Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

life for gay people is inherently unfair, because most gay people are born into families that just don’t get them at all. And that’s the best-case scenario. The worst cases . . . being abused, kicked out of the house, thrown into the streets.

Love might just happen to them, but for us, it’s not as easy. For us, it’s a fight.

The most important four-letter word in our history will always be LOVE. That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.

But this wish just makes me angrier, fuels me more. It reminds me that what I want, what I truly want, is to be loved and accepted for being me.

“That’s why Stephen thinks we’ll always be more into female divas, even when the world is enlightened enough for gay men to be pop stars and movie stars. Because worshipping a gay male star would be too literal for us. We need layers and symbolism. We communicate in code. As does Madonna. That’s what I think the Like a thing is all about.”

I resent her right now. Her heterosexuality gives her the ability to declare crushes openly and without fear. She assumed he was straight, because why wouldn’t he be? Because the whole world is pretty much straight. I resent that she has a privilege I’ll never have. And I hate my resentment. I love her more than anything. I have other privileges. She’s my everything. What do I tell Judy?

For almost a decade now, families have been lying about why their sons and brothers have been dying. Just go through the obituary section. Lots of pneumonia. Lots of cancer. I guess they’re not totally lies, but the reason these men could die of pneumonia or rare cancers is because of AIDS.

We know that the answer will always be yes, but that the truth will always be no, so what’s the point in asking the question?

I realize that both Stephen and Jimmy just took the Lord’s name in vain without thinking much of it, and it makes me think about how adeptly religion has seeped into every part of our language. Even those of us who want to shake the shackles of religion off us are tied to it somehow.

It’s amazing how gung ho he is about saving the lives of fetuses, but then he turns a blind eye to all the actual humans DYING right in front of him.

And then the next wish. Another candle lit. This wish, for AIDS to be cured entirely. Not just for Stephen to survive, but for every person with AIDS to be cured. And for all the queer kids like me to get to fall in love without fear looming over us like the spires of this cathedral.

“Whatever you do, don’t become divided. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from the women’s health movement, it’s that you need to build a true coalition. If you show them that you’re divided, creating change will be close to impossible. They’ll just play you against each other.”

“Maybe we’re all the lucky ones,” Stephen says. “We had love.”

when the little black dress first became popular, when Audrey Hepburn wore one, it was like a revolution. Back then, women were supposed to be all busty and curvy and frilly, and here came this skinny, boyish woman wearing sleek, simple clothing. She was a middle finger to the establishment. But then her style became the establishment, and now it’s like all the moms of the world want to look and dress like her.

If you use God to tell people created by God that they’re sinners for who they love, then I give you a great big middle finger and I invite you to sit on it.”

“I’m so fascinated by idioms. There are so many interesting Persian ones that make no sense in English. Like we don’t say ‘I miss you.’ We say ‘My heart has become tight for you.’ And when we truly love someone, we say, ‘I will eat your liver.’”

People want their villains to look like Freddy Krueger and Jason. They don’t see killers in pearls and tailored suits.

“Because it’s been hard,” I say, a revelation coming to me. “But as hard as it’s been, it’s also been the best thing that’s happened to me. The things I’ve felt this year, the love, the community, I wouldn’t trade them in for an easier life.

You are not alone and never will be, because you have a beautiful, constantly evolving history full of ghosts who are watching over you, who are proud of you. If you ever feel lonely, just look up at the sky. José and Walt and Judy Garland and Marsha P. Johnson are always with you, and so many more. Just ask them to listen, and they will. Tell your story until it becomes woven into the fabric of our story. Write about the joys and the pain and every event and every artist who inspires you to dream. Tell your story, because if you don’t, it could be wiped out. No one tells our stories for us. And one more thing. If you see an elderly person walking down the street, or across from you at a coffee shop, don’t look away from them, don’t dismiss them, and don’t just ask them how they’re doing. Ask them where they have been instead. And then listen. Because there’s no future without a past.