Coming Out: Micropolitics and the Thing I Found in the Dirt

Anonymous

There is nothing more apolitical than the forest; I found my identity in the trees. 

It is a haze of a memory, that era. I drank coffee, studied for exams, sat rotting in the sunshine. I took tests, scribbled notes in the fluorescence, and hugged sweaty bodies in frilly sundresses. I drank Sprite. It was heavy and hot, and I remember it all as a golden storm: warm light peaking through pudgy, humid thunderclouds. When the clouds roll over – when the brilliant white sun turns to gold and gray – some kind of primordial instinct takes over. You need an umbrella, you need to get inside, you need to let the fat raindrops soak into your pores. You feel stir-crazy, the simultaneous need to stay and the enduring desire to go.

The clouds rolled in, and I went to the forest.

The forest is an infinitely complex system of creatures and enduring memory, individuals and collectives, living and dying of one another’s accord. The trees know me, there’s no denying. But I don’t know them in the same way – there are things in the forest I will never discover, but that does not mean they are not there. The forest is full of strangers who know me intimately, the world I come from is full of projections of myself. And I know which is scarier. My sexuality does not matter in the forest. My sexuality only matters in the realm of politics. 

Pride can only exist where sexuality itself is defiance, and by extension, political. It’s a funny one-sidedness: sexuality is only defiant when it strays from “normal”. The normal has the advantage of being the unnamed basis from which others can deviate. Pride can only arise where guilt is an alternative. Pride can only arise when unwarranted shame is confronted. 

So there is this strange irony in finding my identity in the forest, the place where it couldn’t matter less, couldn’t be named. I found it in the dirt, warm and pulsing. A little fuzzy. It sat on my lap as I fussed over words, looked up definitions, wrote scripts on how I would break the news to my friends and family. All the while, the forest emitted the sticky scent of sap – it was not meant for me, but I was allowed to take it. 

Coming out felt like a continuous series of micropolitical transactions, like a farcical oversimplification. I cut my long hair and kept the locks in my nightstand drawer. I wore a rainbow pin on my backpack. And people would ask what it meant. And I would respond with a well-articulated, socially correct, but poorly representative reply. I am queer. I always have been, but I hid it from myself and from you. It is not easy to exist like this. I would justify it. If I could choose to not be queer, of course I would. No one would choose this on purpose. I felt the clouds rolling in, and I went to the forest. And the trees were as they were, with no desire to change, and my justifications felt stupid and wrong in their presence. My coming out was true, but it also anticipated the skeptical response. I was immediately on the defense, immediately aware of the political nature of my personhood. 

I left the forest and walked into a world of headlines and skeptics. Headlines justified or denied the existence and legitimacy of the queerness in the forest. And I could not comprehend it, how this thing I found in the dirt could be debated. It sat, pulsing in my palm.  

Look! Here it is! I said. I punched holes in a tupperware lid, placed it inside with some moss and sticks. I misted it with water. I taped “FRAGILE!” around the edge. “THIS SIDE UP!” 

Here, look at it. It is right here. I handed them the box. I watched them take it in their hands, hold it up to their face. The thing’s breath and life and heat dripped down the sides as condensation, making it difficult to see in. They turned the box carefully. 

What is this? They asked. 

It’s a part of me, and it’s alive. It lives and breathes, and I found it in the dirt. 

No, it’s not. And no, you didn’t. And they handed back the box. How do you respond to that? I took the creature out, and it looked a little sick. It was not supposed to live in the box, it needed to be in the forest. 

I bought a bigger aquarium. I added plants, I added an air circulation system, I layered rocks and dirt and sand. I placed it inside, watched it scurry, climb up the walls, and burrow into the earth. 

Where did this thing come from? I was asked. I didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t know, and how little it mattered. They peered into the tank, watched it play. Why did you take it from the forest? To show you, I think. I think I needed you to see it. Don’t you see it? It’s right there, pressed against the glass. It wants to be out of here, it wants to be in the forest, but I brought it here for you to see. 

This is the blatant and bewildering disconnect between the way the general public addresses queerness and queerness itself; there is a creature in front of them, but all they care about is logistics. The headlines address queerness as an unmistakable political entity. Individuals address queerness as a choice, directly or indirectly, by asking of its origins, purpose, or validity. 

My queerness was not of my own invention; I know I do not control the trees. Instead, I am allowed in the forest’s presence, allowed to witness it. It does not exist for me. But I run my fingers over bark, crush leaves, and feel honeysuckle bloom on my tongue. I am allowed to watch the things in the dirt. And everything in that forest belongs the way I belong. In the forest, the thing in the dirt is simply a part of the intricate ecosystem, much like the myriad of other creatures that inhabit it. Pride is born out of defiance. But in the forest, there's no need for pride, for there's nothing to defy. It's a place of harsh acceptance, where everything can exist without an imposed moral judgment. Creatures live and die without being analyzed or questioned — they simply are. 

My identity is inconsequential amidst the reality of the forest. Yet, as I emerge from the trees into the world of interpersonal sociality, I'm thrust into a realm where my identity is scrutinized, politicized, and often misunderstood. Coming out is continuous negotiation of self-disclosure, of deciding how much of my identity to reveal and to whom. Each rainbow pin on my backpack becomes a silent declaration, a subtle invitation for others to inquire about the essence of my being. The creature I found in the dirt is questioned and doubted by those who fail to see its inherent reality.

The golden light turned pink, then gray, then left. The thing I found in the dirt was huddled in the corner of the aquarium. Everyone had gone home after hours of deliberation and debate. Some kind of primordial and simple empathy washed over my body – the thing was sick. I could feel its sorrow, locked up in here. I scooped it into my palm, cupped it lightly. I went to the forest, let it crawl from my hand onto the dirt. It turned a few times, looked up at me. Its expression was awash in moonlight and shadow. I felt its fuzz on my fingertips, then it scuttled away into the darkness. 

I went home, and I wrote an essay in the light of my computer screen. And deep in my stomach, I felt the quiet contentment of a creature settling into the trees.