QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Definition

Definition
By Steve Prince
What defines you?
If people’s lives are their stories, then what’s yours?
If your life is as a long feature-length film, what scenes stand out and remain projected in your mind, etched in your memory?
Is there a thread that binds these moments, these instances in your life, sewn deeply into you, making a tapestry of your soul?
Moreover, is this the story you wrote, or was it written for you?
What if someone severed one part of that thread? Would it unravel, scattering particles of your life into chaos? Or would these instances stand on their own, the same way each inhalation of air forgets the exhalation that preceded it?
Someone tried to cut my thread…
Tuesday, November 4th, 7:38 p.m.
“Does anyone want anything to drink?” Alex nervously calls from his kitchen. It’s the fourth time he’s asked this hour. Cody, Troy, Omar and I stare at one another pensively and shrug. Alex walks back into his living room, sits on his love seat, and curls his legs under himself like a cat. He sips his tea, and swallows tensely while watching the television.
Troy, the consummate dancer, absent mindedly taps his feet on the tile floor, as if the tapping will lessen his thoughts. Every few minutes he says aloud, “It’s going to be fine,” as if to ease our nerves.
With this last utterance of Troy’s, Cody springs from the couch and snatches his cigarettes from the glass coffee table. He walks out to Alex’s patio and lights up. The tip of his cigarette glows amber against the back drop of the inky black sea, illuminating the lines of worry in his face, a face normally carefree and smooth. Cody turns to watch the screen and exhales. Seductively, the smoke wafts in the air, caressing his head as if intermingling with his thoughts.
Omar is the most tense of all; he’s barely said a word all night. He sits stoically, feet planted. His fingers tap at his knee mechanically, speaking for the one thought repeating through his mind like a loud and leaky faucet.
I sit on the couch, hunched forward, my elbows resting on my knees, hands clutched together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white with the fear of what if? Like a door slam echo, one thought reverberates through my mind over and over… “Oh God, I hope he wins…”
Tuesday, November 4th, 8:42 p.m.
We celebrate. Barack Obama has been elected the next president of our United States. It feels as if the oppression of the last eight years as been expelled in one swift night. The five of us whoop and hug, in complete disbelief. We had tried to believe it, yet it seemed that to have a black president, and one who embodies so much hope, seemed impossible. Later on, we watch our President-Elect stand on a stage with the new First Family. They are beautiful. And then he speaks, and that is when the President-Elect does something that no United States President has ever done before, he acknowledges us; he acknowledges homosexuals. The word slipped from his rhetoric as easily as water from a pitcher, smooth and clear, yet the emotions swimming in my chest as he said it seemed to billow and overflow. I looked at my friends—all of us had tears in our eyes.
Tuesday, November 4th, 10:36 p.m.
The joy from earlier has now receded, like the shore sinking back into the sea just before the storm. We stare at Alex’s laptop. Prop 8, a proposition banning same-sex couples from marrying in California, is neck-and-neck. Earlier, the results were much larger, showing the Yes on 8 campaign ahead twelve points. But thankfully, the No on 8 votes were closing the gap. Only four points separated a decision that could possibly take away my rights. We stared at the screen, hoping.
Tuesday, November 4th, 11:13 p.m.
Troy sits on Alex’s couch nervously eating candy as his legs dangle lazily off the arm of the sofa. Alex sits beside him biting his lip. From outside, the smoke of Cody’s cigarette waltzes upon the ocean breeze unaware of the fear permeating the room.
Alex stoped biting his mouth. “What is it now?” He bit his lip again, awaiting an answer.
Omar’s gaze focuses on the computer as he refreshes the page. “It’s still too close.” His tone seems to forebode otherwise. “But they’re still winning.”

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