Café Con Lychee

by Emery Lee

“Guess they like the diversity?” Which is ironic, because I looked it up, and the owners are definitely white. Apparently appropriated diversity is the only acceptable kind.

It kind of reminds me of the way things were before I came out—before I felt sure of myself and really understood my place in the world. Back when I still kind of felt like I was just floating through empty space, waiting for answers that would piece everything together for me.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but something in his eyes shifts, like he’s actually hearing what I’m saying, like he actually, for the first time, gets me. And there’s something electric in it, like suddenly the Earth’s poles have realigned to bring us closer together. Like suddenly there’s complete clarity in the air, and for the first time in my life, someone is actually seeing me for who I am.

I highly doubt being an asshole is actually terminal, so I guess I’ll be fine.

“Maybe you’re stoking the flames instead of putting them out.” I laugh, my voice whistling through my lungs on weak breaths. “God, what the fuck does that even mean?” He shrugs. “Well, sometimes when you vent, people egg you on, you know? Tell you how shitty the other person is, and then before you know it, everyone’s dragging someone and being furious. But sometimes you vent, and the other person just tells you that your feelings are valid, and then you start processing how to move on.”

“They’re not bad parents, they’re just—” But I don’t know what words I’m looking for. Ignorant? Confused? It feels weird making excuses for them. They should be the ones who know what’s going on, who are mature enough to accept me even if I’m not what they expected. I shouldn’t be the one educating them.

And I don’t know why she says it like it’s such a bad thing, but yeah, I am an optimist. Because at the end of the day, there are so many things that are out of my control, and if I give up hope that things will be okay . . . well, I won’t really have anything left.

Hatred isn’t just in the things a person says. It’s in the way they stay silent when someone else spews hate, the way they nod along or entertain the ideas at all.

Or maybe it’s just finally admitting to myself that being gay isn’t a bad thing. It’s not even a neutral thing. It’s a great thing, something I deserve to be proud of the same way I’m proud to call myself Puerto Rican. It’s just as much a part of me as my own culture, as my parents’ shop, as dance and my friends, and every other thing I’ve come to associate with being Gabi.

All this time I was so afraid that they thought I was a disappointment, a failure. That they would do anything to get away and leave me behind. But the only person trying to get away from me was myself. And now, all that weight washes away, like a part of me has died, but it was the part that I never knew was dragging me down. Like some sort of leech, sucking away any hope or love or validation I received. And now that it’s gone, it’s like I’m finally free.