I smiled inside.
Their two hands connected perfectly creating a picture of commitment and beauty. Two black women walking proudly down the street not afraid of showcasing their love and I smiled again. I smiled because for that moment no one stopped to stare at them in disgust; no one even gave a second look except for me. But I was watching their openness, their happiness their pride. I wiped away over twenty years of tears with the handkerchief of their bond. But new tears watered in my eyes not because of them but because of those not so lucky to be able to live openly being themselves. I cry no longer for me but for them.
These are not my tears.
These are his tears, your son, who is afraid to tell you because of fear of you not loving him. He hides who he is, he is secretive, and he stops looking you in the eye and the only why is because of what his heart feels. He sleeps in shame while suffocating his own air in self blame. He wants to tell you, but will you accept him or turn his world cold avoiding his needs to have your love to hold.
These are not my tears.
These are her tears, the girl you work with, who is afraid of the judgments if she ever told you she kissed another girl. Although it’s considered “cool”, that is not all, she is afraid how you may change opinion of her for wanting to marry another woman and make a family. You may think she’s strange, but she is just waiting for open mindedness and change to share her world. Will you accept her?
These are not my tears.
These are their tears, your friends, family members, spouse, who are suffocating in closed closets because they fear losing the love of those they feel close just to obtain the love they have in their hearts. These tears do not flow by choice or preference. They are the condensation of their hearts and spirit.
These are not my tears.
They were my tears as I was someone’s son, brother, friend, co-worker who was afraid. And that was the loneliest fucking feeling in the world. To feel like an outcast just for living life the way you were meant to. These are no longer my tears as I recognize what others are going through. These are the tears of the boy who committed suicide at the age of eleven because he was called a faggot on school playgrounds, and he was a happy child until he was pointed out as different. So as I write this diary, I have all of them watering in my eyes because we are human beings dammit. We are human beings with hearts that can be easily shattered with the stones of your stares and the brick wall of you turning your back.
These are not my tears.
They are yours
Tarringo T Vaughan
