The [Un]Popular Vote

by Jasper Sanchez

Queer Eye imposes a homonormative model of LGBTQ identities that isn’t particularly ‘queer’ at all.”

Even though I’m the one with him in my grip, I’m pinned. My heart rate ticks up, marking me as prey in the presence of a predator. My body still remembers what it’s like to be a girl in a room full of men, the threat of violence a constant knife at the hollow of my throat. It never mattered that I wasn’t a girl; the girl the world saw was proof enough.

I saw enough to know you don’t deserve to be student body president.” “Sure,” he scoffs. “What are you going to do about it?” I don’t know. I barely know why I said it. I meant it as a schoolyard jibe. I didn’t expect to have to back it up. But if there’s anything I’ve learned about masculinity, it’s that you have to show bravado even when you’ve got nothing to back it up. So I smile at him. Bare my teeth. And say, “I’m going to stop you, Henry. I’m going to make sure you lose the election.”

I could hear this kid, clearly fresh out of middle school, arguing with a grown man. You took one of the pocket Constitutions they were giving out and held it in the air for the rest of us to see. Then you started quoting from Article One, Section Eight, without even looking at the darn thing. You used the John Birch Society’s own swag to drag their entire philosophy of limited government. I’d never seen anything like it.” “It was the Elastic Clause,” I say, chagrined. I remember that day. I was impulsive and unprofessional. I ranted at the chief Bircher for ten minutes until one of the girls from St. Anastasia’s pulled me away and made apologies on my behalf. “It was badass, is what it was.” Pablo summarily ignores me. “That was when I knew. You weren’t at JSA because you thought it would look good on your college applications or because you’d heard how lit the dances were. You were exactly what it said on the tin: a statesman. That’s the truth, Mark. You were born for this.” That’s what I always hoped Dad would say when I told him I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Harvard, law, politics, manhood. I look out the window. Ignore the prickling sensation at the corners of my eyes.

Mom takes me out for brunch. She sees the way my lip wobbles when I head downstairs after the call and gets her keys before I say a word.

Nadia passes me the joint again. I do my civic duty; I take another hit.

“You’re totally high.” “Flying,” I agree. “Like Icarus. The sun is within my reach.” “Um. You remember how that myth ends, right?” I wave my hand. “That’s a technicality.” “I’m pretty sure it’s the moral of the story.” “I’m pretty sure there’s a point to be made that the fall is fucking worth it because of the heights he reached. Think about it in terms of, I don’t know, human innovation.”

When I check my Google News alerts that night, the latest result for “Mark Adams” is me. Dystopia High, Amber’s byline, and my name, lit up in cobalt blue. I know I’m supposed to do damage control, return Jenny’s increasingly frantic messages, and make sure there’s more to the story than my sexuality, but less than my gender. But my name is in the news. The name I fought so hard for. A name associated with a campaign I believe in. No matter what anyone else says, I think that’s something I should be proud of.

Dad says I’ll regret this election. But he told me that I’d regret coming out as trans, too. I’m going to prove him wrong.

Today’s his first day back after his weeklong suspension, and even though I can’t promise he’ll be safe, I can make sure he’s not alone.

With far less trepidation than me, Nadia follows Pablo, Ralph, and me into the boys’ locker room for our meet-and-greet with the wrestling team. “Gender is a construct,” Nadia says, and while I agree on a theoretical level, footballs are also constructs that can hit you in the face.

you don’t have to carry any of this alone.” He looks at me. Golden light streams through the window, glinting off desiccated butterfly wings. I want him to believe me, but there’s no equation to solve, no theorem to invoke, to prove it to him. All I can do is stay. Maybe that’s enough.

When you’re queer in America, you have to learn to love your country for what it could be, or not at all.

fighting for a better future doesn’t mean shit if it means sacrificing the present. That’s the problem with a progress narrative. It says, Wait for it. It says, It gets better. It says, Just tough it out. But we shouldn’t have to wait.

If Dad’s a feckless narcissist who loves himself and no one but himself, then it’s not really about me. His cruelty is pathological. He knows not what he does, or whatever. It’s worse if Dad loves me. It means I matter, but just not enough.

Clary’s first. Her voice is pitched high and sugar-sweet over the speakers. She talks for her full five minutes and says a lot of words that don’t mean much of anything. She paints a picture of class trips to far-off places but doesn’t make any promises. It’s all rainbows and unicorns, except her horses are just coconuts clapping together, and her pride flag has a stripe just for allies.

“Just so you know,” Mom informs me, serious as if she were telling me someone has died, “I expect you to vacuum all the glitter out of that rug.” It’d be easier to take her seriously if she didn’t have a chocolate milk mustache. “I’ll try, but I’m not sure how much good it will do. I think we might just have to accept this as our new reality. We’re glitter people now.”

“I’m your mother; I’m always right. It’s in the job description.”

If Henry’s not going to snitch, accept his silence as the gift it is. If the system is broken, you’re not obliged to abide by its laws. Don’t put yourself between the rock and the hard place.”

“You know, Mark, not everything is a debt. All we owe to each other is the best we have to give.”

“Being an idealist and an optimist in a world like this? That takes strength most people can’t even imagine.”

Mark: i don’t deserve this. Jenny: Yes, you do. Jenny: Unflinching support is exactly what you deserve. Unconditional love. Unequivocal acceptance. Mark: it’s what we all deserve. every queer kid in america.

I whirl around and wrap my arms around her. “Thank you,” I whisper, struggling to imbue the words with everything I should’ve told her months ago. “Not just for this, but for all of it. For taking my side, for choosing me, for never doubting—” “Honey,” Mom murmurs, “you don’t need to thank me for any of that.”