How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

Ben and Jake had singled me out from day one at my new school. Much like those “random” security checks at the airport, they picked on me without any probable cause. I was brown, and I was there.

“Do you know this song, Amir?” Jahan asked, leaning over the bar. I definitely recognized the upbeat melody, the lyrics—paved paradise, something about parking lots—but I didn’t know the singer. “You’re hopeless,” Jahan said. “Gay card revoked.” It was like there was another rainbow scoreboard for gay men that I had never been exposed to, and I was starting from scratch. -5: Doesn’t know Nina Simone or Joni Mitchell. “You know, Joni Mitchell is how I came out to my dad,” Jahan said. “Um.” “You don’t have to look so horrified.” He laughed. “It didn’t go that badly. I was in the eighth grade, and my dad asked at the dinner table if I had any crushes, and I replied, totally seriously: ‘Father. Joni Mitchell is the only woman for me.’ The man looked at me, utterly disappointed, shaking his head—but he knew. That was all I ever had to say.”

Jahan introduced me to his friends, and I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t just the age difference. One of them was wearing hoop earrings. Another had pristinely arched eyebrows and spoke with a strong lisp. I thought being around people like me would feel like the perfect shoe fit, but instead, it felt like I had stepped into high heels.

I am not comfortable speaking up like this. I have not been comfortable this entire time. Many times, in this country, however, I am made to feel uncomfortable, just like this. It is normal for me, to feel that I have walked into a party that I was not invited to. To be interrogated. To have my every value, every detail of my existence, questioned.