Brilliant Imperfection
write-alike by Gayatri

Brilliant Imperfection write-alike by Gayatri

My mother did not cry when I came out to her. That wasn’t surprising. I’d only ever seen her cry twice in my life (I got my overzealous tear ducts from my father).

But her face fell all the same.

She wasn’t upset, not at me at least. I remember asking her if it bothered her and her saying no, with a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I asked her again, what it was, at a now-closed Chinese restaurant, a free Mother’s Day mimosa sitting untouched in the middle of the table.

She told me it made her sad. It made her sad that my life would now be harder. Sad that I would have to hide a part of myself to be treated more fairly. That I would have to research the political climate of colleges I’d want to apply to, just to make sure I would be safe and unharmed. That certain countries in the world would have me stoned to death rather than see me hold hands with another girl.

She did not have to say all of this for me to understand it.

And sometimes I believe it would be easier. If I could change this. Could change me.

But I don’t want to.

When I march in my first PRIDE parade, when I am afraid of what the world is becoming, when I meet someone I love, when I lose friends because of who I am, I would still rather be myself.