The Lovely Tragedy of a Gay Couple
KALEB HOULE LAWRENCE
His jeans were a dark blue in contrast to his baby blue sweatshirt, which draped over the elastic bracelets that lined his forearms. His hair was a teal blue, which he always tried to hide, though I could never figure out why: it was beautiful. His eyes stared into the numbers on the page, but I could see the tiniest sliver of his stunning greenish eyes. They were so complex, so mysterious, so lovable. His hands were covered in pen ink and aesthetically pleasing doodles. His smile was so rare, and his imperfect teeth were as precious as a diamond to me. His happiness was my adrenaline rush; his sadness was my downfall; his anger was my guilt.
The journey of love doesn’t start at the moment when you feel a spark in your heart, but rather when you rest your eyes upon the person of your dreams. You may not know it immediately, but that bond begins to form immediately. I met him in kindergarten, his then-black hair cut short, but not too short. He was my best friend, my go-to man, and my tablemate. His face lit up every time that we locked eyes. Every time I saw him, the rest of the room faded out of my vision, yet he stayed in clear focus, stuck behind a magnifying glass that had been placed over my eye, perhaps by the man who shoots for the heart.
And yet love doesn’t present itself with a large flash; it grows steadily, like a fire. Maybe love is a fire: it grows slowly, warms you inside, and destroys everything in its path when it grows too far. In fifth grade, I would say that the fire took way, the flames licking the air around it, reaching for the faraway sky. But it couldn’t quite reach -- I wasn’t ready for it, even though he was, even though the archer was.
The journey of love doesn’t start at the moment when you feel a spark in your heart, but rather when you rest your eyes upon the person of your dreams. You may not know it immediately, but that bond begins to form immediately. I met him in kindergarten, his then-black hair cut short, but not too short. He was my best friend, my go-to man, and my tablemate. His face lit up every time that we locked eyes. Every time I saw him, the rest of the room faded out of my vision, yet he stayed in clear focus, stuck behind a magnifying glass that had been placed over my eye, perhaps by the man who shoots for the heart.
And yet love doesn’t present itself with a large flash; it grows steadily, like a fire. Maybe love is a fire: it grows slowly, warms you inside, and destroys everything in its path when it grows too far. In fifth grade, I would say that the fire took way, the flames licking the air around it, reaching for the faraway sky. But it couldn’t quite reach -- I wasn’t ready for it, even though he was, even though the archer was.
Maybe fire is even better of a metaphor for love than I thought.
The golden tips are the parts that reach you first, searing your skin. And Cupid’s golden tips are the first to reach you as well, penetrating your skin and searing your heart in this painful emotion that we call love. It’s really a roller coaster ride, and yet we still swear by its greatest qualities. At least for some people. For others, love was denied, frowned upon. The love that any “normal” person would kill for lies right in front of others, just far enough away from reach, growing farther and farther every day as the slurs pile between them.
The day he came out is a vivid scene in my mind, a dream (or perhaps a nightmare) that has played over and over in my mind in the three years since. Its good qualities were great actually, the moment the flame reached a height to sear our skin, to melt our hearts, reshaping them into one. One that beat in unison, one that controlled our minds, so different, as one. And yet its downfalls were horrible. He would never see a normal life again, the slurs that filled the tense, slowly polluting air that would never leave his ears. The constant state of sadness, the constant fear of being wrong for who he is will never leave his mind.
One might say that at least we have each other, but most days, that’s not enough. Of course, he is enough, but our love is too fragile to be enough. It can’t be spoken, it can barely be written, and when it is it must be erased. Our love is nonexistent, at least to those who don’t approve. That may seem insignificant, just a small hurdle compared to the giant walls we may face. The problem is that the people who don’t approve vastly outnumber the people who do. Sometimes I wonder if our love can ever be like everybody else, going out on dates every Saturday, sharing good mornings and good nights each and every day, but I know it can’t, at least not in the foreseeable future. Our fire, which once burned so bright, must burn low, cower in shame. I fear that our fire may never even reach to see above the grass, may never see the beauty of human life.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if I was straight, if I could just be normal. But I can’t, and trust me, I try. Why wouldn’t I try to be something that everybody wants out of me? Why wouldn’t I try and force myself out of the shameful position I am in? I wish I could just let go of it, but my love for him is too great. He is the reason I stay, he is the reason I am who I am, and I can never forget that. He is half of the fire which I call our love, the love that burns and warms. The love that hurts and heals, the love that melted our bodies, our souls, our hearts into one.
Coming out in rural NH is particularly hard; I guess that rural towns don’t support all happy relationships. It’s just abnormal to see a gay couple in the borders of such an old-fashioned town. And yet there was one, both parts born and raised in those borders. People don’t like it though; they throw around slur after slur, piercing my ears with the radiation of hatred. They speak my name in whispers, placing bets on the guys I like. I’d like to think that they just don’t understand, but then again, I think they just don’t care. They don’t care that I have emotions, that I have a limit, just like them. I guess that it is that part which they cannot deal with, that I, a gay man, am like them. But there are worse things to worry myself with.
The rates of suicide among LGBTQ+ people are skyrocketing nationwide, and rural communities have even higher rates. It keeps me up at night, wondering if I will just be another statistic, wondering if I will be the next gay man to lie dead on the floor, simply because people can’t accept me for the people I love. I guess I will have to change who I love, or I will always be the target, the victim, the one who dies. I guess, for gay men, love and death happen in instant succession. I guess, for gay men, fires never ignite. And in the end, love NEVER wins.
The day he came out is a vivid scene in my mind, a dream (or perhaps a nightmare) that has played over and over in my mind in the three years since. Its good qualities were great actually, the moment the flame reached a height to sear our skin, to melt our hearts, reshaping them into one. One that beat in unison, one that controlled our minds, so different, as one. And yet its downfalls were horrible. He would never see a normal life again, the slurs that filled the tense, slowly polluting air that would never leave his ears. The constant state of sadness, the constant fear of being wrong for who he is will never leave his mind.
One might say that at least we have each other, but most days, that’s not enough. Of course, he is enough, but our love is too fragile to be enough. It can’t be spoken, it can barely be written, and when it is it must be erased. Our love is nonexistent, at least to those who don’t approve. That may seem insignificant, just a small hurdle compared to the giant walls we may face. The problem is that the people who don’t approve vastly outnumber the people who do. Sometimes I wonder if our love can ever be like everybody else, going out on dates every Saturday, sharing good mornings and good nights each and every day, but I know it can’t, at least not in the foreseeable future. Our fire, which once burned so bright, must burn low, cower in shame. I fear that our fire may never even reach to see above the grass, may never see the beauty of human life.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard if I was straight, if I could just be normal. But I can’t, and trust me, I try. Why wouldn’t I try to be something that everybody wants out of me? Why wouldn’t I try and force myself out of the shameful position I am in? I wish I could just let go of it, but my love for him is too great. He is the reason I stay, he is the reason I am who I am, and I can never forget that. He is half of the fire which I call our love, the love that burns and warms. The love that hurts and heals, the love that melted our bodies, our souls, our hearts into one.
Coming out in rural NH is particularly hard; I guess that rural towns don’t support all happy relationships. It’s just abnormal to see a gay couple in the borders of such an old-fashioned town. And yet there was one, both parts born and raised in those borders. People don’t like it though; they throw around slur after slur, piercing my ears with the radiation of hatred. They speak my name in whispers, placing bets on the guys I like. I’d like to think that they just don’t understand, but then again, I think they just don’t care. They don’t care that I have emotions, that I have a limit, just like them. I guess that it is that part which they cannot deal with, that I, a gay man, am like them. But there are worse things to worry myself with.
The rates of suicide among LGBTQ+ people are skyrocketing nationwide, and rural communities have even higher rates. It keeps me up at night, wondering if I will just be another statistic, wondering if I will be the next gay man to lie dead on the floor, simply because people can’t accept me for the people I love. I guess I will have to change who I love, or I will always be the target, the victim, the one who dies. I guess, for gay men, love and death happen in instant succession. I guess, for gay men, fires never ignite. And in the end, love NEVER wins.
Kaleb Houle Lawrence is a teenaged writer who is inspired to become an author. He loves telling stories, and that is writing in a nutshell. Living in rural NH is tough, but he has survived and is here to stay.