Like a Love Story

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.

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.

I always thought my own father hated me, but Stephen said to me that nobody truly hates anyone. Hate is just fear in drag, he said.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

You are not alone and never will be, because you have beautiful, constantly evolving history full of ghosts who are watching over you, who are proud of you. If you ever feel lonely, just look at the sky.

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 people. You have to make them see. You have to remember it. And to share it. Please. Time passes, and people forget. Don't let them.

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.

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?

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.

They don't look at me or talk to me. I don't get it. I'm the one who just came out to them. I'm the one who is broken up inside. Why am I not the one being comforted? Why is no one telling me it's okay?

He also keeps a pot of jelly beans and adds a jelly bean to the pot every time someone dies. He says that just before he dies, he will eat everyone so that his friends will be with him.

But high school ends. Remember that, even when it feels eternal. And when it ends, there are places to go. The Village, Provincetown, San Francisco. Pockets of cities and towns where boys take boys to dances and dance their nights away, writhing their bodies against each other in a primal effort to shed all the trauma of their past. Places where girls settle down with girls, places where boys can dress like girls on the street and get high-fives instead of fists against their gorgeous faces. Maybe someday high school will change. But if it doesn't, then just remember that high school ends.

Maybe experiencing death once doesn't prepare you for experiencing it again. Death isn't something you can practice.

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.

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.

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.

Of course, I wasn’t Catholic, but it’s all the same to me. I don’t care if you’re Baptist, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Jewish, or one of those adorable little Scientologists. 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.

It belongs on David Bowie, not on me. I am not worthy of it.

I fumble with it for a few moments, frustrated. My mom approaches with a tender hand on my shoulder. She doesn't take the bottle from me, though. Instead, she guides me.

Isn't love supposed to conquer all? Then let it conquer AIDS. Reza massages the knots in my shoulders as Stephen strokes my hair. And I keep saying the words. I want love to be enough. I'll keep saying it until it is.

In the language my mother speaks, I literally don't exist.

I want her to hold me, ask me about him, something. Instead she says, 'I can't hear about this. Please. I can't.