Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Pining for Pronouns
I miss pronouns. And people may ask why I miss them and how I can miss them, but it’s simple. Being gay at BYU, pronouns fly out the window and ambiguity takes its place. He took me on a date may seem like nothing, but something about saying he can make all the difference. But when I was dating Curtis, all my roommates swore that I dated a 6’4”, 27 year old, film major comedienne because I would not identify him as what he was… a boy.
Curtis came and went, and I’ve kept it single since. But my roommates would never let Curtis go. It could have been the anonymousness of it all, maybe the whole situation was too much akin to a whodunit, but they would keep bringing him up, trying to find out who this cougar was and what she looked like. I would brush them off and play aloof, hoping that they would never find out because then I would be getting the boot from BYU with extreme prejudice. But then one day, Curtis fell back into some old habits, and rumors flew that he had been admitted to a loony bin in California. My girls were out of town who knew about him, and so I had to keep it to myself and I felt like if I did not tell somebody, this secret would atrophy in me and rot.
So one day, on the way to the store, my roommate Remington tagged along because he was sans a truck and sans motivation to walk the three blocks to get the last thing he was sans… food. He mentioned that somebody should be put in a sanitarium, and then there was no stopping my secret. I had to talk to Rem. “Remember the person that I dated? Well, I just heard that that person was put into a loony bin. It’s funny that you mentioned putting somebody in a sanitarium because that’s right where Cur… the person that I once dated, is.” He rolled his eyes and looked at me, “I don’t care who you dated. It’s not like I know them or would even care.”
Well, I guess this was my time to see if he really didn’t care. So nonchalantly I said, “Do you really want to know the name of who I dated? I dated somebody named Curtis,” his eyebrow rose, “Now do you see why I don’t tell anyone who I was dating?” I waited for him to say something, but it was silent in my truck. And finally he said, “Yeah. If I dated a girl named Curtis, I wouldn’t tell anybody either.” Now my eyebrow had rose, but my lips were pursed and I’m sure that utter confusion registered across my face. “Really Rem?”
We arrived at the store and didn’t speak another word. He grabbed his cart, I grabbed mine, we reconvened at the truck, and we sat in silence on the way home. This was after eight months of living with Rem, and it took another two months before he actually grasped the concept of my homosexuality. I didn’t get kicked out of BYU, but I still find myself catching on pronouns when I speak. It’s almost as if I am cursing, but I have hope that one day, I’ll be able to say he took me on a date.
Curtis came and went, and I’ve kept it single since. But my roommates would never let Curtis go. It could have been the anonymousness of it all, maybe the whole situation was too much akin to a whodunit, but they would keep bringing him up, trying to find out who this cougar was and what she looked like. I would brush them off and play aloof, hoping that they would never find out because then I would be getting the boot from BYU with extreme prejudice. But then one day, Curtis fell back into some old habits, and rumors flew that he had been admitted to a loony bin in California. My girls were out of town who knew about him, and so I had to keep it to myself and I felt like if I did not tell somebody, this secret would atrophy in me and rot.
So one day, on the way to the store, my roommate Remington tagged along because he was sans a truck and sans motivation to walk the three blocks to get the last thing he was sans… food. He mentioned that somebody should be put in a sanitarium, and then there was no stopping my secret. I had to talk to Rem. “Remember the person that I dated? Well, I just heard that that person was put into a loony bin. It’s funny that you mentioned putting somebody in a sanitarium because that’s right where Cur… the person that I once dated, is.” He rolled his eyes and looked at me, “I don’t care who you dated. It’s not like I know them or would even care.”
Well, I guess this was my time to see if he really didn’t care. So nonchalantly I said, “Do you really want to know the name of who I dated? I dated somebody named Curtis,” his eyebrow rose, “Now do you see why I don’t tell anyone who I was dating?” I waited for him to say something, but it was silent in my truck. And finally he said, “Yeah. If I dated a girl named Curtis, I wouldn’t tell anybody either.” Now my eyebrow had rose, but my lips were pursed and I’m sure that utter confusion registered across my face. “Really Rem?”
We arrived at the store and didn’t speak another word. He grabbed his cart, I grabbed mine, we reconvened at the truck, and we sat in silence on the way home. This was after eight months of living with Rem, and it took another two months before he actually grasped the concept of my homosexuality. I didn’t get kicked out of BYU, but I still find myself catching on pronouns when I speak. It’s almost as if I am cursing, but I have hope that one day, I’ll be able to say he took me on a date.