How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

“You know, I just realized something,” I said. “I think, someday in the future, I’ll romanticize this moment. Standing in front of all of you. I won’t remember the sweat dripping down the back of my neck. I won’t remember how nervous I got each time Jahan called another presenter, thinking it would be my turn. I won’t dock points for those little things, even if they meant something at the time, because I don’t want them to define a beautiful moment. Life’s not about keeping score like that. It’s just not. It’s about finding people who see you—because the minute they do, everything else goes away. All the points even out.”

“Are they religious?” Laura asked. Jackson had asked the same question when we talked about coming out to our families. I sighed. “Yes and no. It’s more a culture thing. Our culture is pretty conservative, even if you’re not religious. Like, my parents and I have never even talked about sex. I always knew that when and if I came out to them, it would be like two coming-outs: ‘Mom and Dad, first of all, I’m a sexual being, and then oh yeah, and I like dudes.’ ”

That stupid stereotype kept poking and prodding at my head. Iranian and gay: as incompatible as Amish people and Apple products.

It is such a privilege, you know? To get to be yourself, all of yourself, in this great big world. To wear it like a tattoo, like all of Jahan’s tattoos: permanent and out there for the whole world to see.