How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

In a lot of ways, I’m lucky. I know that. I get to exist at a time when being different is okay. My generation embraces its differences. But sometimes, when I feel like my family doesn’t understand, can’t understand, who I am . . . I wish I were different in a different way.

Valerio pulled me in. “Do not let people tell you how to live your life, Amir.” “I just feel self-conscious, that’s all.” “It is all about how you present yourself,” Valerio said, smiling at a man wearing a fanny pack who was glaring at us. “If I was standing in front of the Pope and I said, ‘Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Pope, I am gay,’ then of course he would be like, ‘Yeah, no. Not cool.’ But if I said, ‘Hey, I am gay,’ like it is my eye color, then the Pope would probably shrug and be like, ‘Okay, live your truth.’” Valerio jumped off the ledge and took a bow before me. “It is all about delivery.”

“Confident in yourself,” I said. “In talking to others. In putting yourself out there, in a place where, you know, yourself isn’t exactly welcome.”

It made me wonder if we owe our parents that kind of simple, unfiltered happiness for the rest of our lives. Why couldn’t they find our hiccups now as cute as they were back then? Who had changed—them or me?

I’m eighteen years old now. I’m practically an adult. I love my parents; I realize that now more than ever. I will always love them, and I will always be their son. But I have to be my own person, too.

I am beginning to realize that from the moment my children were born, I have looked at them and loved them with certain conditions in mind. It’s time I change the way I look at the people I love. I’ll admit that. It’s time I look at Amir not with the weight of answers, but with the comfort of questions. Perhaps more of us should look at one another in that way.

A friend of mine with older children likes to say that at the beginning of your children’s lives, you are teaching them. But there comes a point in life when they begin to teach you.

It’s hard enough living one life; no one should have to go through the trouble of living two.

life is not a scoreboard, Amir. It is a big, beautiful, messy equation. One of those extra-complicated ones even a Nobel Prize–winning mathematician couldn’t crack, let alone your poet friend who nearly flunked algebra.

To the Trevor Project, for being such an important resource for queer teens. If you are a queer person struggling with suicidal thoughts or just want someone to talk to, please call the Trevor Lifeline at 1-866-488-7386.