Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

Love might just happen to them, but for us, it’s not as easy. For us, it’s a fight. Maybe someday it won’t be. Maybe someday love will just be . . . love.

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.

“Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.” —Judy Garland

“You okay?” I look away. She asks me this question a lot, and I never like it. We don’t ask this question in my family. 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?

And I wish she knew that her ability to even utter all these doubts out loud means she thinks highly enough of herself to respect the emotions inside her. I would never let my doubts leave the prison of my brain.

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

But what I’m thinking as I look at these cities is how I would love to go to a place where nobody knows my name, where nobody expects anything of me. Who would I be in Lisbon? Or San Francisco? I would have no mother there, no stepfather, no one to disappoint. I could even die without hurting anybody but myself.

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.”

“Is this really happening?” I whisper quietly. Then he kisses me. Our lips meet and our tongues start to explore each other. I feel like there is electricity inside me and I’m all lit up. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. And yes, this is really happening.

“I guess that’s it. Sometimes, I worry that I prefer life through a lens to life, you know. In a lens, I can . . . structure things. Frame them the way I want them to be framed. It’s safe.”

“Not just me,” Stephen says, looking to Jimmy. “Us. All of us. What we did. What we fought for. Our history. Who we are. They won’t teach it in schools. They don’t want us to have a history. They don’t see us. They don’t know we are another country, with invisible borders, that we are a people. You have to make them see.” Stephen takes a strained breath. “You have to remember it. And to share it. Please. Time passes, and people forget. Don’t let them.”

“I think what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t change it if I could.” “Really?” she asks, surprised. “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.

“The most important four-letter word in our history will always be love,” Judy says, before Art finishes with “That’s what we are fighting for. That’s who we are. Love is our legacy.”

I asked a question, and Stephen answered. We all come from love. And that’s where we’re going too. Where we are now, that’s the complicated part.