Unstraight
Loser Pulp Diaries #5
Henry Yang and I spent most of our week-long sophomore summer camp at each other’s side.
Some mix of the military JROTC and my mostly-Christian hometown made traditional masculinity an ever-looming specter that gave a much starker shadow to any friendships I had with other boys my age.
Henry and I didn’t talk much about our families, but I knew he was a recent transplant from China; his words still hung faithfully onto his native language, especially when he was exasperated. Though, most of his speech was animated.
He told me in secret that he wished he spoke like the rest of our class. I told him that I hated how big my lips were; my brother would tease me so I made a habit of pressing them together to look smaller.
He did his best to tether his needled voice and playful lisp, though who knows if that’s what made him nicer than the other boys.
He’d field some stifled laughter from the others when he spoke; they were usually just reacting to how noticeable he was—loud, expressive. I’d spoken at a muted volume my entire childhood, but no matter how quietly I’d respond to him, he would speak fully and colorfully: showing all of his teeth with an unrepentant smile. He couldn’t help but be loud, and that made me feel safer around him.
When so much of me couldn’t really be acknowledged, I felt a salve-like stillness when this kid with a buzzcut and a starched military uniform was soft like I was.
It was also a shock to me that Henry was so unburdened by a thousand eyes turned inward on his own softness. To this day, I’m unsure if it was a crush or if I was hoping to absorb some of what made him seem content with what he was.
At the graduation ceremony for that same leadership camp, Henry took the opportunity during the national anthem to try to pay me a compliment, smack dab in front of dozens of other boys and girls. He twisted his torso around to look at me, keeping his eyes thoughtfully on mine—his next words at a borderline shout:
“You know Lyons, your eyes make you look gay. And your lips make you look like a clown—but you’re not like a… a gay clown.” He nodded at me confidently.
“Thanks, Henry.” I whispered.
He meant well.
That memory has been on my mind because lately I’ve been feeling the way I imagined Henry did, even if it had to be 20 years later. I’ve been noticing myself smiling with my teeth more often. I’ve got cheerful wrinkles beside my eyes.
Just last Thursday, someone who I allowed intimately close to my face paused our interaction and told me that I looked androgynous. Hearing that made me feel warm.
They smiled and put their hands up to my cheeks, squeezing them until my eyes crinkled. I choked on my laughter and let them play with my features like putty.
I wish I could tell the younger me how much more joyful this is. In retrospect, I did in fact grow into quite the little gay clown.