This Is Why They Hate Us

by Aaron H. Aceves

My parents aren’t the most religious people I know—we’re those Christians who only go to church for Christmas and Easter—but they believe in God and grew up with ultraconservative parents, which is why I haven’t told them that I’m bi. Part of me is certain they’ll still love me when—if?—I come out to them, but another part of me keeps saying, You never know….

Ugh, he just had to add that sexy-ass apostrophe before my nickname. God I hate him. Except that I don’t, never could. Short and handsome and smart and caring Saleem. He is my greatest source of joy, and despite all the possible complications, I need him in my life. I’m not going to ruin us. I hope.

Everything (from the rugs to the curtains to the tapestries) looks handmade with rich colors and intricate patterns, and the now-familiar scent of cumin-forward Palestinian stews hangs in the air.

“I didn’t realize you hated her so much.” I nearly choke on my hash brown. “Fabiola, she showed up on my doorstep to try to seduce me in order to get back at you for forgetting the anniversary of the third time you two broke up. When my parents asked why I was slamming the door on the incredibly attractive girl on our porch, I had to tell them she was a Satanist. Which, now that I think about it, might not have been a lie.”

“I want to take that risk,” I continue, “make a change—” “You’re literally just quoting a Kelly Clarkson song.”

thoughts on the Afro-Latina experience,

It’s funny how everything’s a double entendre when you’re living a double life.

I’m done with people. People are exhausting. Sure, they can be fun sometimes; they can “open you up to new experiences” or whatever. But the anxiety leading up to spending time with them and the emotional drain afterward make them not worth it.

They say you need to love yourself before you can love someone else, but I feel like I need confirmation sometimes, that I’m someone to love. I want a person to demonstrate that it’s possible to love me, no matter what. And those three words are so important: no matter what. I want someone to love me unconditionally. I want to be certain that nothing I could ever do would make them stop.

You can’t love someone if you’re not willing to fight for them. And boy did I love that boy in front of me.

“You really like your metaphors,” he says. I laugh. “There are a lot of people who don’t understand people like me, and a lot of the time I find myself practicing how to make it simpler for them. I spend a lot of time trying to explain… me.”

“Medication’s not a miracle solution,” Luciana continues. “You’ll still have to come to therapy and do the work, but it could help.”

He sighs. “Enrique, I’m not saying you don’t deserve love at your age. And I’m not saying that being lonely doesn’t make you do things you’re not proud of doing.” He motions between us as an example. “I only want you to be safe, and I want you to experience love and relationships when you’re old enough not only to legally consent, but understand how to protect yourself.”

My dad and I both take a sip. Then he puts his arm around my shoulders, something he hasn’t done in a long, long time, and I feel secure. I feel like I belong.

“How was he a jerk?” my mom asks. “Trust me.” I don’t want to explain. “Well, I’m gonna be real with you: That’s men, sweetie.” My dad gives her a look, and she shrugs. “It’s true.” “It is,” I confirm.

“But if it weren’t for me, you’d be fine.” I look him dead in the eye. “That’s not true. I’d never be fine without you.”

“I wish I could say something comforting and wise,” my mom begins, “but I can’t think of anything. This is gonna hurt, kid. It’s gonna continue to hurt. For a while.” I’m about to make a sarcastic response about the dour nature of her words, but she continues. “But one day it won’t. And it won’t be because someone else has taken his place, and it won’t be because you’ve forgotten him. It’ll be because heartbreak, like any other injury, will heal when you give it time.”

But I will tell him. Because I want to. Because it’s easy to. It’s beautiful having someone to share your secrets with so that they’re not secrets anymore, someone who makes you feel like your thoughts shouldn’t just be your thoughts, that you should speak them into existence because you’re unique and smart and cute and funny.

“You feel like home. When I’m with you, I’m home. Your chest is where my head belongs, and your arms are where the rest of me belongs.”