straight Alliance as one hell of an ally, and I began posting loudly and angrily about queer issues on social media. Despite my passion for the rights of others to love whoever the fuck they wanted to love, the queerness inside me bubbled into something hideous. This fearless, public passion was a privilege, a sentiment I could only yell because I thought I was not a part of what I was fighting for. I could argue fiercely with family members about why marriage equality was worth fighting for because I felt I had a platform as a straight ally that did not leave me vulnerable. But the closer my own queerness got to spilling out of me, the less comfortable I felt performing it. The longer my eyes began to linger on girls’ lips, the quieter I grew. Because when a fight is yours, when you become the other, stakes change. 

It’s even more complex when most of the time you’ve spent out of the closet has been time spent away from home, building an identity and a safe space for yourself in a community like Emerson where, all things considered, loud queerness is welcome. Going home can feel like being shoved back in a box, being forced to quiet yourself so as not to draw too much attention to the thing that separates you from the person your family knew you as before you came out. 

The thing to remember is this: you do not owe anyone the comfort of fitting the mold they’ve constructed for you. Of course, safety must always be our priority as queer people. But immediate threats to our wellbeing notwithstanding, it is not our job to make sure our queerness is not disruptive to the people around us. Whether we choose to tone it down or not should be entirely out of concern for our own mental stability, not that of others.